Chapter 1: PROLOGUE - REBIRTH
Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
REBIRTH
I died.
I wasn't sure how exactly—whether it was a stroke, or if I'd choked to death on my spit. But the fact remained: I had died. In 2025, in my perfectly average flat in the east of France.
And then, I was born again.
It had been traumatising, really—bursting out of some woman's parts. So embarrassing. Though I understood it was necessary.
At first, I couldn't make out words or faces. Babies weren't supposed to, if I remembered correctly. Babies weren't supposed to do much at all, and remembering a previous life was certainly not part of the package.
But with how I'd been raised in my last incarnation, I'd known this was coming. I'd known that one day, I would die and be born again. Reincarnation was real; I'd always known that.
I wasn't surprised to remember that this wasn't my first life either. My Papa had taught me all he knew about the wheel of karma and all that jazz. He'd even recalled several instances from when I was a little girl, times when I'd told him about past lives or done things no five-year-old should know how to do.
So, the fact that I was reborn didn't shock me.
What shocked me was how much I remembered. Papa had always said that very young children might have flashes—dreamlike scenes, vague feelings, maybe a name or two resonating deep in the bones. But this? This felt like I had hijacked someone else's life. It was as if I were wearing a body that wasn't mine. My new life was supposed to feel like my own. My identity should have been a blank slate, not a continuation of my previous self.
Papa had always acted like he knew everything. It had been fantastic and comforting when I was little, but irksome when I got older. And now, I had proof—irrefutable proof—that his omnipotence was rubbish. At least he hadn't been wrong about everything. Thanks, Papa, for preparing me as best you could. Maybe that was part of the reason we'd been incarnated into the same family. There was always a reason, a goal, something decided high up.
Whatever the reason, I was born with all my memories intact. And wasn't that a kicker? I was growing up again, this time with the wisdom of an adult, ready to make better decisions about school, career, friends, and family. What a dream.
I'd hated my past life, spent most of it lost in fiction, escaping into someone else's world. But now? I did it.
I felt like I could take over the world. No more daydreaming about what-ifs. Now, I was living the what-ifs.
Thanks, Buddha. Thanks, Holy Mary. Thanks, Krishna. You'll always be my favourite people. And I promised to make you proud this time around. Instead of drifting through life like a ghost, I would live fully. I'd gather so much good karma to thank you all. I promised.
This new life was going to be amazing.
I was born.
At first, I didn't know where or to whom. All I could see were colourful blobs, and all I could hear were happy cooing sounds. For a while, my world was just a blur of nursing and sleeping, wrapped in warmth and comfort. What a nice break—no homework, no housework, no bills, and no responsibilities yet. Just me, surrounded by large hands, soft blankets, and sweet lullabies.
Of course, my ignorance didn't last forever. One day, I started to make out the features of my new mum and dad. They were both gingers—so pretty with their vibrant hair. I'd reached out to grab Mum's hair a few times, just because I could, and she always let me, her smile warm and patient. She was a loving mother.
Dad wore big glasses, just like Papa had in my last life. That made me grumble a little. I fervently hoped I wouldn't inherit bad eyesight again—please, no glasses this time!
Mum and Dad weren't the only ones around, though. There were others—smaller people, at least two, though I couldn't tell for sure. Everyone had red hair! What sort of family was this? The Weasleys? Pfft. I thought only the Weasleys—and that family in Brave —had matching hair like that.
Did that mean I was a Weasley, too? Cool. I hoped I had freckles. Those were so cute. Maybe I'd even like what I look like in this life.
All of it was so exciting. But for now, it was time for a little nap.
I had been born a Weasley.
Holy Mother of Merlin.
I was a Weasley.
At first, I hadn't realised. Why would I? Reincarnation didn't work like in fanfictions. People didn't just get thrown into fictional worlds—they were born shortly, or not, after dying, into the same world they'd left. Not into the Harry Potter universe! But eventually, I had to accept that Papa had been wrong again.
Jesus Christ and all his family.
Mum called Dad Arthur.
Dad called Mum Mollywobbles.
What kind of karma had I collected to deserve this fate? It was a dream come true! Not that I'd ever actually dreamed of it, but I totally should have. What wasn't to love about this scenario? I was in my favourite universe, surrounded by a big, amazing, and loving family. I didn't know yet which Weasley I was, but honestly, who cared? Whichever one it turned out to be, I'd make sure I was a badass—or if I ended up as Percy, I'd make myself into one!
What a life. What a lucky star.
I gurgled happily in my cot.
Time for a little celebratory nap.
I had been born as Ronald Bilius Weasley.
I nearly threw up with happiness when I discovered my new identity. So many possibilities, such a great destiny to look forward to! Sure, there were plenty of obstacles and more adventures than I cared for, but I could deal with that. Once I got my head clear, I would plan and scheme, working out solutions for all the future problems I'd face at Hogwarts.
For now, all I wanted was to grow up healthier than before, create solid family bonds with my horde of siblings, and somehow master a respectable British accent.
Luckily, I knew English well enough. And besides, I wasn't expected to start talking until—well, I wasn't sure exactly when babies began talking. Was it before or after one year? Hm.
Who cared. If I remembered right, I'd been born in 1980. Wizards were in the middle of a war, so who was going to notice if I started talking a little early? And if my words came out a bit odd, no one would mind. For now, I didn't even have teeth, so people would just have to pardon my French. So to speak. Heh.
But those problems weren't mine to handle yet. I'd just let future-me worry about them.
For now, it was time for a little nap.
I was right.
Nobody noticed anything was wrong with me. One day, I decided to say "Mum," and everyone beamed with joy. That same day, I said "Dad," and Dad got a little teary-eyed. What a sweet cinnamon roll. He deserved the very best, and I was determined to give him all the love I could. Who cared about stiff upper lips anyway? This time around, I planned to spread love freely. No one would feel unloved or unwanted. Not on my watch. Not even me.
Before, Papa had wanted a boy. He was disappointed when I was born a girl. He'd even told my Maman that she'd given birth to a girl because she was a mean woman.
Now, Mum wanted a girl. She didn't know that, in a way, she sort of had one—but not really. Once again, my gender was a bit of a disappointment, but I knew Mum was different from Papa. She would sort of favour Ginny when she was born, but she wouldn't resent me for being a boy.
And even if she did, that was alright with me. She was allowed to feel however she wanted, as long as she didn't say it to my face. Besides, I was accustomed to my siblings being favoured, while I was often the afterthought. Unlike the original Ronald Weasley™, jealousy and envy were never part of my identity. Don't get me wrong—I had and would have plenty of flaws—but not those. And I was grateful for that.
My life as Harry Potter's friend was already going to be difficult enough without adding jealousy to the mix. This way, I could be the best friend possible, to make up for how lousy I'd been in my previous life.
Be prepared, sweet Harrikins. You were about to be amazed.
I grew.
We celebrated my first birthday surrounded by an army of redheads. There was cake, songs, and laughter. Mum's belly was beginning to show, and she was positively glowing. In a little over five months, Ginny would be born, and the Weasley family would finally be complete.
Or as complete as I knew it to be from the books and movies.
Because it was easy to forget that the war was raging outside the warm, comforting walls of the Burrow.
One day, in the middle of April, just a few weeks after the twins turned three, someone arrived through the Floo.
Everything changed.
Brave Uncles Fabian and Gideon were dead.
Some Death Eaters had killed them. I didn't know which ones, but apparently, the Prewett brothers had given them hell before dying like heroes—or so Alastor Moody told Mum and Dad when he delivered the news. I'd forgotten entirely that Mum's brothers were part of the Order of the Phoenix during the First War.
Poor Mum was never quite the same after that. Aunt Muriel came to stay with us for a few weeks, helping take care of us and organising the funerals for her great-nephews.
Only Bill and Charlie were allowed to attend the ceremony, both dressed in second-hand black robes. Bill cried a lot, while Charlie seemed lost, not quite understanding what had happened to his uncles. Poor Bill, at ten years old, had the most memories with Fabian and Gideon.
When they returned, puffy-eyed and subdued, I climbed into Bill's lap and hugged him tight before reaching over to pat Charlie's fluffy head. They were too young to lose someone, and I didn't know what else to do to comfort them. Right then, I vowed to find some psychology books one day so that I wouldn't be caught off guard like this again. It would surely come in handy, especially with a Second War looming over my teenage years.
"Billie, nap. Now," I commanded with all the authority I could muster. "Ev'y'one. Nap. Now."
Mum agreed. Wise woman.
I had become a big brother.
Mum and Dad finally got the daughter they'd always wanted. Mum cried a lot of happy tears. Dad did too, though he often cried, so it wasn't exactly noteworthy. Everyone was so excited about a little girl joining the clan—everyone except Fred and George. They made faces at poor little Ginny in her cot, muttering that "girls are yucky" and that they wanted nothing to do with their new sister.
Boys at that age were such little idiots. But I liked them anyway. I had to admit, though, I was a bit flattered to be their favourite—well, their favourite victim for pranks, but still. One couldn't have everything in life. If I played my cards right, I might even convince them one day to make me their associate instead of their guinea pig. But that was for later.
For now, I had a bigger development: my own bedroom, which gave Fred and George even more opportunities to harass me without being caught by Mum and Dad.
My room was on the fifth floor, just beneath the attic. At the moment, it was painted light orange, and I wasn't a fan. Still, it had a rustic charm I could work with. And, most importantly, I was relieved to have a space of my own. I'd always hated sleeping with other people. The thought of Hogwarts' dormitories made me shudder a bit.
But that wasn't my problem yet.
And, as you guessed, it was time for a little nap.
Mum turned thirty-two.
We celebrated.
The day after, it was Halloween.
We celebrated.
And the day after that…
The whole wizarding world celebrated.
After that day, I often thought about the poor orphan boy.
I wondered if he was being taken care of. But that was wishful thinking. The Dursleys weren't exactly known for their kindness. I hoped that the cupboard under the stairs would come later, not right from the start. He was only one and a half. Surely they wouldn't be so cruel as to stick him on a dirty cot under the stairs at that age.
There wasn't anything I could do about it yet. So I thought about him, and I cried a little for that poor little boy. I hoped that I'd been born in the books rather than in the fanfictions, where the Dursleys were merely neglectful, rather than outright abusive. Even though, when it came down to it, there wasn't much difference between the two.
I thought of him when Mum tucked me in at night and read me Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump.
I thought of him when Dad spoon-fed me a healing potion, smiling sweetly as I coughed and sniffled through the flu.
I thought of him when Percy pulled me into his lap to teach me to read, his voice filled with enthusiasm.
I thought of him every day, whenever one of my brothers showed me, in their clumsy ways, that they cared.
And after that day, I wished with all my heart that I could share all that love with him.
In the meantime, I kept living like nothing had changed, all the while trying not to feel too guilty about how lucky I was.
One day, Percy found a rat in the garden.
Somehow, our family gained a new pet.
His name was Scabbers.
I gritted my teeth and acted as casually as I could.
It was not the time.
But it would come.
When I was two and a half, a pretty owl came during breakfast.
Instead of flying to Mum or Dad, it swooped down to Bill and perched on the back of his chair. His Hogwarts letter had finally arrived. Our parents were so proud.
Later, they took him to Diagon Alley to get him bright new robes and shoes, stacks of books, cauldrons, and potion ingredients. All of it made my new universe feel so much more real. And so much closer.
On September 1st, we went to King's Cross to say goodbye to our eldest brother. Dad cried a little—no surprise there, sweet man. Mum cried too, and just like in those old movies, she waved her handkerchief as the Hogwarts Express sped away.
Bill wrote home every two weeks. He was sorted into Gryffindor and made lots of friends.
I missed him a whole lot.
Two years later, Charlie left too.
He was sorted into Gryffindor and somehow made human friends who didn't mind his obsession with dragons.
I missed him a whole lot.
When I turned five, I officially joined Percy, Fred, and George for our homeschooling lessons.
Mum taught us to read, write, and count. Percy loved those lessons—he was always eager to learn. Fred and George? Not so much. When they found out I was as enthusiastic as Percy, the twins said they were disappointed in me. I tried not to let it bother me and gave them the cold shoulder for a few days. Meanwhile, Percy took me under his wing, proudly showing me everything he knew. Which wasn't much, considering what I already picked up, but seeing him so happy made it worth it.
I wasn't about to let anyone make him feel like an outsider just because he loved academics. There was nothing wrong with that. He deserved way more appreciation than Canon Percy ever got.
Like a wise little creature once said, "Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten." Pretty great motto, right? Thanks, Stitch, even though you don't exist yet.
Two years passed in the same peaceful manner.
Charlie became Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, Bill became Prefect, Percy became my primary source of reading material, the twins became even greater menaces to be around, and Ginny began developing a liking for Quidditch.
Then, Percy's Letter arrived, and things changed. Until then, I thought that my way of handling Percy had changed something, that maybe he would break the family tradition and end up in Ravenclaw or Slytherin, instead of asking to go to Gryffindor like every Weasley.
I was wrong. And now, I felt incredibly stressed about my future sorting. There was no way I would ever be sorted into Gryffindor, and I had hoped that if Percy got into another House, then he would sort of pave the way for me, so that it would come as less of a shock to my family when the time came for me. No such luck. I would have to break the tradition by myself, and on top of that, end up in the worst House in everyone's eyes.
Pottermore was sure of it, I was a Slytherin, and that wouldn't change. It was who I was, regardless of the body I inhabited.
How would they react? Would they hate me? Would they shun me? Would they be uncomfortable around me?
There wasn't anything I could do about it. Not now and not then. All I could do was hope, and hope is what I did from then on.
Time passed.
Bill became Head Boy and Charlie became a Prefect. Mum and Dad were so proud. I was, too, but only because I knew that they got up to a lot of mischief and never got caught by the professors.
Then, Bill graduated and returned home for a couple of months. He got a job as a Curse-Breaker at Gringotts just like he had dreamed about for years. I was so happy for him. Mum less so. She said that this career was too dangerous. Unfortunately for her, Bill was determined to achieve his goal. He worked hard, and after a couple of checks, he moved out. His flat in Diagon Alley was super cool.
Meanwhile, Charlie became Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, Percy made the dubious choice of taking all five elective subjects for his third year, and the twins received their Letters.
After they left for Hogwarts, the Burrow became so silent and calm that the Ghoul in the attic kept hitting the pipes to make the house livelier. It sincerely needed it. Ginny and I were bored out of our minds. While I tried distracting myself with books and helping Mum with cooking, Ginny spent all her free time zooming around on an old broom.
Mum too was out of sorts, having only her two youngest at home. She was obviously suffering from an acute Empty nest Syndrome. I knew that term from Before, when my eldest sister's daughter left for her studies. I didn't know how to help then, and now wasn't different. At least, I could do my best to alleviate Mum's loneliness by spending time with her. The day I asked her to teach me her family recipes, she was over the moon. Her mood got way better after that, and I loved our quality time together.
One day, when I was ten, a tragedy struck Ottery St Catchpole.
Mum got home from the market visibly shaken. After some needling, she announced that one of our neighbours died last afternoon during a freak accident while experimenting with a spell. That sounded awfully familiar. Mum put us to work, deciding to cook a nice casserole for the poor widow and his daughter.
When it was ready, I asked to come with her, arguing that Mr Lovegood's daughter might like to have someone her age to distract her from her grief. After a silent deliberation, Mum accepted and we went together to the Lovegood's house.
Maybe I was a masochist, to put myself through such an awkward situation, as I still didn't know how to act around grieving people. However, I could not in good conscience let a sweetheart like Luna feel like she was all alone in the world.
So I went through the awkwardness of introductions in such circumstances, and while Mum comforted poor Xenophilius, I went outside to sit on a bench in the garden, inviting Luna to join me. For a few minutes, I floundered. My to-go technique when sad was to take a nap, but that seems hardly appropriate. Also, I knew that she saw her mum's death, and an image like that must make falling asleep difficult.
That I knew personally, but I couldn't tell her about Papa. About being the one to find his dead body after days without him answering the phone. Each time I closed my eyes, the horrifying image would appear, leading to terrible nightmares that lasted for years before I got some much-needed therapy.
I couldn't tell her any of that.
So I offered her cookies, and my shoulder, and awkward taps on her back while she cried silently.
I became friends with Luna Lovegood.
My days were way less boring with her by my side. I invited her for Mum's cooking lessons, and after that, Luna seemed to get happier, less plagued by terrific images.
Each time she laughed, I gave myself a pat on the back. When the time came for me to leave her for Hogwarts, I knew I would miss her a whole lot.
One year later, Charlie graduated and left for Romania to study dragons. At the same time, Bill decided to stop travelling back and forth and got stationed permanently in Egypt.
Mum kept crying for days. It was hard, having the family split apart around the world. She began talking about our future careers at the Ministry, with Dad, and close to home. Percy seemed very open to the idea. The twins, not at all. Personally, I was on the fence. Ginny, well, Ginny wanted to play Quidditch or punch mean boys, so a career at the wizard police wasn't out of the question for now.
Mum was happier.
Then… My Letter arrived.
Chapter 2: BOOK ONE - HOGWARTS
Chapter Text
BOOK ONE
RON WEASLEY AND THE AVOIDANCE OF INCONVENIENT PLOT POINTS
CHAPTER ONE
HOGWARTS
After spending months crossing days on my calendar, my Letter finally arrived on July 24th during breakfast. Mum said she was proud of me and kissed my cheek. Then, Percy nearly choked on his toast. He had been made Prefect.
“Congratulations, son,” said Dad while patting Percy on his back so he would stop choking. “I knew you could make it.”
Mum was so happy that she made plans immediately for this year’s school shopping. Her third son in a row had made Prefect, and that deserved a reward indeed. So once everyone was finished with breakfast and Dad was gone to work, Mum left with Percy to go shopping in Diagon Alley, leaving the twins to “look after” Ginny and me. That sounded painful, so I quickly wrote an answer to my acceptance letter and sent Errol to Hogwarts.
Then, I bravely ran away before Fred and George remembered I existed.
When I arrived at the Rookery, Luna was plucking crab apples from her garden.
“You seem to be in a good mood today”.
“I got my Letter. Let’s make tarts with those.” I said, pointing to her basket.
So we did just that, spending the morning in the Lovegoods’ kitchen. When it was time for lunch, I bid Luna and her dad goodbye and went back home to find a flurry of activity.
“Ron! Come here,” Percy exclaimed joyously. “Let me introduce you to Hermes”.
“Wow, he looks so cool. Way cooler than Errol, that’s for sure. Poor old bird. Won’t he get jealous?”
Percy looked at me like I was some weird creature. I liked it.
“I’m sure Errol understands…” he said, visibly only humouring me. “Anyway, since I now have Hermes, I want you to have a companion of your own. There, you can give Scabbers a new home.”
I took the rat in my hands, half smiling, half cringing away. That old pervert was not my dream companion, but it was nice of Percy to give me his previous pet, so I thanked him and wondered what to do with Scabbers. Should I bring him to school with me? Acting like everything was normal? Or could I leave him at home until I needed him? That solution sounded good. I would just have to do it in a way that wouldn’t insult Percy’s generosity.
My scheming was interrupted by lunch and then by robes fitting in the afternoon. Seeing Mum's magic at work was always fascinating to me, the way she mended every piece of clothing she put her hands on, adding neat stitching to hand-me-downs to make them last for years. It was probably due to my upbringing in the 21st century that made me so sensitive to upcycling, because the twins and Percy highly disliked having only second-hand clothing. And Ginny positively abhorred it.
Pity for them. I, on the other hand, was quite happy with Mum's resourcefulness. It was made easier for all the course books I needed, since the curriculum seemed not to have changed in the last decade. All of Charlie’s books were the same, so I recovered his textbooks, along with his cauldrons, phials, telescope, and scales.
I spent one afternoon conscientiously polishing every item, under the contented gaze of Mum. I guessed she was relieved that at least I didn’t mind the hand-me-down like the others.
However, there were some hand-me-downs I was not on board with at all.
“Ah. Charlie’s got a new wand then?” I asked, staring at the offending item in my hands. “Are you sure it’ll work for me? Bill told me that the wand chooses the wizard, doesn’t it?”
“Well, you are family, there is no reason it wouldn’t work for you, sweetheart. Now be sure to take good care of it, will you?”
The subject was closed after that quick reassurance. It did not reassure me at all. I recalled Canon Neville having big problems with his inherited wand, and Canon Ron also. Or was it in fan fiction only? I wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe it would be all right. But suddenly, I felt not quite that enthusiastic about Percy’s owl and new robes. Without one of these gifts, Mum could easily have afforded a new wand for me.
Maybe I should break it to force Mum’s hand. Except I didn’t fancy the ass-whopping that would follow. Better to wait and plan for some reasonable, unfortunate circumstances. Some accident that would make me appear to be the victim of outside forces, with no apparent reason to accuse me.
Sounds good for now.
After the recovery of every item needed for the start of the term, life went back to how it used to be. I spent time with Luna, I read my textbooks for the umpteenth time, and on the whole, I had a good summer. On the last day before I had to leave, I promised Luna I would write often, I told Mum I would write every day —even though that definitely wasn’t happening— and I promised Dad to have fun and make friends.
September 1st arrived. I felt half elated, half terrified, because I was, at the core, a creature of habit. Going to a new place, with new people and a new schedule, was bound to put me in a dire emotional crisis. Percy tried to reassure me, telling me that as a Prefect, he was there to help if I had problems while at school. What he didn’t know was that the issues I would face at Hogwarts would potentially come from him, the twins, and our parents, once I got sorted. I stayed quiet on the subject and thanked him for his concern.
We reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. I hated cutting it so close. How in the hell did my family bear running late like this all the time? If I wasn’t at least thirty minutes early to an appointment, I stressed the frick out.
“Next year, I’ll ask your dad to bring us with his Muggle car,” Mum said, hurriedly walking in the throngs of people. “At least we’ll be here earlier, when it is less packed with Muggles, of course.”
My breath hitched. That sounded very familiar. I swung my head around, hoping to find some baby Potter. The people around were all tall adults, and I couldn’t find any little boys. In the background, I heard Ginny complaining about wanting to come with. Mum shushed her. Percy passed the barrier toward the platform, then Fred and George.
Just then, I finally found him.
The Harry Potter.
He was such a slip of a boy, really, with truly gravity-defying black hair, round glasses, and a timid demeanour. He approached us, all lost and embarrassed. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to roll him up in a blanket burrito and hide him under my bed so that no harm could ever touch him.
Mum explained how to pass the barrier before encouraging him to give it a try. I followed closely behind, daring myself not to close my eyes. Thankfully, I didn’t smash right into the wall. On the other side, the Hogwarts Express was waiting. Beautiful. Even better than the replica at the London of Before or at the Studio.
At a distance, I saw Harry board the train, heaving and puffing with his heavy trunk. Behind me, Mum was giving last-minute instructions and verifying that we were all decent and ready to go. Then she kissed Percy on the cheek, ordered the twins to behave this year, and look out after me. My stomach dropped a little bit more at the reminder of what was to come. I carefully ignored it.
“Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?” Fred said.
“Harry Potter!”
Ginny, of course, chose this moment to be embarrassing. Her crush was cute nonetheless. What was less cute was one of the twins asking if Harry might remember Voldemort. I was very thankful when Mum gave them a stern talking-to. I kissed her and jumped on the train.
Time to amaze dear Harry with my non-existent friendship mad-skills.
I stood a moment next to the compartment before taking a deep breath. Then I slid open the door.
“Hullo, mind if I sit there?”
Harry shook his head quietly, and I sat down.
“By the way, I’m Ron Weasley.”
“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”
The twins came back briefly, introduced themselves to Harry, and left again to join their friends.
“Are all your family wizards?”
“Uh, almost. Mum’s second cousin is a squib. But we never talk about him. My parents and he got into an argument about money stuff a while back. He is an accountant or stockholder… Or something. And you? Heard your mum was muggle-born.”
Poor boy seemed a little overwhelmed by my oversharing. I tended to do that too.
“I… Err— Yes. I live with my aunt, uncle and cousin. They are… not magical. Wish I had three wizard brothers.”
“Five, actually. I’m the sixth. There’s Bill, who’s working for Gringotts as a Curse-Breaker in Egypt, and Charlie, who graduated last year, and he’s gone to Romania to study dragons. Then there’s Percy, who’s in his fifth year and he’s a prefect, so if you have a problem, you can go to him. And of course, there’s Fred and George you met. Never eat or drink anything they give you. And take everything they say with a grain of salt. They like to prank people a lot.”
“I will… remember that. What’s a squib?”
I explained the difference between pureblood, half-blood, muggleborn, and squib. For good measure, I also told everything I knew about Bill’s Curse-Breaking adventures and Charlie’s Dragons’ mishaps. He kept asking all sorts of questions after that, like a broken dam. If I wanted him to become the best version of himself, I had a lot of education to give him. He was going to become an awesome wizard, you bet it.
“Anyway, what about your family? What’s it like, you know, living with Muggles? What are they like?”
“Er– Horrible. Well, my relatives are— not Muggles in general. Other people are fine, I guess? I don’t know a lot of people.”
I hummed. How to handle the Dursley situation? Was there anything I could do apart from convincing him to talk to an adult? That was a difficult situation. It would need work.
“Oh, horrible in what way? Are they mean? Or Stinky?”
Harry let out a little laugh before clapping a hand on his mouth.
“My cousin can sure be stinky sometimes. But they mostly ignore me. My uncle and aunt don’t like it very much that I’m a wizard. Even though Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything about being one, or about my parents, or Voldemort.”
I tried keeping my cringe to myself before saying, with all the tact I was able to:
“The t is silent, by the way. But other than that, maybe you should avoid saying that name around people. It tends to cause panic. Better not say it in polite company.”
“Oh, sorry,” exclaimed Harry hurriedly. “I wasn’t… I mean… I didn’t know you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn… I bet I’m the worst in the class.”
“Pish, I never said I’m polite company! And you won’t be the worst. There are loads of Muggleborns. And I’m gonna bring you up to speed. That’s what friends do, right? You’ll learn all you need to know super quick.”
At half past twelve, the cart lady passed us by, and Harry plundered it by taking one of everything. While he was admiring his pile of candies, I took out the sandwiches I had made and wrapped this morning. Of course, I packed more than necessary to be able to feed Harry. God knew he dearly needed some fattening up, and I would provide, since nobody cared.
Harry gratefully took the ham and cheese sandwich after I accepted a trade for some pasties. Despite not being a big fan of candies, I easily presented each product to Harry. He tried a lot of the Every Flavour Beans. Brave of him. I personally wouldn’t do it.
We were interrupted by Neville, who looked nothing like in the movie, just like Harry didn’t look like some baby Daniel Radcliffe. Since we hadn’t seen his toad, the boy left, dejected. Soon after, he came back, this time with Hermione. So cute. She was no Emma Watson, nor was she black. Unfortunately for her, she did have rather large front teeth.
“Hullo, no, we haven’t seen Neville’s toad. Maybe you could ask a prefect to summon it? My big brother is one, I can introduce you. I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”
“Well. That would be very kind of you. I’m Hermione Granger.”
She then turned toward Harry.
“Harry Potter.”
“Are you really? I know all—”
I stood up suddenly.
“Let’s go find Percy, then. Do you wanna come with, Harry?”
He politely declined, apparently relieved. I gathered Hermione and Neville out in the corridor, like a dog shepherding sheep.
“Wait, I read—”
“Percy said the prefects have got two compartments to themselves up front.”
It wasn’t hard to find Percy. He was pretty satisfied to be asked for help and quickly took the two future Gryffindors under his wing. I rejoined Harry in our compartment.
“Whatever House she’s in will have a handful. Percy is taking care of her for now.”
”What House are your brothers in?”
My stomach plummeted.
“Gryffindor, the lot of them. Mum and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say when I tell them I’m not. I hope they won’t think I’m a freak for going to Slytherin.”
That was a low blow, and I was probably a bad person for manipulating poor Harry, but I really wanted him in the same House as me.
“That’s the house Voldemort was in?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But Merlin was, too, and plenty of other great people. Now, I need to remind my family of that. It’ll probably be hard to be all alone, but I’m really not made for Gryffindor.”
“Maybe I’ll be in Slytherin too?” said Harry, uncertain. “If you’re in it, then it must not be bad like everyone says.”
That’s the spirit, dear Harry.
Somehow, we got to talking about Quidditch when Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle crashed the party, demanding answers about Harry’s identity. Never before or Before had I ever been subjected to or witnessed bullying, so when Draco turned his attention to me, I had no idea how one’s supposed to react in such a situation. So naturally, I fell back on my to-go method when confronted with a difficult time.
“No need to ask who you are. My father told me all–”
“Of course, Uncle Lucius told you all about me,” I exclaimed, smiling. “Things would be awfully awkward if he failed to mention my moving to Britain to live with you.”
“What? Uncle? Live with who?”
“With you, of course! It’s me, Armand Malfoy the Third,” I said sagely while standing up to shake his hand. “I guess you didn’t recognise me after all this time. I was ever so proud of joining the Second Malfoy Branch here in Britain. We will be having so much fun together during the holidays at the Manor. And attending Hogwarts, too, of course. I heard it has even more demanding educational standards than Beauxbaton.”
Draco’s face was to die for. His hand lay limply in mine, like he didn’t know it was attached to his body anymore. Profiting from his brain’s incapacity to compute, I encouraged Harry to shake Malfoy’s hand too, announcing then happily again about such a joyful family reunion, before ushering the three boys out of the carriage with a promise to spend the Welcoming Feast together.
Once alone with Harry again, I waited with bated breath until I couldn’t hear the boys anymore.
I burst out laughing. Harry stared at me, completely bewildered, before beginning to laugh too. Each time he would calm down a moment, I just wound him up again by reminiscing about Draco’s face and hiccuping and crying hysterically. After I nearly choked to death three separate times, Harry had to thump me on the back until I could breathe normally again.
“Should I call you Armand from now on?”
I went off again.
“I can’t believe he believed you! You look nothing like him!”
“Oh, but that’s only because he is from the Second Branch,” I said as poshly as possible. “Otherwise he–”
A voice cut me off, echoing through the train, announcing we would be reaching Hogwarts shortly. Harry suddenly looked rather pale, so I crammed his pockets with the last of his sweets and pulled him into the corridor. When the train stopped, we pushed our way out and followed Hagrid’s booming voice, who was calling for the first years.
Then there were the boats. And the big dark lake. Deep lake. With a giant squid. I wasn’t very fond of that part. Boats were OK, water was OK, everything but giant tentacles, though.
I was an English schoolboy, not a Japanese schoolgirl. Tentacles were not my best friends.
Finally, the ride was over, and we were back on the sweet, sweet solid ground. We crowded around the massive Oak front door.
Hagrid knocked three times.
Time to face the music, right?
Right.
I was ready to puke up my lunch, breakfast, and last night’s dinner.
There was nothing more to be done, nowhere to run. In all my lives, I had only ever run away from difficult situations, but now that was not an option. I had to go inside. I had to get sorted. I had to face the judgment from everyone. Not just Mum and Dad. And not just Percy, Fred, and George. Nor Bill, Charlie, and Ginny. But everyone. The professors who taught all my brothers, the schoolmates who hated Slytherin, the Slytherins who hated blood-traitors.
How hard I hoped Harry would choose me above Gryffindor.
Please, dear Buddha, dear Holy Mary, dear Krishna, let me have one friend. Just one person I could lean on. Someone as loyal as I, who would like me despite my faults, who would care for me when everyone turned on me. I wasn’t asking much. Just one person. Being popular and surrounded by many people wasn’t my thing at all. I wanted just one good friend who would feel as protective of me as I would be of them.
Someone like Harry.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall said.
I heard nothing of her welcoming speech. All I could do was close my eyes and take deep breaths. I didn’t want to lose my new family.
“Please wait quietly,” Professor McGonagall demanded before leaving.
Someone nudged my elbow. From the corner of my eye, I saw Harry looking worriedly at me.
“You OK?” he whispered to me.
I gulped audibly, trying with all my might to prevent a panic attack.
“You promise to still be my friend even if you end up in Gryffindor?”
“Of course!”
Harry sounded sure of himself. He nodded, whether to me or himself, I wasn’t so sure. I hoped all the character studies I read in the past were right, and that I had managed to convince him to choose Slytherin rather than Gryffindor.
I took a deep breath, smiled shyly at him, and grabbed the sleeve of his robes in silent thanks.
Suddenly, several people screamed in abject fear. Ah, yes, the ghosts. About twenty of them appeared behind the group, arguing among themselves. What I supposed to be the Fat Friar greeted us shortly before going into the Hall. McGonagall came back, made us form an orderly line, and led us into the Great Hall.
Splendid. It was positively beautiful.
But all I could do was follow Harry like a baby duckling, which was shameful, given my age. And then, to my absolute horror, we weren’t left in a group in the middle of the way like in the movie, but in a line on the sort-of platform where the professors sat. It felt like prisoners waiting for the firing squad to execute them. How fitting. The sole mercy I found in this scenario was that the Gryffindor table was at the exact opposite of where we were waiting.
A stool and the Sorting Hat were then placed in front of us. It began to sing. Thankfully, it could carry a tune. The whole Hall burst into applause. McGonagall then stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.
The Sorting began.
Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff…
Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw…
Gryffindor, Slytherin…
Hufflepuff, Gryffindor…
Gryffindor, Gryffindor…
Slytherin, Slytherin…
They kept going. Hermione, Neville, and Draco were sorted without any change to Canon.
Finally,
“Potter, Harry!”
The student body broke into excited whispering.
Harry squirmed a bit under the Hat. After less than one minute, the Hat announced:
“SLYTHERIN!”
Thank you, bless you, Buddha, Holy Mary, and Krishna. Thank you and bless you.
The Hall erupted into disbelief. No one cheered at first, then some older Slytherins clapped politely. Harry took off the Hat and looked in my direction, all pale and maybe a little green around the gills. I gave him a double thumbs up and a big smile, I couldn’t help. My reaction seemed to boost him up, and he walked toward the Slytherin table. He sat next to Millicent Bulstrode.
There were only four people left now. Two before me.
Then one.
Then, at last –
“Weasley, Ronald!”
As I stepped forward and sat, I just had the time to hear Malfoy’s indignant squawk before the Hat dropped over my eyes. I chuckled despite my anxiety.
“Hmmm. I see. Interesting lad we’ve got there. Or is it lass?”
Ah, yes, that. I still considered myself a girl, but I was slowly getting used to my new downstairs roommates. In any case, I was working on that.
“Yes, hum, I see that too. You were right, of course. Gryffindor is out of the question. No bravery whatsoever. Hufflepuff… Hmm, no. Not hard-working either, even if your loyalty is deep. Ravenclaw could be a somewhat good match, but we both know that your best match would be – SLYTHERIN!”
The last word echoed through the whole Hall. Someone shouted at the Gryffindor table. I didn’t dare look in the direction of the twins, who were beginning to cause a ruckus. Instead, I rushed shakily toward the Slytherin table. I hardly noticed the complete lack of clapping from my new “family”. All I heard and saw was the relieved clapping from Harry, who welcomed me happily.
I collapsed into the chair next to him.
“My brothers are going to kill me,” I groaned, trying for humour.
“YOU!” shouted-whispered Malfoy, who was pink-faced and pointing his finger at me.
Laughter bubbled out of me. I tried to keep it behind my hands, but Harry chuckled, and then we couldn’t hold it in. So we just clapped our faces, giggling like crazy old ladies with asthma. Somewhat, McGonagall managed to bring order back to her House, and the Sorting ended up with Blaise Zabini, who joined us, looking at Harry and me with a nonplussed stare. Draco was silently fuming.
“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”
After such an inspiring speech, Dumbledore sat down. Everybody cheered, and the food appeared on every plate.
“Old people are weird sometimes,” I said wisely, because Harry looked uncertain about the Headmaster.
My short explanation seemed to be enough for him, since he shrugged and served himself with a bit of everything and began to eat. I followed his example, simply because stress always made me hungry, and I sorely needed to eat my emotions right now. Hogwarts was definitely going to make me fat.
“Welcome to the great house of Slytherin,” a sombre voice said.
The Bloody Baron sat down next to Draco, who paled considerably when he saw the ghostly robes stained with blood. Instead of speaking more, the ghost simply stared at each of the new students with a blank stare. When it was my turn to be subjected to that silent study, I tried not to cringe, and mostly succeeded. His goal met, the Bloody Baron stood up and floated away.
“How do you think he got covered in blood?” asked Harry.
“Surely something tragic, I would guess. Better not to ask.”
“I bet it comes from some blood-traitor he put out of their misery.”
Harry frowned, not understanding what Draco meant and visibly waiting for my answer.
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying for an innocent face.
Maman always said I looked like a little demon when I pulled that face.
“Are you Weasleys stupid on top of being poor?” Draco turned back to Harry. “Potter, you can’t really want to go make friends with the wrong sort. Let me help you there.”
Harry’s expression took on an offended look before smoothing out.
“You should probably not speak like that to your cousin, right?”
“He isn’t my cousin! You heard Professor McGonagall, she called him Weasley!”
“Some people have a lot of different names,” he said, shrugging it off. “Did you read all the names that Professor Dumbledore has? Ronald Armand Weasley-Malfoy sounds like a proper wizard name, don’t you think?”
I wheezed. Someone barked a laugh. Draco stuttered in rage before resolutely turning his back on us, done with our apparent insanity. When the main course was over, the desserts appeared. I moaned, half happy, half exasperated.
“By the end of this year, you’ll have to call me Ronald Armand Bilius Diabetes Weasley-Malfoy.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” responded Harry sagely, nodding his head.
“I like you a bunch already, Harry”.
He smiled and blushed, pleased with himself. What a cute cucumber, this one.
When everyone began to look a little droopy, the remains of the food disappeared from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, and Dumbledore got to his feet. The Great Hall fell silent. He gave his few “start-of-term notices” about the Forbidden Forest being, in fact, forbidden, about the Quidditch trials, and evidently, about the third-floor corridor. As the Headmaster had trouble being non-cringy, he got us singing the school song. By default, as always, I chose the Marseillaise and mumbled the words. What an embarrassing old man. I liked him anyway.
Everybody finished the song at different times. Around me, we were the fastest, undoubtedly because of something like Slytherin decorum. And… At last, only two well-known voices were left singing along to a very slow funeral march.
I pinched my lips and blinked my eyes rapidly, post-sugar bliss forgotten.
“And now, bedtime,” Dumbledore said. “Off you trot!”
A witch Prefect gathered us around like a herd of unruly puppies. We followed her through the noisy and nosy crowds, out of the Great Hall, and through a door on the right side of the Entrance Hall. She was quick and efficient in herding us, so much so that I managed to avoid my brothers without any effort. We descended a long set of stone steps, going deep into the dungeons. After much yawning and feet-dragging, we came to a sudden halt before a bare stretch of stone wall.
The password for the next fortnight was “Draught of Living-Death”, and I wondered if this was a testament to Snape’s feelings about a new school year beginning. Maybe he wished to take it himself, or give it to every student. That made me huff a laugh. I was so gonna mess with his head. Or kill him with kindness. Whatever fits my mood.
The common room was beautiful. I tried to whistle my appreciation, but ultimately failed.
“It’s so eerie,” I said, turning my head this way and that. “So spacious. Look at that fireplace! That’s big enough to cook someone on a broch.”
“Er… Wizards don’t do that… right?”
“Harry, dear Harry, please, no. I was joking. No cannibals in Hogwarts. I swear. Don’t listen to me, my brain is rotten.”
The Prefect, one witch named Gemma Farley, gave us a short welcoming speech. She then bid us all good night, directed the girls to their dormitory, and the boys to theirs. We were told in no uncertain terms to make ourselves scarce and not wander out during the night if we didn’t want to get on our Head of House’s bad side. I wholeheartedly agreed that it was a terrible idea.
We finally found our beds: three bunk beds and one single. I jumped onto the bottom bed near the bathroom door, and Harry claimed the bed above mine. Everything, and I must insist on everything, was green. The velvet curtains, the bedcovers, the pillows, the walls, and I loved it so much. However, I was too tired to ooh and aah much longer, so I quickly went to the bathroom to change into my pyjamas and slumped into my bed. Harry, too, seemed too tired to talk.
The room fell silent rapidly, save for the soft sound of swishing water and some snoring.
I fell asleep like a dead rock.
During the night, my subconscious decided to torture me by showing me all my family calling me a freak and turning on me. I woke, sweating and shaking, and cried myself back to sleep.
Chapter 3: BOOK ONE - THE FALLOUT
Notes:
NO BASHING but some people do some mean shit sometimes.
TW: Emotional abuse, public humiliation, gaslighting (implied)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWO
THE FALLOUT
On Monday morning, Harry had to pull me out of the common room by force. At first, he had tried enticing me out with breakfast, without success. Whispers followed us from the moment we left the dormitory, and it only got worse for Harry once outside the dungeons proper.
People were staring and pointing, talking about scars and You-Know-Who. We ignored them and concentrated on finding our way to breakfast. The way was still fresh in our minds, and relatively straightforward, so we soon arrived at the Entrance Hall.
“Kill me now…” I whispered when I saw what was waiting for me.
Three tall, familiar silhouettes were standing next to the doors. There was no ribbing about Percy being a Prefect like usual. Just three teenagers with impatient faces.
“Do you want me to stay… ?”
“No, please. Don’t. No offence, but if I end up crying like a baby, I really don’t want you to see it. I get kind of ugly.”
Harry didn’t smile. Instead, he grabbed my sleeve for an instant, like I had done yesterday, promised he would save a place for me, before going inside the Great Hall. Once alone, I took a fortifying breath and dragged my feet until I was in front of my brothers. I couldn’t tell what they were feeling, as my eyes were glued to my shoes.
“Well, well, well, looks like someone’s been mixing up their family tree,” George said, no humour in his voice.
“You’re right,” Fred remarked. “I told Mum years ago that an evil fairy swapped little Ron with a Changeling.”
All my blood left my face. I pinched my lips and bit my tongue, not daring to answer.
“This is… rather unexpected,” Percy continued before any other mean word could be said. “We’ve always prided ourselves on being a good, loyal family – Gryffindor through and through. Despite your… Sorting, I expect you to uphold those values. Make sure you don’t get involved with some of the… less… admirable elements of that House. Slytherin is full of… well, let’s just say it’s not exactly the sort of House I’d want any of us in. You know what people might think if you are not careful with your image. You’ll have to work twice as hard to prove yourself. Also, please refrain from sneaking around with any of their ‘secret clubs’.”
My mouth fell open in disbelief.
“Are you… Are you… I— Are you talking about Death Eaters ?” I whispered, eyes bulging and prickling. “You think I’m… I—I would… You…”
I choked on my words, close to tears. I couldn’t deal with this. I needed to get away. Now.
Turning on my heels, I tried to leave in the direction of the Great Hall, but a hand grabbed me and turned me around again. I stared at Fred's hand on my arm.
“Watch yourself, Ronniekins.”
He let me go.
I ran.
Harry’s concerned face followed me until I sat next to him. He tried to ask, but I stuffed my face with beans and toast. Understanding that it was better to let it rest for now, he carried on with his breakfast. The Head boy passed us by, handing out timetables. I immediately focused on that to distract my mind.
It was a rather nice timetable. Our three Herbology lessons were just before lunch, so we had enough time to clean up. Our more complicated lessons – Transfiguration – were shared with Ravenclaws, which was an advantage, as they were supposed to be very studious and attentive in class. On top of that, Astronomy was scheduled for Friday night, allowing us to sleep in on Saturday morning.
The only downside was the double period of History of Magic just after lunch on Mondays and the double Defence Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday mornings. However, realistically, the morning or afternoon made no difference, as the problem lay with the teachers themselves.
“Let’s go to class, yeah? I heard McGonagall is not to be crossed. Better not be late for the first lesson.”
Harry agreed easily. We found our way easily to the classroom on the first floor. There we met Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. They were very curious about Harry and tried to ask a lot of invasive questions before the bell put an end to it.
I loved this lesson. McGonagall was strict, of course, but so interesting. She changed her desk into a pig and back again. I had so many questions bursting in my head. Never had I ever seen such advanced Transfiguration before. Mum was more about Charms and Dad… Well, Dad liked tinkering the Muggle way.
We covered some theory and took notes before practice. We were each given a match and told to turn it into a needle. That was going to be very useful to both Harry and me, what with our second-hand clothes. Note to myself, teach Harry everything Mum taught me about sewing and hemming. So exciting! Had I been alone, I probably would’ve squealed with happiness.
Anyhow, by the end of the lesson, no one had managed any significant change in their match.
Then we had to rush to the greenhouse for our Herbology class. Sprout was a real sweetheart. And bonus point, there was no practice for the first lesson, so we stayed soil and dung-free.
Nobody staged an intervention for me in the Entrance Hall before or after lunch. I still held my breath until I was safely sitting in History of Magic. Even Before, History and Geography were my worst subjects. As a child, I didn’t know the difference between Paris and Italy… Be that as it may, I did my best to listen and take extensive notes. Next to me, Harry fell asleep a moment before I woke him up discreetly and handed him my notes.
When the torture was over, it was time for “Study Hall”, which was some sort of hour-long period where all First and Second Years were supposed to do their homework. I had something similar when I was in my Catholic middle school. According to the Professor who was surveilling us during this period, it existed to help us acclimate and create some discipline for our next five years at Hogwarts.
Whether it was useful or not, it was another hour where my brothers couldn’t ambush me. Thanks, Merlin, for small mercies.
Or that’s what I thought until dinner, where I met George’s gaze. I walked faster to the Slytherin table and plopped my butt without verifying where I was sitting.
“Move, Weasley,” barked Malfoy. “Don’t contaminate me with your craziness.”
“But what are we going to do at Christmas if I can’t sit next to you? I doubt Uncle Lucius will let me sit on his lap.”
Draco literally heaved. Some pumpkin juice spurted out of Harry’s nose. I beamed. What a time to be alive.
My improved mood followed me until it was time to go to the common room. Harry and I joked around, talking about our first day and what we enjoyed the most. It was nice, and Theodore Nott even participated a little when we got to talking about Transfiguration. The other boys in our year were scattered throughout the room, while all the girls were grouped next to Gemma Farley, discussing something with her and her older friends.
Time for bed came around. I debated writing a letter to Mum and Dad now, but ultimately decided to do it tomorrow afternoon during my free period. Harry agreed to lend me Hedwig.
I fell into an uneasy sleep.
My night was plagued with nightmares. I woke up a few times, panting and gasping for breath.
Morning finally came. I gave myself a rousing pep talk in front of the mirror. In addition, Harry’s insane bedhead warmed my heart. Today was going to go better; I only had to avoid my brothers, and they had visibly decided not to bother with me anymore after their intervention the morning prior.
I sat next to Nott at the breakfast table. Just then, the mail arrived. A magnificent snowy owl circled the Hall, then flew off to Harry. Hedwig dropped a note next to Harry’s plate before landing on his shoulder.
“Hagrid is inviting me to visit this afternoon during our free period. Do you want to come?”
“Sure thing. You make him sound nice.”
Harry joyfully scribbled his response on the back of the note and sent off Hedwig. At the same time, another owl fluttered by and dropped an envelope.
On my lap.
A red envelope.
I gasped as did Nott and Zabini when they saw the item in my shaking hand. People started whispering and snickering. Draco looked like Christmas came in early.
“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.
“You better open it quick, Weasley,” taunted Draco, a few seats down. “Your looks certainly can’t take an explosion on top of… the rest of what you call a face.”
In other circumstances, I would’ve deflected with humour. Not right now.
The letter began to smoke at the corners. I slit it open. A demented screech filled the Great Hall, attracting the whole school’s attention.
“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY! HOW DARE YOU SHAME OUR FAMILY LIKE THIS? I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME! WE DID NOT BRING YOU UP TO BECOME A SLIMY LITTLE SNAKE! IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME. YOU ARE GROUNDED FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE!”
The Howler burst into flames and curled into ashes.
I…
I couldn’t…
I…
Malfoy burst out laughing.
I stood up and ran away blindly.
Harry followed me in an empty corridor when I stopped and started sobbing erratically. I cried big, fat, warm tears for a long moment, hiccuping until it became painful. After some time, I realised Harry was awkwardly patting my back, and that made me smile despite myself.
“Damn. Sorry,” I apologised, straightened myself, and wiped my face on the handkerchief Harry was holding out. “I’m fine. Let’s go before we are late to Charms.”
Not letting Harry protest or mention what just happened, I took the lead in the direction of the stairs.
Charms and Herbology passed in a blur. I barely spoke at all until it was time for lunch. Shame made me hesitate. I was hungry, but I felt unable to face people. In the end, my stomach won, and I ate as fast as I could. As soon as Harry finished his plate, we left the castle and made our way across the grounds.
Hagrid welcomed us into his small wooden House, and Harry introduced us.
“Another Weasley, eh?” He commented, glancing at my face. “I spend half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.”
Harry quickly changed the subject. When Hagrid let go of Fang to serve the tea, he bounded straight at me and licked my ears and face. He was so cute I could die. When he rolled on his back, I crouched and rubbed his belly until his tail wagged so much it could be used as a KitchenAid.
Brave Harry tried to eat one of the half-giant rock cakes. I cringed when I heard an ominous cracking. I sincerely hoped that wasn’t his teeth. Harry was polite, so he pretended to enjoy them as he told Hagrid all about our first two days.
Then, the subject changed.
“How’s yer brother Charlie? I liked him a lot – great with animals. Seems like yer too.”
“Oh, you know, he’s chasing dragons, like always. He's been in Romania since June. ”
Sensing my wobbling mood, Harry came to my rescue again, asking if dragons were covered in class. The discussion devolved then to Hagrid's absolute passion for dragons until it was time to leave for Study Hall, our pockets full with rock cakes.
The long day ended up without any other hitch – apart from Malfoy’s snickering – and I indulged myself with a luxurious hot shower and nice-smelling shampoo.
On Wednesday morning, I woke up, got up, and waved to Harry, who gaped at me.
“Your… hair?”
“Hm? What about it?”
“Er… You should probably… take a look?”
In the bathroom, my reflection looked back at me, mouth agape.
My hair was bright green.
Harry joined me timidly, staring at me like I was going to explode in tears from one moment to the next. How embarrassing. I hated when people did that, be it now or Before.
“At least, it’s a nice green. Right?”
Harry nodded vigorously. I sighed. There wasn’t time to rewash them, and there was a distinct possibility that the “problem” came from my shampoo.
“Right,” I repeated to myself, squaring my shoulders. “ Right. Everything’s fine. Let’s get dressed. Breakfast waits for no one.”
We went to the Great Hall. Some people ogled me, Malfoy said something mean, and we ignored them all. As I was savouring my morning beans, there was a rushing sound when a hundred owls flew in, dropping letters and packages.
Something large and grey fell into Malfoy’s jug, spraying us all with pumpkin juice and feathers. I laughed at Malfoy’s indignant face before recognising the owl. All amusement gone, I pulled poor Errol by his feet and took the damp envelope in his beak.
A perfectly normal envelope.
I crammed it at the bottom of my bag and went back to my beans. Harry obviously wanted to ask, so I said:
“A wise man once said, the best way to deal with problems is to ignore them until eventually they just go away.”
“Did it work for him?”
“Heh. Sort of not. He got possessed by a thousand-year-old Japanese fox-demon.”
First and second periods were Defence Against the Dark Arts. Quirell’s lesson turned out to be just as much of a joke as expected. At the end of the double period, we were all relieved to breathe some fresh air, with no lingering garlic smell.
After lunch, we had Transfiguration again. McGonagall took one look at me and asked me to stay after class. The stress made it impossible for me to even partially change my wooden match, despite having been able to make it slightly shiny the day before during Study Hall.
Once the bell rang, my classmates left. Harry said he would wait for me outside, but McGonagall sent him to our next lesson.
“Mr Weasley, I trust you’re settling into Slytherin well… despite all,” She affected a softer tone than I was used to in class. Then her eyes strained again toward my hair. “If anything or anyone is causing you trouble, you know you can come to me, or your Head of House.”
I snorted despite myself.
“I think Professor Snape would rather drink poison,”
“Mr Weasley,” Her tone got sharp again. Oops. “While I cannot speak for Professor Snape’s… feelings, I can assure you that no student under Hogwarts’ roof will be left to fend for themselves, regardless of House. If you truly feel unsupported, I will personally address the matter. Now, tell me exactly what’s been happening – apart from the obvious – and I’ll see to it that it’s resolved. No need to add, I expect honesty, young man.”
I assured her there was nothing else, thanked her for her concern, and she tried the Crinus Muto spell on my hair, with no effect. So I simply took the permission slip she gave me for my next lesson, so that I wouldn’t get in trouble for being late. When Harry asked, I only told him she advised me to go to the Hospital Wing before dinner to see if anything could be done for my hair.
Turns out, Madam Pomfresh could grow my hair for infinity without a change in colour. So she cut it back to its previous length and advised me to ask my Charms Professor, and also to throw away my bottle of shampoo, just in case. She asked me if I needed anything else.
I assured her there was nothing else, thanked her for her concern, and took off with Harry.
The next morning, after Charms class, I did as told and asked Professor Flitwick if something could be done. He tried the Colour-Changing charm, Colovaria, to no effect. He apologised profusely and advised me to ask Professor Snape. He asked me if I needed anything else.
I assured him there was nothing else, thanked him for his concern, and took off for Herbology.
During lunch, words appeared on the back of my robes, spelling in green fluorescent paint: “I’m a slimy snake”. Harry and I took turns at the bathroom sink to scrub it off, to no avail. When it devolved into a bubble war, we abandoned the task and went to the Library to see if we could find a helpful spell.
I took great care of my things, as I absolutely didn’t want to burden my family financially, and to find myself unable to clean one of the only pairs of robes I owned…
That new “prank” did not make me sad.
It made me furious.
I was fuming and grumbling when we passed the threshold of the Library for the first time. I looked around me.
“Pinch me, Harry. I think I died and this is Heaven.”
The little gremlin actually pinched me. Anger forgotten in the face of tens of thousands of books, I happily grabbed my friend to discover this marvellous room. To prevent me from wandering dreamily and endlessly, Harry took the lead in our search. Somewhere between the Defence and Transfiguration Sections, I noticed a long mane of brown hair, hunched over various old tomes. I veered in that direction and stopped before the witch.
“Hullo Hermione, right? Do you mind if we join you?”
Harry’s expression was doubtful, but he apparently had learned to trust me, so he didn’t protest. Hermione, on the other hand, showed very clearly how distrustful she was of our approach. She relented, nonetheless, to have us sitting at the same table.
“So, I heard you’re very smart –”
“I won’t do your homework for you.”
“Erm… I wasn’t gonna ask that,” I responded, embarrassed. “I just wanna ask if you know any spell or potion that could help with my… hair issue.”
“Oh…”
She seemed both surprised and flattered that I asked her. I wondered how she was doing in Gryffindor, whether she was bullied too, or taken advantage of. For now, I focused on my issue. Our friendship would grow anyway; I was going to make sure of that.
“Well, I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, and there is no such spell either in the Transfiguration or Charms textbooks. Neither is there any potion like this for our first year… Oh, but while reading Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, there was a part about a magical Snail… Wait a second…”
She mumbled to herself while rummaging through her school bag. It creaked ominously, and I bet her back made the same sound when carrying so many books every day.
“There,” she said, thumping her book in the middle of the table. “The name was one of the last… Hm… Shrake… Snallygaster… Golden Snidget, Shinx, Streeler! There it is. It says: ‘The Streeler is a giant snail that changes colour on an hourly basis and deposits behind it a trail so venomous that it shrivels and burns all vegetation over which it passes. The Streeler is native…’ blah blah blah… ‘known substance that can kill Horklumps ... Hm… Ah, yes, listen to this: ‘These shells are useful potion ingredients and employed – among others – in the brewing of Doxycide and Hair-Dyeing Potions’. Aha! I knew it!”
Harry and I looked stunned.
“You’re bloody brilliant, Hermione!”
She smiled shyly, cheeks pink. Sweet Hermione was very enthusiastic about helping us, and we searched the potion section together to find the recipe for the Hair-Dyeing Potion. We learned a great deal and felt better prepared for class. Harry was the one who finally found it, and I copied it conscientiously on a piece of parchment. If our first potion class tomorrow went well, I would stay after it to ask Snape if I could brew the potion.
That done, Hermione offered her help with my robes. We spent the afternoon together, searching and finding the Scouring Charm, a fourth-year spell. The remainder of our free period was occupied by trying – and failing – to cast the charm. No matter the failure, I was in high spirits when we went to the Study Hall and sat together.
We parted at dinner, tentatively friends. Or I was hoping anyway. If my memory was correct, Hermione was a bit of an involuntary loner before the Troll Incident™. Maybe putting her on a side project to help me had been enough to get her attached. I hoped so.
Friday came with no change in hair. I put on my second pair of robes. If the pranksters vandalised these, too, there would be hell to pay. In particular, it was an important day. We had our double Potion class with Gryffindor. I wanted to make an okay-ish first impression.
During breakfast, Errol crashed at the Gryffindor table. I ignored the pang in my heart.
“Please, Ron, don’t eat beans again,” pleaded Harry as I was about to serve myself. “The whole dormitory will be grateful tonight.”
I laughed and served myself a big portion of beans under Harry's pitiful gaze. Zabini and Nott, who were sitting next to us, both groaned quietly.
Potion lessons took place in the dungeons, obviously, and as this subject was somewhat creepy by nature, the walls were lined with animal bits in glass jars and Formaldehyde. Or the magic equivalent, perhaps. Or it could be sauce for all I knew.
Snape took the roll call – he stared at my hair a moment when my name came up –, then began his lesson, giving me the opportunity to at long last study him closer than in the Great Hall. He was no Alan Rickman, for he was way younger. Apart from that, people were wildly exaggerating his ugliness. His charisma largely made up for his physique.
Hermione and I were on the edge of our seats at the end of his “welcoming” speech.
“Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Harry glanced at me. Come on, little man, that was the password of the common room, you knew it, we saw that yesterday in the Library.
“Er… Hm… The Draught of Living Death?”
Snape looked momentarily taken aback. From the corner of his eye, he saw my smile and turned on me with his cape billowing. Wow, so cool.
“Weasley, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”
“In the stomach of a goat,” I responded with a light grimace. “Sir.”
“Humpf. What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
Hermione stretched her hand high into the air, but poor Harry looked like he didn’t have the faintest idea what to answer.
“I don’t know, sir,” Harry admitted quietly.
“Weasley.”
“They’re the same plant, sir.”
Harry looked very embarrassed, as if it was his fault he didn’t know such an insignificant fact in his very first year. Also, he didn’t spend all his high school years binge-watching a TV show about werewolves.
Hermione sat back down.
“Three points to Slytherin. Now, for your information…”
Snape elaborated on our answers, and the lesson began. That went well, I thought. Then I swore silently, hoping I didn’t just jinx myself.
Fortunately, Snape criticised our attempt at the Cure for Boils’ potions the same way as everyone else – except Malfoy, the git.
Unfortunately, Neville melted Seamus’s cauldron and got covered in red boils. He was sent to the infirmary, the poor lad.
The bell rang after one more hour of brewing. Hermione stayed behind with Harry and me.
“Class is over,” said Snape, who was levitating the class’s phials to grade.
“Sir, I wanted to ask something –”
“Surely you could do it without a cohort, Mr Weasley. Potter, Granger, get out.”
They didn’t dare argue.
“Now, does this have to do with the current state of your robes?”
“No? My robes are fine, I changed them this morning.”
“Then you would do well to change them again.”
I gaped and then gritted my teeth, understanding that my second pair of robes had already been tampered with.
“I will. Thank you for the info, sir. But that’s not what I want to ask you. You see, Hermione found a recipe,” I explained this while searching my pocket. “It’s called the Hair-Dyeing Potion, and I wondered if I could… Err… Borrow your classroom? No, that sounds a little much. I mean… Maybe I could disturb you…? No, I mean… bother—? No —”
“Your eloquence is sorely lacking, Mr Weasley,” Snape interrupted my clumsy attempt at being a person. He studied my face for a moment, visibly pondering the situation. “You will come here, alone, instead of today’s Study Hall. You will arrive on time with your material and the recipe. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. See you later, sir.”
He looked unimpressed, so I smiled and bowed a little, just to be weird, and left. Harry and Hermione were waiting for me, and I informed them of the good news. Hermione was disappointed she wasn’t allowed to try her hand at the potion, too.
We separated for lunch, sat together for our double period of Magical Theory, then separated again, me going to the dungeons and my friends going to Study Hall. I had to rush through the castle to arrive on time, and I did, huffing and puffing. There wasn’t a more difficult way to run than to do it with a cauldron in your arms.
Snape looked me up and down with scepticism, pointed to a small work table, and went back to his grading. The door to the ingredients reserve was propped open, so I went there after setting up my cauldron and dragon-hide gloves. I deeply appreciated Snape’s alphabetised classification. It was easy to find the fireball spikes, dried nettles, and Streeler Shells. After much deliberation, I chose a container with a mango-colored shell. It was the closest to my original hair colour. Somewhat.
The recipe was straightforward —it was, after all, a potion for beginners—and in about half an hour, it was done. I carefully peeled off my gloves, washed my mortar, pestle, and stirring rod, and put away the excess ingredients. When I got out of the reserve, Snape was leaning over my cauldron.
“Is it okay?”
“It is passable. Proceed.”
I drank the potion. I felt nothing.
“Five points to Slytherin for adequate potion-making.”
I looked up to him in disbelief.
“It worked? That’s brilliant! Thank you, sir!”
He peered at me strangely again. He paused. Then said:
“This matter being settled, tell me by what means you will fix your robes.”
I stared at him. He stared back. What was he doing? Was that some test? Or was he just so inept at being human that he wasn’t going to offer his help and just let me figure it out myself? In any case, I told him about the Scouring Charm and my attempts at casting it.
He hummed. Not negatively, nor positively. Just him, observing me fidget under his scrutiny. One prolonged face-off later, he simply told me to join my classmates in the Study Hall. Completely off-kilter, I did as told. When they saw my hair, Hermione quietly congratulated me, and Harry sent me a thumbs-up.
Things were going the right way.
That was nice.
Chapter 4: BOOK ONE - HIGH-STAKE MEETINGS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THREE
HIGH-STAKE MEETINGS
In the second week of class, Harry and I were playing Exploding Snap when the imposing figure of our Head of House materialised at the entrance of the common room.
“Mr Weasley.”
He sounded pissed. I jumped to my feet and went to him. He glared at me.
“Follow me. You have been summoned to the Headmaster’s office.”
I gulped. We left the common room, climbed several flights of stairs in a sombre silence only broken by the sound of our feet. There was no reason whatsoever for me to be in trouble, was there? I broke no rule, did my homework diligently, and apart from my hair returning to its green colour this morning, nothing more happened. My robes were still vandalised, though. Was I getting dress-coded for that? Sounded unlikely to be the reason to be summoned by the Headmaster himself.
We stopped before a stone gargoyle on the third floor.
“Curly Wurly.”
I refrained from chuckling. Very not the moment.
The gargoyle hopped aside, letting Snape charge up the spiral staircase. I scrambled after him, tripping a few times and cursing my short legs. We rose higher and higher, until at last, I could see an oak door ahead. However, more than what I saw, it was what I was hearing that caught my attention.
Mum’s screaming was unmistakable and unrivalled.
I froze. Last time I heard her voice, she screamed to the whole school how ashamed of me she felt.
I recalled Malfoy’s laughter after he heard my mother call me a slimy little snake.
I couldn’t.
“I… “
Snape opened the door without knocking, and the screaming inside stopped abruptly. Everybody turned in my direction.
The tears against which I had been fighting on and off ever since my last interaction with my brothers were threatening to overpower me. I could feel the inner corner of my eyes burning and prickling, ready to burst at any moment. Inside the office stood not only Dumbledore and Mum, but also Dad, Percy, McGonagall, and the twins.
“Sweetheart, oh sweetheart, come here.”
I took a step back without meaning to. Mum suddenly looked on the verge of tears, too.
“Oh dear, please, let us explain. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see. Come to me, love.”
There was no other choice but to comply. I blinked furiously to clear my eyes. Even my throat was burning now, and a heavy rock sat on my stomach. I wished I could be invisible, or that at least they would have the decency to look away.
Eyes downcast, I entered the room properly. Mum approached me, and as I flinched, she finally burst into tears and flung herself on me. She pulled me to her chest, putting her arms around me and petting my hair.
I… did not understand.
“Mum?”
“Ah, Mr Weasley,” interrupted Dumbledore when it appeared that no one dared speak. “It seems you were the victim of a terrible piece of mischief. Now, if Mr. Fred and George Weasley would like to explain…”
Uncomprehending, I briefly looked at the twins' faces before losing the courage to maintain eye contact. They were both looking pale and properly chastened. Neither of them abided by Dumbledore’s suggestion until, surprisingly, and for the first time in my life, I saw Dad get truly, scarily angry. He raised his voice, ordering the twins to explain.
“We’re so sorry, Ron,” George began in a rush, faltering a second before continuing. “We… we got a few Howlers from Mum the past few years and… It’s easy to make… We… I…”
What.
“When you got sorted in Slytherin, it was… You know… We were…”
Fred searched for the right word for a moment. Or maybe not the right one, but the one that would get them the least in trouble. By Dad’s expression and severely crossed arms, Fred could have used any word in the entire English dictionary, and he would still be furious about it. Defeated, George admitted in a whisper that they were embarrassed and betrayed, and they wanted to punish me for choosing Slytherin over our family.
I burst into tears.
My nose was running, my hands were sweating, and my whole body was shaking like an old bag of bones. Mum made me sit half on her lap, half on Dumbledore’s sofa and rocked me, blabbering pet names and reassurances until my hiccuping calmed down.
“You don’t hate me?”
“Of course not, love,” whispered Mum quickly, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “Your father and I would never hate you, especially not for something as silly as a schoolhouse! We are so proud of you, no matter what, sweetheart. Never doubt that again, baby.”
“I’m truly sorry, son,” added Dad, looking deeply shaken and sitting in the armchair next to me. “Your mother was worried when we didn’t get a letter from you telling us all about your first day at school, but I told her you were probably just having fun and making friends and that you would write during this weekend. I was wrong, I’m sorry. If your mother hadn’t insisted on sending Percy a letter on Friday, I fear this situation would’ve lasted even longer.”
I gazed at Percy, silently hoping he would make sense of that.
“Mother sent me a letter Friday, yes, to ask if you had received her previous letter last Wednesday and if you were well. And why you were not responding. In my response to Mother, I hypothesised that you were most probably hurt about her Howler from Tuesday. This is, I believe, when Mother began to suspect foul play. On that note, I would like to offer you my apologies. On one hand, for my words to you, and on the other hand, for neglecting to check on you after the Howler incident. ”
What a pompous ass. He literally accused me of being on the way to becoming a Death Eater last week! However, now wasn’t the time to spill that. I would keep it for later use if he didn’t clean up his act. So I swallowed my bitterness and thanked him for his apology.
Everybody then turned toward the twins. I had never seen George honestly contrite before. He fumbled around, but Fred cut him off, pointing at me with his finger:
“He’s going around telling people he’s a Malfoy! How’s that not treason?”
The room looked like a tennis match for a second, with everyone looking at me again.
“It’s what I call an actual prank, you twit! When Malfoy’s being mean or rude, I say silly things to defuse the situation before he can say something truly insulting. Who in their right mind would honestly believe that my name is Ronald Armand Bilius Diabetes Weasley-Malfoy the Third? No one but you !”
Fred’s mouth closed with a click. His face fell. No other accusation came to his mind, and he visibly admitted defeat until George —of course, him— took the lead and presented his most sincere apology.
“No thanks,” I said in an expressionless voice. “Was it you who did this to my hair?”
“Erm… Yeah. We did. It should fade in a few weeks… If you don’t use your shampoo again.”
“I threw it away last week! And it still changed colour again yesterday.”
Fred flushed an ugly red, avoided anyone’s gaze, and mumbled:
“We swapped it again...”
“Am I to understand,” hissed the low voice of Snape—whose presence I had forgotten entirely. “That you both illegally broke into the Slytherin common room, moreover, inside the Slytherin dormitory … That you compromised someone’s belongings, both the clothes with discriminatory language and the toiletries with an illicitly-brewed potion… Not once, but twice? Am I understanding this situation correctly, Mr. Weasley?”
They looked ready to faint.
“What is it about clothes?” asked Mum, getting furiously red in the face. “What is wrong with your clothes, Ronnie?”
“Ah. Err…It’s… on my back.”
Dad stood up abruptly to see.
“ I’m a slimy snake, ” he read in a murmur.
I wasn’t the object of his ire, but I still felt a deep chill take over me at his tone. He said nothing more. He seemed beyond words at this point.
“Furthermore,” added Snape. “This Friday, while I allowed Mr Weasley to use a Streeler shell to brew a Hair-Dyeing Potion, I could not help but notice the disappearance of one extra jar of Streeler shell. Jar, which was not missing before Mr Weasley’s… change of appearance.”
Cue the explosion.
“STEALING? FROM A TEACHER? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DISGRACEFUL THAT IS? YOU’LL BE THE END OF ME, YOU TWO! FIRST ABANDONING AND HURTING YOUR LITTLE BROTHER! AND NOW THAT! THAT’S IT! NO QUIDDITCH, NO HOGSMEADE, NO ZONKO!”
Dad took his turn:
“Fred, George, this isn’t how we raised you. I’m truly disappointed. You felt like Ron chose a house over our family when in reality, you did. You decided that ‘house pride’ was more important than our family and our values. We raised you to be honest and loyal wizards with integrity. Not… this. You will use your allowances to replace whatever you stole. If you have already spent it, then you will work to earn enough and reimburse what you owe Professor Snape and the school. You will put all of Ron’s robes back in order.”
A gloomy silence descended on the room. I wondered how the Headmaster and the two Heads of House felt, watching the family drama and dirty laundry airing. In any case, McGonagall gave the twins detention until Christmas, and Snape took fifty points each from Gryffindor. Before it could become even more awkward, Dumbledore stated the late hour and invited everyone to retire. Mum and Dad said goodbye to Percy, and a little more coldly to the twins. McGonagall left with my brothers to escort them to Gryffindor Tower.
Meanwhile, Mum kissed me on both cheeks, Dad hugged me tight, and they both repeated that they loved me before using the Floo to go home.
Dumbledore bid Snape and me good night, and I stammered a stilted answer. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I let out an explosive sigh of relief. I needed my bed desperately. The journey seemed shorter, despite Snape walking less aggressively. I bet he was happy about Gryffindor’s considerable loss of points and the twins being banned from Quidditch this year.
I blinked.
“Sir? Can I ask a somewhat… Hum… unprofessional question?”
He lifted an eyebrow. We stopped in the empty corridor in front of the entrance to the common room.
“I shall abstain from answering in the case that I find it… too unprofessional .”
“Did you really care about the Streeler shells? Or did you mention it to increase our chances of winning the House Cup?”
Was that a smile?
I blinked again.
Well, no, it was more of a smirk. Well, no, it was more of a light squinting of the eye.
“Mayhaps my earlier assessment of the Sorting Hat’s failing decision-making was inaccurate. We may still make a respectable Slytherin out of you. Now, go to bed.”
I obeyed and went to bed with an uncontrollable smile on my face. Hopefully, nobody was faking sleep to see me being so ridiculous. Even if they did, I would not have been able to stop myself from my giddy feelings. For my Mum, for my Dad, even a little bit for Percy. But strangely enough, I felt even more giddy about Snape accepting, out loud and to my face, my place in his house.
I dreamed a beautiful dream that night.
During our afternoon break the following day, I told Harry everything that happened in the Headmaster’s office. He was naturally properly offended on my behalf and we spent some time bitching about the twins and their idea of a “prank”.
“They seemed so nice when they helped me on the train. My aunt and uncle do the same thing. Acting all nice and proper outside and then turning completely off the bend at home. People like that should have it written on their backs, instead of you, just to know what to expect.”
“That sounds like that’s what the Founders were trying to do with the house system, doesn't it?”
Harry snorted surly.
“I’m glad to have chosen Slytherin then, if that’s what the ‘ house of the Brave’ is about. For now, the bravest person I’ve met at school is you, and if that doesn’t say something about the stupidity of the system, then nothing can.”
I blushed hard and changed the subject, unable to take a compliment gracefully. Instead, I focused more closely on mending the hole in my shoe with my perfectly transfigured needle. Magic was the best thing in the world! I couldn’t wait to practice Mum’s housework spells. Harry didn’t even bat an eye anymore to see me begin to mend and stitch at any moment of the day. I proposed to do his clothes if they needed it, but he had yet to accept. One day, I would convince him so that I could practice on Muggle denim.
Next to me, Harry was practising his transfiguration spellwork mechanically, turning his match into a needle, then to a match again. By now, we could probably do it in our sleep, which suddenly gave me the idea to suggest a dare: “The first to transfigure it wordlessly wins”.
Expectedly, we failed miserably, but we had a great time seeing what crazy colours our faces took because of the effort. A Hufflepuff prefect even stopped next to us to ask if we needed help to the Hospital Wing. That managed to set us off until dinner.
“With some luck, they’ll choke on their own mediocrity”, remarked Malfoy with contempt when we sat a few chairs over.
Crabbe and Goyle snickered.
“You would miss us,” I retorted. “I know I’d miss you, Malfoy. Last night, I dreamed you left Hogwarts on the back of a goat and no one ever saw you again. It was tragic.”
Harry snorted. Draco frowned with disgust. Little did they know I was saying the truth.
“How many times did your parents drop you on the head?”
“Clearly not as many as yours did."
“As if,” said Malfoy disdainfully. “My parents love me, contrary to yours .”
What a little cunt.
I doubted he would care if I told the truth of the matter, so I hesitated before deciding that there wasn’t any reason for me to bear this burden.
Time to throw the twins under the bus. They deserved it.
“Turns out, the Howler was a prank from my brothers all along.”
“What does it change? It still means that your family hates you and the whole school knows it.”
I had no response to that, for it was true. Whether my parents or my brothers hated me changed nothing to the fact that part of my family, in fact, hated me.
“I hope my dream will come true,” I grumbled under my breath before stuffing my face with mashed potatoes. “Serves you right, to be kidnapped by an evil goat…”
“Get lost, Malfoy,” spat Harry. “Don’t listen to him, Ron. He’s not worth it.”
Harry’s anger toward Malfoy lasted the whole week.
The little patience he had shown until now seemed to have died a quick death, and each time he saw the young Malfoy, Harry’s gaze would take on a dark undertone. Not to mention the fact that Malfoy was always near and talking this week, because our Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday. He literally couldn’t keep his mouth shut about it for more than ten minutes and kept complaining loudly about first years never getting on the Quidditch teams and the rule against first years owning their own broom.
I wondered if Snape would bend the rules with Harry for Slytherin to win the Quidditch Cup. Knowing the man’s pride, there was a 50/50 chance he would. In any case, the answer would come fast enough, as it was time for us to go out onto the grounds. Hermione joined us on the way and began lecturing us on flying tips she had read about.
I tuned her out, creating and discarding plans to manufacture a believable accident for my wand. But when Madam Hooch arrived, I came to the conclusion that —for now and because of the current ambience at home— it was better to wait for the… mood… to change favourably. Also, I knew how to mount a broom, and my parents knew it. They would easily see right through me. Better to wait and see.
The lesson was cut short when Neville fell. Not one second after he left with Madam Hooch to the Hospital Wing, and already he was being mocked by Malfoy, who then found his Remembrall in the grass. That was apparently too much to bear for Harry, whose patience was already holding by a thin thread. So he went and flew up to fifty feet in the air, caught the Remembrall, and lost thirty points after McGonagall ran up to us in a fury.
The loss of house points hit Harry hard, and he spent Study Hall and dinner in a mortified silence, until Gemma Farley told him he was summoned to Snape’s office as soon as he was done eating. Never had I seen him so pale, probably thinking he was going to be expelled. But what he didn’t notice – nor anybody else, for that matter —was that Farley then went to Marcus Flint to deliver the same message. I noticed. And I couldn’t help but shoot a quick look at the head table.
Snape caught my gaze for a second, and I smiled knowingly. There was no doubt left in my mind.
As I fancied myself a decent friend, I waited diligently for Harry’s return in the common room.
When he was back, he seemed in a daze.
“I’m the new Seeker for the Quidditch team,” Harry said, completely bewildered. “And I have detention for three weeks.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“I’m serious!”
“I know, I know. It’s just so typical of Snape. You know, you must be the youngest team member in about a century.”
“Yeah, Flint said something like that. I start training next week. Please, don’t tell anyone, Flint wants to keep it a secret. He isn’t convinced my ‘stunt’ wasn’t a fluke. Probably doesn’t want to embarrass Snape if that’s the case.”
“Then you’ll only have to prove him wrong. Snape must be giddy as hell. An amazing new Seeker for us and two quality Beaters less for Gryffindor. We are for sure going to win the Quidditch Cup this year. That’s wicked.”
“I still have detention…” grumbled Harry.
“Small price, given Madam Hooch threatened expulsion.”
“Oh… Yeah. Looking at it like that, sure.”
That cheered Harry up a bunch. His improved mood carried him through an evening spent learning all I could teach him about Quidditch. I wanted him to be well-prepared for his first practice, so that Flint had no reason to be unhappy with his first year on the team.
My little man was going to put stars in his disbelieving eyes. You bet it!
Chapter 5: BOOK ONE - AVOIDING PLOT
Notes:
TW: Murder attempts, mild language
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOUR
AVOIDING PLOT
My assumption about Snape's desire for victory was proven quite correct, as a broom-shaped package arrived at the head table during breakfast, and when Harry came back from his first training session, he revealed that he would be lent a brand-new Nimbus Two-Thousand from now on. However, he was to give the broom back to the captain after each training session.
Which made a load of sense, I thought, because of many reasons: the rule forbidding first-years from having their own broom; the fact that it was best to avoid people feeling even more that Harry was favoured (Harry included); and most importantly, to prevent sabotage. It was a fair concern, as both Terrence Higgs —the previous Seeker— and Malfoy took offence to the new nomination once it came out.
At least, the expensive broom was always safe, as no one would dare steal from Snape —apart from the twins, but I highly doubted they would risk expulsion when they were already on such thin ice.
Another person who wasn’t a fan of Harry being allowed on the team was Hermione, who felt like the teachers were rewarding rule-breaking. I reminded her tactfully that Harry lost thirty points and got three weeks of detention with Snape. That calmed her down enough for her to congratulate Harry on making the team and breaking a century-long record.
Life was good.
Harry was happy playing Quidditch. Hermione was happy having friends. I was happy soaking in the magical atmosphere. Mum and Dad wrote to me every week, and I delighted in telling them all the interesting things I had learned and asking Mum for housework spells.
Two peaceful months passed until Halloween arrived. I spent all day thinking about the troll attack that was supposed to happen during the feast, idly wondering how the situation was going to unfold, as there would be no Gryffindor Trio to knock it out. Hopefully, the creature wouldn’t have the opportunity to hurt anyone or damage anything.
My disappointment about missing the feast lasted only about a minute once I sat down for dinner. A thousand live bats were fluttering from the walls and ceiling, and I was sure I just saw something suspicious falling on a plate of baked potatoes on the Ravenclaw’s table.
“Did that bat just shat on the Ravenclaw table?” I asked, green and nauseated.
Harry began accusing me of lying, but he was interrupted when Quirrell came sprinting into the Great Hall, terrified and out of breath, to stop by the Headmaster.
“Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know.”
Ensued blind panic, and Quirrell fainted in the general indifference. Dumbledore made himself heard with a loud Sonorus to order the prefects to lead their house back to the dormitories. Realistically, I knew the dungeons were massive and that his decision was sound, but it still seemed so much riskier and more complicated than simply locking us up in the Great Hall—with the food—so that he and the teachers could then hunt the beast themselves.
The teachers sped up to the exit. Snape was obviously amongst them, he slowed down just as long as needed to tell the prefects to use the shortcut next to the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. And then he was gone. We did as he commanded, and we arrived without issue in the Slytherin common room, where the house elves had already sent the food.
Life was easier when you knew which plot points to avoid in your life.
One hour and a half later, Snape made an entrance to announce that the troll was dealt with. He limped out of the room shortly after his announcement. I hoped he would go to the Hospital Wing.
Ignoring the whole possible bat shit in the food, I believed that the night went extraordinarily well, given what could have happened to Harry, Hermione and I. Naturally, no one knew that, and even though no student was hurt, the next week was tense, as people put Dumbledore’s decisions into question. I abstained from participating in the debate, as I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.
Yes, Dumbledore had taken a questionable decision, but I knew it only appeared that way. If I recalled correctly, the Headmaster already suspected Quirrell then. It made sense, given that information, that he would think Quirrell was lying about the real whereabouts of the troll, for the whole staff to search the dungeons, leaving the way to the third floor completely free.
Dumbledore never even thought for one second that the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs were in any danger. I genuinely believed it. He had many flaws, I acknowledged that, but not to the point of risking a bloodbath of innocent children. Of course, I couldn’t say any of this to anyone, so I stayed quiet.
The incident was, however, soon forgotten, as the Quidditch season had begun. In addition, it was Gryffindor versus Slytherin, which made spirits even more competitive. I feared a little for Harry’s safety, as he was the target for everyone’s ire because of the blatant favouritism. With some luck, at least the rest of Slytherin would calm down after Harry proved his talent. Meanwhile, I insisted on escorting my friend everywhere.
The day before the match, Hermione, Harry, and I were out in the courtyard to avoid waiting with Malfoy and his cronies in front of the Magical Theory classroom. Hermione had conjured a bright blue fire that she carried around in a jam jar, and we were standing with our backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. He was still limping, the stubborn git.
Harry and Hermione, being their smooth selves, moved closer to the fire to hide it from view, sure it wouldn’t be allowed. Evidently, their guilty faces caught Snape’s bullshit radar. He limped over.
“Hullo Professor,” I said stupidly, as we had his lesson just one hour ago.
“What are you three up to?” he asked, suspicious and visibly looking for a reason to tell us off.
“Oh, I was teaching Harry and Hermione how to darn socks,” I replied, ostensibly showing the sock and transfigured needle in my hands.
I smiled back at him with my innocent face. He stared, sighed, then limped away, while telling us to go to class. Once he was out of earshot, I turned to my friends with an unimpressed look.
“Don’t you two own a proper poker face?”
“You’re one to talk!” retorted Hermione. “Have you seen your face when you want to look casual? You look like you’re about to commit a minor crime.”
This turned into a debate. Obviously, I won as I was the one to manage to distract Snape and make him leave without any hitch.
The next day, by eleven o’clock, the whole school was out in the stands around the Quidditch Pitch. Hermione, being a Brave little miss, decided to join me in the sea of Slytherin, risking the outrage of her own house. That wasn’t very smart of her, but I understood the spirit. Her presence helped me calm down. I was feeling awful, anxious, and jittery. Today would be dangerous for Harry, but I had to have faith that he would overcome anything thrown his way. He had to.
“Damn,” I said when the two teams gathered around Madam Hooch in the middle of the field. “He’s so much smaller than everybody else.”
“According to Quidditch Through the Ages, a small and slim stature is an excellent thing for a Seeker, and you know it. You spent the whole week telling me he would be fine, Ron.”
By now, she should know not to believe everything that comes out of my big mouth.
Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her whistle. Here goes nothing, I thought, watching the fifteen brooms rise high in the air.
Gryffindor’s reserve Beaters were shit.
Slytherin scored.
Our stand was filled with cheers. Directly opposite us, the Gryffindors moaned and howled, amongst them the twins, clearly swearing a storm against their replacement. Some time after, Hagrid joined Hermione and me.
Slytherin scored again.
There was a false alarm about the Snitch. One of the Gryffindor’s beaters risked a foul to block Harry from catching it. Hooch ordered a penalty.
Slytherin scored easily, of course.
Since the beginning of the match, I had kept a very close eye on Harry, so when his broom gave a first unnatural lurch, I was ready to take action.
“Something’s wrong with Harry’s broom,” I told Hagrid.
I heard Lee Johnson announce another score for Slytherin.
“Dunno what yer talki– Oh, that’s not lookin’ too good,” the half-giant replied, staring through his binoculars.
“I’m gonna tell Snape.”
I ran through the crowd, which had finally noticed the danger and was beginning to point and panic. I quickly reached the middle of the stand, where a few professors were grouped. I easily found Quirrell’s bright turban and raced ahead.
I knocked into him “by accident”, sending him headfirst into the front row. Unfortunately, he didn’t bolt over to plummet to his death. But fortunately, it was enough for Snape’s counter-jinx to work. Harry took back control of his broom. Only to speed towards the ground and hit the field on all fours. He heaved, one hand clapped to his mouth.
Slytherin won 250 to 0. It was humiliating, really.
We didn’t see the consequences of Harry’s weird way of bringing the team victory, as Snape seized Harry by the scruff and pulled him to the Hospital Wing. We followed along, and once Snape had left with the malfunctioning broom, Hermione exploded:
“Snape did it! I saw him. He was cursing Harry’s broom. He was muttering and wasn’t blinking at all.”
We all turned to her.
“Rubbish,” Hagrid said, before I interrupted him.
“No, he didn’t. It was Quirrell!”
They all turned to me.
“Why would Quirrell do somethin’ like that?”
“I don’t know!” I lied, playing on my affronted tone to cover it. “But he was muttering too, and when I knocked him over, Harry’s broom stopped being weird.”
“Rubbish,” Hagrid repeated. “Quirrell’s a Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort. Now, listen ter me, all three of yeh. Snape’s already taken the broom ter see why it acted like tha’. He’ll find the truth of it, yeh’ll see. Now, yeh forget tha’. We’ll have an answer soon enough, righ’?”
We promised not to take any action. Pomfrey told Harry he was as healthy as could be and was good to go. We said goodbye to Hagrid. Once he left, Hermione turned on me:
“It was Snape, not Quirrell!”
I frowned.
“Why do you want it to be Snape? What’s he even done to you?”
“Nothing,” she retorted. “But I didn’t see–”
“So just because you didn’t see it with your own eyes, it means I’m wrong?”
“Well…“
Hermione seemed unable to come up with a tactful way to tell me she thought herself smarter than me.
“I read all about them. I know a jinx when I see one,” she said with an air of finality, like that was the best argument possible.
“I haven’t read all about them,” I imitated her voice with contempt. “But contrary to you, I grew up surrounded by magic. I know what I saw.”
Taken aback by my vehemence, she took a step back.
“No need to be patronising.”
She left in a huff.
“I think you hurt her feelings,” Harry remarked.
“Maybe she needs it.”
I was already regretting my outburst, even if it was warranted. I hated it when people treated me like an idiot without my consent. Which actually happened, for some reason.
“Let’s go back to the common rooms. There must be a party in your honour.”
We left the second floor in awkward silence. Harry seemed torn by the argument between Hermione and me. However, I didn’t say anything more on the subject. I always took insults and provocations in stride, letting them slide off me. But sometimes, even I reached my limits, and Hermione's know-it-all personality had pushed my buttons a lot of times. Today was too much for my ego, apparently.
As we made it to the last flight of stairs before the ground floor, a considerable force suddenly pushed me forward.
I tumbled down the stairs.
Everything went black.
I woke up with a killer headache, and my whole torso felt painful.
“... else? Answer me, Potter.”
“‘Arry?” I mumbled.
“Ron! You’re awake!”
I opened my eyes to discover we were back at the Hospital Wing. Harry was sitting in the bed next to me, with visible relief on his face. At the foot of his bed stood Snape and Dumbledore. Pomfrey asked me a lot of questions while taking my constants, before giving me a mild pain-relief potion which made me feel woozy. I had a concussion and a broken collarbone. The broken bones were repaired when I was unconscious. The concussion would require monitoring.
Once she was out of the way, Snape began to interrogate me.
“I only remember… being pushed. I didn’t hear or see anyone around. What happened?”
Dumbledore took over the explanation..
“It seems that someone pushed you and Mr Potter. As you had lost consciousness, Mr Potter called for help. A few portraits at the bottom of the stairs heard and alerted Madam Pomfrey and the staff available. You were both taken to the Hospital Wing to receive medical attention for your injuries. Rest assured that the culprit will be found.”
The two men moved away to converse quietly. Snape looked furious and barely contained it.
“Are you ok, mate?” I asked.
“Madam Pomfrey already mended my arm,” Harry admitted with a shrug. “You got it worse than me.”
“Do you–”
“It is irrevocably an attack targeting Slytherin!” Snape exploded.
Dumbledore said something in a low voice. Snape snarled silently before nodding. Satisfied with the obedience, Dumbledore bid us a swift recovery and left.
“Sir,” I asked when Snape came back near us. “D’you reckon it’s because we flattened Gryffindor?”
“Be sure that I will discover if that is the case,” he promised in a low growl. “No course will be neglected. Now up, Potter. I will escort you back to your common room. Where you will stay for the remainder of the weekend. You will only leave them to eat in the Great Hall, am I understood?”
“But Ron –”
“Am I understood ?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry hopped off his bed and followed Snape out of the Hospital Wing.
Left to my own devices, I took the time to ponder my unexpected situation. Someone had just tried to maim —even kill— Harry and me. Unfortunately, there were a few credible suspects. It could be, like I said, a Gryffindor seeking vengeance for his team's pathetic loss. However, it seemed a little much for a simple house rivalry. It could also be Quirrell, trying to finish the job he failed earlier. What if he saw me push him and wanted to do two birds with one stone? Getting rid of me—a possible witness of his murder attempt— and of course getting rid of Harry—the initial target of his murder attempt.
“Damn…”
I messed up, didn’t I?
My thoughts were interrupted by Pomfrey bringing me lunch. I ate alone and spent the afternoon on my own, barring the frequent checking of my concussion by Madam Pomfrey. Hours passed by until the doors opened by tea time.
I paled.
Coming my way were my brothers.
I suddenly and fleetingly had a doubt. I rapidly shook it off. No way.
“Ronald, I am most pleased to see you,” Percy said solemnly. “Professor McGonagall just told us what took place. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
I refused to look in their direction. It was still too fresh for me.
“We brought you a little something from the kitchens,” George said while unloading his pockets of cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice.
I pinched my lips together, staring at the offerings from the corner of my eye.
“What did you put in it?”
“Nothing!” The twins exclaimed.
“Nothing at all, we swear.”
“Percy was with us. He can tell you. Right, Percy?”
“Indeed. Nothing untoward happened. I doubt they would dare.”
With that last bit, Percy looked at the twins with a severe face. They shrank onto themselves but said nothing. A deeply uncomfortable silence fell over us. Just as Fred opened his mouth, the door of the hospital wing burst open again. The looming silhouette of Snape appeared, big steps suddenly even more rushed when he saw my visitors. His face took a thunderous quality.
“You have no business here! Get out!”
One of the twins tried to say something, but Percy grabbed them and pulled them outside. Snape immediately pounced on the food and drinks. He opened a bottle to sniff it, then banished it with the food.
“Do not, under any circumstances, accept any products, edible or not, from them. Is that clear?”
“I wasn’t going to, sir. I’ve known them since birth. I learned this lesson long ago.”
That seemed to calm him down a little. He studied me from top to bottom for a brief moment. I felt my heart lurch. He left me a minute to speak to Pomfrey before coming back and telling me to stay out of trouble. As he went to leave the room, I couldn’t help but hold him up. I needed to know if my suspicions were true. And I needed him to know if I was in danger, so that he could take the necessary measures.
“Sir, I have something… to tell you.”
He turned back abruptly.
“About today…”
“Do you know who pushed you and Mr Potter?”
“Maybe…”
“And you did not tell me sooner because…?”
“I was a little woozy. And there were a lot of people.”
That piqued his curiosity. He came closer to my bed, until I had to crack my neck to look him in the face.
“So. I did something reckless today. Sorry.”
He tsked at me but didn’t interrupt me. I decided that it was better not to beat around the bush.
“I saw Quirrell jinx Harry’s broom, so I pushed him to break his line of sight. I think he knows it was me, and he tried to finish the job. With the stairs.”
I finished in a rushed whisper, as Snape’s face was now expressionless. With any chance, that was better than anger. Here he was, again, watching me closely, like I was some strange creature he was debating whether or not to drop into his cauldron.
“Have you told anyone of your… suspicions?” He finally asked.
“Erm… About the broom or the stairs?”
Ah. Snape was getting angry again.
“I take it there is a difference between the two.”
“I told Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid about the broom. But nobody about the stairs.”
He took a deep breath through his nose. Then he seemed to have some inner realisation and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
“Do not tell anything more to anyone, Weasley. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Next time you suspect a teacher of harming a student, do not act on your own. Come to me.”
“Erm… Yeah. But you were already doing the counter-jinx, and I couldn’t interrupt you or else…”
There we go again with the staring.
“Yes, sir,” I replied to his order finally. “Next time, I’ll come to you directly. I swear, I’m not planning on doing stupid Gryffindor things again, sir. There just wasn’t any time to plan something smart. Harry was about to fall to his death.”
Obviously, he believed me, for he only threatened to give me detention for the rest of the year if I pulled such a stunt again. For good measure, he added that I was on thin ice and that he would keep a close eye on me.
“Thank you, sir. That’s reassuring.”
He found no mockery in my tone — for there was none — and let the comment slide without answering it. After one last menacing look, he left me alone.
Chapter 6: BOOK ONE - THE MIRROR OF ERISED
Notes:
TW: Mild depressive thoughts, mentions of death
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MIRROR OF ERISED
“Dear Ronnie,
If you genuinely feel this way, I wish you a fantastic Christmas with Harry. His sweater is almost done and will arrive on time for Boxing Day. I will pass your letter on to Charlie when we visit Romania. Ginny says hi, by the way.
I think the holiday away will do her some good. She misses you a bunch. It’s hard not having you home, but I know you’re in good hands with Harry and Professor Snape. Still, if you need anything, anything at all, or if your brothers do anything that makes you uncomfortable, just send an owl, and we’ll sort it out.
Take care of yourself and never forget that you’re so loved, every single day,
Mum.”
I carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. After the stairs incident, it took weeks to convince Mum not to cancel her plans to visit Charlie for Christmas. I finally managed it, just in time, as the holiday was about to start very soon.
I had gathered enough good karma that Hermione apologised to me without me having to swallow back my pride. We had an earnest conversation, where I told her that, even if she was brilliant, it didn’t mean I was dead stupid, and that sometimes, other people could be right and she could be wrong. She accepted it, seemingly. But I doubted it was the case, as I sometimes caught her looking suspiciously at Snape.
Of course, neither she nor Harry forgot about the broom incident, nor the stairs incident, and they wanted to know the truth of the matter. Our teachers kept telling them that the inquiry was still in progress, and my friends were slowly losing patience. I tried what I could to pacify them, but they were a bunch of stubborn pigheads.
Harry was convinced that Draco was the one to push us down the stairs. He soon convinced Hermione, too, despite my attempts at contradicting their theories. It was tiring and I couldn’t wait for the holidays to start.
On our last potion lesson of the year, Draco Malfoy just gave my friends another incentive to hate him when he whispered within everyone’s earshot, “How sorry I feel for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.” I tried my best to bring some levity with a silly comeback about Uncle Lucius, but it fell flat. Harry and Hermione’s eyes were shooting daggers, and nothing could change their minds.
Finally, the last day of term was over.
Thank God.
The school emptied drastically. Hermione went home, as did all our roommates. In Slytherin, only a handful of NEWT students stayed. Therefore, we had the dormitory to ourselves, and the common room was mostly empty during the day, as our classmates spent all their free time in the library. I wasn’t looking forward to those years. It seemed awfully stressful.
On the other hand, Harry and I were having a perfect time. We ate sweets by the ton and played every game available to us. We tried learning wizard chess using the set in the common rooms, but we both soon realised that we sucked. A lot. So we switched to Exploding Snap and Muggle games. Harry was happy to be the one to teach me something, for once.
On Boxing Day, I woke up early in the morning, excited to receive my famous Weasley sweater. Each year since I was a child, Mum kept using ugly maroon, and I hoped she would decide to change that for some pretty Slytherin green. After all, I had spent some time on my letters to carefully steer her in this direction, implying, for example, that I still wasn’t sure that Dad and she were okay with my Sorting. Underhanded, I know, but it didn’t hurt anyone, so who cared?
“I’ve got some presents!” Harry exclaimed.
Such a cutie-pie. A sad one, for sure, but cute nonetheless.
We unwrapped our presents with enthusiasm. Mum matched our sweaters in emerald green and light grey. I immediately loved the sight and put it over my pyjamas. Harry did the same. Hermione got me a large box of Chocolate Frogs, and I was embarrassed that I couldn’t offer her more than the meagre box of Honeyduke’s Toothflossing Stringmints.
I gasped when I discovered a gift from Bill and tore the parcel open. Inside the box, nestled on a small turquoise pillow, rested a bracelet. It consisted of braided brown leather, one side ending in a snake's head and the other side ending in a curled tail. Once closed, it resembled a snake eating its tail. After reading Bill’s tiny note, I learned that it was a representation of an Egyptian snake god, who was ‘a symbol of protection and benevolence’. Bill also informed me that some protective runes were engraved inside the leather.
The Placebo effect was a real thing, since I felt safer as soon as I placed the bracelet on my wrist. It looked wicked. I loved it just as much as I loved the implicit message that my big brother was okay with my Sorting.
“What’s that?” Harry wondered out loud.
I looked up to see him open one last gift. The gift.
“Oh, that’s an invisibility cloak. They’re very rare and valuable. Let’s try it on!”
Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders.
That. Was. So. Wicked.
“There’s a note,” Harry said. “It says: ‘ Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A very merry Christmas to you. ’ There’s no signature… I wonder who sent it. Do you think it really belonged to my father?”
“Hum… Well, it is very expensive, so it makes more sense that the sender is simply returning something that belongs to you, rather than them spending a lot of money on you for no reason. I dunno. You okay there? What’s the matter?”
Harry bit his lip indecisively for a moment.
“I’ve never… touched… anything from my parents before. Sorry, I’m not making sense. It’s just a cloak.”
“No, Harry. It makes perfect sense. I wish we could collect other things from your parents. If… err… If you want, we could ask Hagrid and McGonagall. They both knew your parents, so maybe they could help… You know?”
“Oh… I never thought of that. Do you think they’d mind?”
“Of course not. Let’s do it one of these days, alright? Maybe your dad let other people borrow his things. Who knows.”
Harry was half cheerful, half pensive for the rest of the morning. At lunchtime, we went down to the Great Hall, where the House tables had been moved against the walls so that a single table remained in the middle.
The Headmaster and four Heads of House were present, along with Hagrid, Quirrell, and Filch. Concerning the student, there were four upper-years Hufflepuffs, seven Ravenclaws, three Seventh-year Slytherins, and… Then there were three Gryffindors, each wearing a brand new hand-made sweater. Dumbledore ushered us in, wishing us a merry Christmas.
As we approached the table, I hesitated until George interrupted my inner debate:
“Hey, we saved you a place. For Harry, too.”
Harry and I exchanged a look. Harry shrugged, letting me choose. I took a long breath, then walked over and sat face to face with Fred. Harry sat next to me.
“Merry Christmas, Ronald.”
“You too, Percy. And to you, too, guys,” I said after a pause.
“Merry Christmas, Ronniekins.”
“Nice sweater, this year. Even Harry got one, I see.”
With pleasantries out of the way, we attacked our Christmas dinner. And the good news: there weren’t any bats to shat on the food! Plenty of crackers were waiting to be pulled along the table. Once people began to pull them, the table descended into chaos, with colourful smoke and loud explosions. I pulled one with each of my brothers and a few with Harry. I got a bouncy egg, a box of glow-in-the-dark stars, a set of bedazzled hair clips, a keychain of three peas in a pod, and a tiny set of screwdrivers that made me starry-eyed.
Then, I decided to rope Snape into it. After some needling, he accepted. I got a tiny paper that I immediately read out loud:
“Why don’t wizards trust stairs? Erm… Never mind.”
What the hell. I went back to my seat.
“What is the answer?” asked a Ravenclaw, who visibly didn’t sense my discomfort.
“Because they’re always up to something,” replied another before I had to.
When it was time for dessert, Percy nearly broke his teeth, Hagrid got so much in his wine that he sort of made a pass at McGonagall, and a Hufflepuff almost toppled Flitwick over with a silly riddle. It was great. It put me in such a good mood that I agreed to spend the whole afternoon having a snowball fight with my brothers and Harry.
Life was good.
The next day, I woke up to Harry’s excited voice. He had found the Mirror of Erised —even if he didn’t know it was called that name yet. He told me all about seeing his parents in this strange Mirror and asked me to accompany him back. I agreed, of course, curious about what my true desire would look like.
Harry was distracted all day, and he barely ate. I was worried. Still, when night fell, we covered ourselves with his cloak and retraced his route slowly. We got lost and had to turn back a couple of times before Harry recognised a suit of armour.
“It’s here —just here— yes!”
We pushed the door open, dropped the cloak, and rushed to the Mirror. It was a beautiful artefact, I had to admit. And it—
“See?”
It—
I—
I stopped breathing.
Eyes shimmering with tears, I stepped closer, staring, transfixed by the image before me.
“Ron? What’s wrong?”
I saw myself, older and brimming with self-confidence, surrounded by my family and friends. There were Mum and Dad. Bill, Charlie, and Percy. Fred, George, and Ginny. Harry, Hermione, and Luna. There was Snape. Dumbledore, McGonagall and Lupin. Other people, some I had met, like Malfoy and Neville, and others I hadn’t met yet, like Sirius and Fleur. And then… Maman and Papa.
“Ron? Say something.”
Every single person present was cheerful and healthy. Full of life and joy and no sorrow, no war, no pain for anyone. Everyone loved me and accepted me. No one minded my weirdness, nor that I was a Slytherin. There was the Burrow, in the background. There was a familiar marquee without walls, supported by golden poles interwoven with white roses. There was an aisle where I stood with my future spouse, both of us wearing traditional robes.
We looked stunning. We looked happy. We looked carefree. We looked in love. The way they were looking at me, like I was the most perfect thing to happen in their life. The sheer tenderness.
“You’re scaring me now. Please, Ron, say something.”
I tried to speak, but found that I simply couldn’t. What I saw now, I knew I would never forget; it would stay with me until I died. And above all, I knew how futile it all was, how optimistic and impossible.
A utopia.
Beautiful and perfect. And unreachable. So unreachable.
Harry tackled me to the ground. I yelped in pain when we crashed hard on the stone floor.
A sudden noise in the corridor made us scramble to our feet and under the cloak just in the nick of time, as Mrs Norris came round the door. We both stood very still, holding our breath.
After a while, she turned and left.
“We need to go,” Harry whispered urgently. “She might have gone for Filch. Come on.”
“Wait, I just want to –”
“Ron, there’s no time. We need to go now. Come on!”
And Harry pulled me out of the room and down to the dungeons. We changed into our pyjamas in complete silence. Harry kept sending me looks, but he didn’t ask.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I tossed and turned. I got up to drink tap water. I got back to bed. Rinse and repeat. Early in the morning, when it was still dark, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got up for good and went into the common room to sit next to the gigantic bay window. The sound of swishing water helped me relax, and the soft movement of the seaweed put me in an almost hypnotised state.
I didn’t dare close my eyes, for the beautiful image I saw in the Mirror was haunting me. I longed to go back in that room, in front of that Mirror. How much I wanted to see it one more time. Just one more time.
Morning didn’t bring any relief to my craving. I was counting hours until nighttime, when we would be able to go back. Harry was in a similar state. We wandered all day.
That night, we found our way more easily than before. If we hadn’t needed the cloak, we would —without a shadow of a doubt— be running to our destination. We were probably making more noise than was wise, but we didn’t care. There was nothing to stop us from staying here all night.
Nothing except Dumbledore.
He spoke, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I walked slowly to the Mirror. But a white cloth shot out from nowhere and covered it. I whirled around. Dumbledore, his wand pointing in the direction of the Mirror, looked at me sadly.
“This Mirror, my dear boys, is a dangerous artefact. Many men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.”
“But isn’t there a way to know?” I asked desperately. “I need…”
“Ah, Mr Weasley. I am afraid there isn’t. This Mirror gives neither knowledge nor truth. It only reflects the deepest desire of our hearts. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, I have to warn you; the Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, and I ask you not to go looking for it again.”
“But—”
“Mr Weasley.”
“But sir,” I insisted. “How… how can I forget? What I saw… I can’t— I can’t forget it.”
Dumbledore gazed at me thoughtfully.
“I believe that, depending on what one sees, all one might need to free their mind and heart from this, is to do their utmost to achieve it in real life.”
“And what if it’s… impossible?”
“Then, the only advice I can give you is this: it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Remember that, dear boys.”
As Albus Dumbledore was a wizard over a century old, with many regrets and tragedies in his life, I decided to follow his advice to the best of my ability. Even if my deepest desire was impossible and out of reach, Harry’s could be sort of fulfilled. So I threw myself into searching for photographs and anecdotes about James and Lily Potter.
With Hagrid’s help, we found quite a bunch of names, some I knew from Before —like Lupin and Pettigrew— and some I had no recollection of. Hagrid admitted that he was already working on a photo album. He had collected a few pictures from school friends and was in the process of writing to others. As he was progressing well on his own, we wrote down the list of names he could think of and left him to his work.
Next, I took advantage of Fred and George’s shaky position to guilt-trip them into helping me. After all, they deserved to grovel for forgiveness, and I wasn’t above using this to delegate the time-intensive aspects of this project, such as searching the whole castle. They quickly showed us the Trophy room, where the list of Head Boys and Head Girls was. Among the many names, we, of course, found Lily Evans and James Potter, in addition to other well-known names, such as Dumbledore, McGonagall, and even Bill. And Tom Riddle, but I didn’t remark upon it.
That made me realise even more how prestigious this role was, and I was doubly proud of Bill. Harry shared the feeling and told me later that he had decided to honour his parents by becoming the best student he could be. He was pretty embarrassed to admit that even if they were gone, he wanted to make them proud. One day, Harry would learn that it was nothing to be embarrassed about. For now, I simply encouraged him and promised to continue to do my best to help him achieve it.
The next step was to conduct interviews with the staff. Our first choice was McGonagall. She quickly proved to be a valuable source of knowledge. She had a multitude of anecdotes and shared them freely, her eyes filled with nostalgia. Lastly, she mentioned the Marauders —not by that name, evidently— and all the mischief they got up to. I noticed that she never said Sirius Black’s name or his role as Harry’s godfather. I didn’t comment on it.
Before we left her, she looked at Harry sternly, telling him not to follow in James’ footsteps concerning practical jokes. Harry assured her that he had no intention of it and that this year had already taught him that he wasn’t a big fan of pranks. Or what some people thought passed as such.
Despite Harry’s lack of interest in James’s prankster career, I convinced him to read Filch’s detention records to see if we could find other names to connect to his dad. As neither of us wanted to risk getting in trouble, I enlisted the twins’ help to break into Filch’s office and review the files from 1971 to 1978. They accepted the mission readily.
Hagrid’s propensity to blab personal information acted up, as we found out after dinner one night. Both Flitwick and Sprout approached Harry to offer him brief wishes of good luck on his project. They both sadly admitted that they wouldn’t be much help, as they were not particularly close to those two alumni.
“Have you asked Professor Snape yet?” Sprout asked innocently. “I believe he was in the same year as both Lily and James.”
Either she genuinely didn’t know about the messy relationship between those three people, or she wanted to stir shit up. Either way, I was reluctant to follow her suggestion for many reasons. However, there was no stopping Harry, who was positively thrilled. After all, if this were true, Snape would then be the first of his parents' contemporaries rather than a professor.
Before we had the opportunity to bother our next victim, Harry received a reply from his letter to Professor Slughorn, whom we contacted after McGonagall mentioned in passing that Lily was part of the infamous Slug Club. Slughorn’s letter was huge. That man sure loved to hear his own voice —or in this case, read his own writing— and he wrote pages upon pages, only a fraction being actually about Lily. Still, he included a picture of Lily during a Slug Club soiree. Harry spent hours watching the moving photograph.
His determination to talk to Snape only increased when he recognised him in the picture.
This is the reason why we ended up at Snape’s office shortly after the New Year’s festivities. Snape took one look at us before dismissing me.
“I’m Harry’s emotional support and scribe, so that he can live the moment fully.”
I thought my bullshitting was on point, but Snape disagreed and told me to leave. Just before crossing the threshold, I couldn’t help but add, with a meaningful look at Snape:
“Oh, by the way, Harry, don’t forget to ask about Professor Quirrell.”
Snape’s gaze turned sharp and suspicious.
“What about him?”.
“Oh, err… I was wondering if he went to school with my parents, too.”
“He did not. There is absolutely no need to bother him. Now, Weasley, out!”
I left.
Being alone and without anything to do, I waited restlessly for Harry’s return and distracted myself by playing with the bouncing egg I got from the Christmas cracker. After I almost broke a chandelier, I tried to calm down, to no avail. The haunting reflection from the Mirror came back to me, filling me with a bittersweet feeling I couldn’t shake. Why keep such a cruel artefact in a castle full of children, without any security measures? It seemed to me even more dangerous than what lay in the forbidden third-floor corridor.
Harry’s return didn’t bring me any comfort, as he was silent and withdrawn, deep into his mind. I let him digest what Snape told him for a few hours, and by nighttime, he still hadn’t said anything about it.
I slumped into my bed, lying on my back and my eyes fixed on the wooden canopy. I counted my glow-in-the-dark stars a dozen times before I heard a creak from the bed above.
“Ron?” Harry whispered. “You awake?”
”Yeah. Can’t sleep.”
“Me neither… Snape said some things… About my dad.”
Harry fell silent. I waited.
“I think… I think my dad wasn’t someone I would’ve liked very much.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He… I mean… You remember what Professor McGonagall said? About my dad and his friends pulling pranks and stuff… Snape said the same. And I… I wanted to… Well, I asked him if my dad was a funny prankster, or more like… Erm… No offence. I asked if he was more like Fred and George.”
I bit my tongue. That was the reason I was reluctant to interview Snape in the first place. Sure, Harry needed and deserved to know everything he could about his dead parents, but some truths maybe should’ve waited a couple of years.
“Do you want me to tell the twins to abort the mission?”
There was no response for a few minutes.
“No. I need to know. I’d rather know the truth.”
“Alright. We do that. Did Snape say something else?”
“Yeah, he knows my aunt. That’s so weird. He doesn’t sound like he likes her at all.”
“Understandable.”
Harry chuckled briefly before turning pensive:
“I think there’s much more to the story that Snape isn’t sharing. I wonder… Hm… ”
“Better to let it rest for now, or else he’ll become mad.”
“You’re right.”
“Always.”
Chapter 7: BOOK ONE - OUT OF THE LOOP
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIX
OUT OF THE LOOP
Next term came with unpleasant news. Indeed, the twins had achieved their mission without getting caught, but only to find rather distasteful tidbits of information about James Potter. Snape had seemingly told the truth about Harry’s dad not being a jokester, like other people told Harry, but a real bully. And Harry didn’t take it very well.
So when he finally received a reply from Remus Lupin, Harry wasn’t very keen on reading what he had to say. After all, Lupin was supposed to be part of his dad’s gang, with the deceased Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black, whose name he heard for the first time from the detention records. Harry didn’t understand why no adult had mentioned that man.
I didn’t know what to do. This project was born to make Harry feel better and learn about his origins, and now… Now it was getting out of hand with the bad news.
Pandora’s box, you know.
At the beginning of the term, we brought Hermione up to speed on the general concept of our project and what we had been working on during the holidays. She urged Harry to read Lupin’s letter nonetheless, as he might still know relevant information that could paint a better picture of James. Harry was reluctant at first, but Hermione was nothing if not pig-headed.
“Dear Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well. I indeed knew your parents very well, and I want to share a little about them, as I know how much you must long to know them as well.
Your father, James, was a remarkable man. He was brave, talented, and fiercely loyal to those he cared about. In our school days, he had a mischievous streak and enjoyed playing pranks, but as he grew, he became someone who deeply valued love and responsibility. He adored your mother and was willing to do anything to protect his family.
Your mother, Lily, was one of the kindest and most compassionate people I’ve ever known. She had a unique ability to see the good in others, even when they couldn’t see it themselves. Her courage and love knew no bounds, and her ultimate sacrifice for you was the greatest act of love and bravery.
Together, they formed a powerful pair, filled with love and determination.
It is quite unfair that you’ll never get to meet them, and I deeply regret that fact. However, if this can bring any comfort, I know that they would both be incredibly proud of you, no matter what.
If you wish to correspond further, I am at your service.
With warm regards,
Remus Lupin.
PS: I enclosed a picture of your parents that I had forgotten to include in my letter to Hagrid. It’ll make a nice addition to your album.”
“You see,” Hermione said, once she had finished reading. “Mr Lupin says that your dad matured. He might have quit his pranking ways while still in school, too. Or else he would certainly not have been made Head Boy.”
Harry didn’t seem convinced.
“You’ve seen how Fred and George act toward me these days,” I added helpfully. “They made a mistake and, at first, they thought they were right and that it wasn’t serious business, but they obviously changed their minds about it. I think they genuinely regret what they did. So, there’s no reason for your dad to be incapable of doing the same.”
Hermione agreed with me wholeheartedly. As we both worked on Harry for several days, after some time, he began to accept our point of view, even if he didn’t feel it entirely yet. To further convince himself, he sent another letter to Lupin, thanking him and inquiring about how to contact Sirius Black for additional information on his parents, as well as for any possible pictures.
Understandably, there wasn’t an answer for a few weeks. I even wondered if Remus was going to ignore the letter, as it would most certainly be extremely painful for him. Perhaps he didn’t know how to explain the situation in a way that was appropriate for an eleven-year-old boy. After all, who would feel comfortable telling a child that his absent godfather was a murderer with a life sentence?
Anyway, after more than three weeks, Harry received a letter during breakfast.
“Finally!” Harry exclaimed when he recognised the handwriting. “I thought my letter got lost.”
I sucked in a breath when I saw him opening the envelope. Before I could find an excuse for him to read it later, Harry had already begun browsing the letter. His face turned ashen rapidly, his eyes fixed on the damning words.
“Harry?”
He silently held the letter out to me. It read:
“Dear Harry,
I was both touched and saddened to receive your letter. It means a great deal to me that you want to know more about your parents and their friends. Yet, I must strongly advise you against seeking out Sirius Black. There are things you don’t yet understand, terrible things, and I feel I owe you an explanation.
Indeed, the information you found is correct. Your father and I, along with Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black, were a pretty close-knit group of friends during our Hogwarts years. Sirius was once James’s closest friend. He was your father’s best man at his wedding. He was also chosen as your godfather.
However, there is something important I need to explain about Sirius Black, so that you understand my caution about your curiosity concerning him.
For many years, he was someone we all trusted. However, during the war against Voldemort, things changed for many people; friends and family members turned against each other, and we were not spared this painful ordeal. It was discovered that Sirius had been working with Voldemort in secret. He was also the one who told Voldemort where your parents were hiding, which led to their deaths.
Shortly after, Peter confronted Sirius about his betrayal. There was a fight and an explosion that took the lives of twelve Muggles, and Peter was killed as well. Sirius was arrested on the spot and sent to Azkaban, where he remains to this day and where he will spend the rest of his life.
I realise this is a lot to take in, and I understand why you would want to know more. If you ever have any questions, I will always do my best to answer them.
Take care,
Remus Lupin.”
I had to give Lupin Kudos. That was a difficult letter to write. Some parts sounded quite… unfeeling, but I guessed that poor Lupin had to rewrite it a few times before getting to something readable for Harry. It was a lot of trauma to unload on a child, in addition to reliving it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked Harry when he stayed silent and unmoving for a few minutes. “That was… a lot.”
“Not now. We’re late to DADA.”
We were not. But I let it slide for now, as well as for the rest of the day. Harry had a lot to think about and was understandably distracted all day. Hermione saw that something must have happened and didn’t even rebuff Harry when he failed to take notes. At the end of the day, she even offered hers in addition to mine.
She refrained from questioning Harry all day long, until it was time for dinner, and she couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“What’s wrong?”
When Harry didn’t answer, I did it in his stead and summarised the information given by Lupin. She was appropriately horrified to learn what happened.
After that, our project fell entirely to the wayside. Harry immersed himself in anything that wasn’t about his parents. We let him be, trying our best to distract him from it.
Pandora’s box, indeed.
By the end of February, the drama was seemingly forgotten about, as the match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw took place. We were all incredibly relieved when we noticed Dumbledore's presence in the stands. With him here, no one would dare try to hurt Harry again. Hermione was on edge anyway, and she was still on the fence about the culprit’s identity: Snape or Quirrell. Luckily, nothing untoward happened and Slytherin won narrowly, by a measly thirty-point margin.
“Ravenclaw’s team is terrifying this year,” Harry said after the match. “Captain Flint said that if I had caught the Snitch just a few minutes later, we would’ve lost.”
Harry’s reputation inside Slytherin rose exponentially following the match. Malfoy was green with jealousy and mostly ignored us. Which was a gift I appreciated for my twelfth birthday. As was the pallid and gaunt look that Quirrell was sporting nowadays, and going worse by the week. I wasn’t sure if it was the stress of having Snape pushing him around or the possession taking a physical toll on his health.
Speaking of Snape, I kept seeing him from the corner of my eye, wherever we went. I had no idea how he could manage all his jobs simultaneously. Anyhow, I felt safer with him lurking around, so I didn’t mention it to my friends in case it reignited Hermione’s suspicions.
On the day of April Fools', my brothers, ever the pranksters, decided to mark their fourteenth birthday with a global prank. Armed with bags of enchanted sweets they’d invented, they distributed them to unsuspecting classmates during breakfast. Little did they know that these innocent-looking candies caused the eater to spontaneously burst into a cheerful birthday song dedicated to Fred and George.
While some were embarrassed at their impromptu performances, most were laughing too hard to care. Dumbledore even clapped. In the end, they didn’t get in trouble, nor did all the other students who used that special day to play practical jokes.
Two weeks later, Hagrid’s hut burned to the ground.
Luckily, both Hagrid and Fang were fine, but nothing remained of the Groundskeeper’s home. Classes were cancelled that day so that the staff could both fight the fire and rebuild the hut from scratch. The official explanation was that of a banal accident while making tea. The unofficial story was less certain. In any case, the rumours went wilder and wilder as days passed.
I realised that I had forgotten entirely about the Dragon Accident™.
My faulty memory made me feel guilty for a while, until I decided that this was Hagrid’s fault for thinking it was a good idea to raise a freaking dragon in a wooden hut. And illegally, too! Yet, no one from the ministry came to arrest Hagrid for possessing a Norwegian Ridgeback illegally. I hypothesised that either Dumbledore was covering for him again, and he had taken actions to get Norberta to a reserve… Or Dumbledore didn’t know, and a whole-ass dragon was gallivanting in the Forbidden Forest.
If that went on, I would soon believe that the forest had become forbidden only because of Hagrid. First Aragog, then Norbeta, then Grawp. And wasn’t there something about werewolf cubs? I wasn’t sure anymore. All I knew was that I didn’t want to place even one toe in this god-forsaken forest.
Time passed quickly. Just as it is supposed to when you were friends with a school-driven witch who creates study schedules for fun. Harry was half annoyed, half grateful for Hermione’s nagging about homework and revisions for the end-of-year exams, because Flint was driving his team through hell during training, and Harry looked a little overwhelmed juggling the two.
However, the training paid off. During their last match of the season, Slytherin won against Hufflepuff: 230 - 80. Harry had never been more popular, as the possibility of Ravenclaw stealing our first place became very slim. There was no way they would score more than three hundred points during their match against Gryffindor.
Indeed, Ravenclaw steamrolled Gryffindor in the last match of the year, but even with their 280 to 40, they still didn’t manage to surpass Slytherin in points. Just as everyone expected. Spirits were therefore high in Slytherin, since we were certain of winning the Quidditch Cup for the seventh year in a row.
Snape wasn’t strutting per se… But who was I kidding? He totally was, and that was hilarious to watch.
At some point in June, Harry and I were shooting the breeze inside the DADA classroom while we waited for Quirrel’s late arrival, when the door opened brusquely —which was already out of the ordinary— to admit Snape instead. Everyone traded surprised looks and immediately shut up, following Snape’s huge strides to the front of the room. He was visibly in a murderous mood. Nobody piped a word during the two hours of material revision for the upcoming end-of-the-year exams.
When class let out for lunch, I told Harry to go ahead without me, as I wanted to ask the Professor ‘something’. My friend looked all too happy to flee with the rest of our classmates. Once the classroom was empty, I approached the teacher's desk cautiously.
“Sir? Did something happen to Professor Quirrell?”
Snape looked at me sharply.
“It’s not your concern, is it now?”
“Apart from the murder attempt, you mean?”
“Of which the victim was Mr Potter, not you.”
“For the first one, yes, but the identity of the culprit of the second one is still up in the air?”
After a short pause, Snape’s demeanour changed, and he fully turned to me with a serious look.
“If I tell you information about this matter, I fully expect you to keep it to yourself. And by this, I mean no Potter, no Granger, and no other Weasley either. Do we have an accord?”
“Yes, sir. I'll be silent as a grave.”
He ignored that and went on:
“Quirrell admitted to both attempts. He, in fact, recognised you during the Quidditch incident.”
“Is he dead?”
Snape looked taken aback for a second.
“What prompted this train of thought?”
“Well… There was no announcement or arrest… So, I mean, I don’t know. Where is he then?”
“He has, indeed, passed. Neither you nor Mr Potter is in danger anymore. The case is closed. The rest is none of your business. Get it out of your mind.”
“Do you know why he wanted to kill Harry? Was he a Death Eater?”
“Enough. The case is closed. As is this conversation. Lunch is awaiting you.”
I opened my mouth again, only to get a scathing stare. I sighed, admitting defeat.
“Alright. Thank you for the info. And for the bodyguarding-stalking.”
As promised, I didn’t tell anyone. Even without a promise, I would still not have told anyone, as my main goal in school —aside from being a good student — was to keep Harry as far away from harm as possible for as long as possible. Especially the kind that was totally avoidable, like crashing Dumbledore’s trap for Voldemort. He obviously had the situation well in hand if Quirrell was dead.
There was a lot to consider and theorise about, but the exams arrived at the same time as sweltering hot weather. I did very well in my written papers, even in History. However, the practicals were more… nuanced. Transfiguration especially felt harder than it should be, and again, I wondered when I would have the opportunity to change my wand. Maybe I could find some odd jobs this summer, to top off my savings from my meagre allowances.
In any case, I did my very best and was expecting good grades. However, I put my foot down when Hermione started to go through our exam papers afterwards.
“No need to suffer twice, Nini.”
“Don’t call me that.”
With the last exams done, the remaining weeks were laid-back and fun for us. We mainly enjoyed the grounds and pleasant weather while the upper years slaved away on their OWLs and NEWTs. I didn’t envy them. Percy had gone mad with it. I feared what we would look like in a few years. That was going to be ugly for sure.
“I’ll miss you guys this summer,” I said while we were lazing around the lake. “You'd better write often. Oh, and gimme your phone numbers, just in case.”
“You have a phone?” Hermione asked, surprised. “I thought wizards didn’t know what they were. Neville didn’t. I had to explain it twice.”
I shrugged.
“There’s a public phone at the post office in the village. I’m sure I can work it out.”
Hermione looked uncertain about my ability. I shrugged again. Nonetheless, they both provided me with their addresses and phone numbers. Harry said he wasn’t sure he would be allowed on the phone, and to favour letters. If this were any other time, I would’ve obliged with the request, but there was a little elf who would be a hindrance to that during this summer. I had various plans and backup plans for this particular situation.
Speaking of particular situations, Hagrid had finally finished the refurbishing of his new hut, and he invited us for a small housewarming party. Which, I remarked, was aptly named. Hagrid used the occasion to give Harry a striking leather-covered book containing the fruit of his labour. It was full of moving photographs, people waving from every page. The pictures of his parents left Harry visibly emotional and happy.
I couldn’t imagine what he must feel, as one year ago, he didn’t know his parents' faces, nor their birthdays, or any other information about them. Now, they sounded like real people, with flaws, yes, but it was precious all the same. At least, that is what Harry told me.
We didn’t mention Sirius or Remus.
All too soon, we made our way to the end-of-the-year feast. The Great Hall was full of chattering students. It was decked out in the Slytherin colours, and I puffed out my chest proudly when I saw it. I might not have contributed a lot, but it still felt like a personal victory. During Dumbledore’s speech, he, of course, awarded us the house cup, and Snape accepted it with a light smirk, under the loud applause and wolf whistles.
The next morning, we received the exam results. To no one's surprise, Hermione had the best grades of the first year. I got very honourable grades, especially in potion, and Harry passed with good marks, to his apparent surprise. That was a little insulting to Hermione and me, as we had spent a considerable amount of time helping him stay afloat when training was too time-consuming.
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” He tried to defend himself against Hermione’s black look.
“You better, Harry Potter. Or else…”
Harry took the threat seriously. As he should be.
“Don’t forget to do your summer work, boys.”
“Yes, mum. Oh dear, don’t look at me like that. I was just kidding. Jeez.”
I was such a misunderstood individual. Tragic. Anyway, I conducted a strategic retreat as there were wardrobes to empty and trunks to pack.
Before I knew it, we were on the Hogwarts Express, talking like we would never see each other again. Hermione was getting out words like a machine gun until the very last second on the train.
When we passed through the gateway to the Muggle side of the platform, Ginny completely snubbed me in favour of pointing at Harry. I was going to work on that this summer. No need to make Harry cringe a whole year with his little fangirl. That would only help her in the long run if she genuinely wanted to date him. In the very distant future. They were both literal babies.
Harry, the polite little man, thanked Mum for the sweater and homemade fudge. I would ask her later to include Hermione next year.
“Ready, are you?” asked a big man with a walrus moustache.
Woah. That was Vernon Dursley? He definitely did not look like a man I would mess with. In the background, I saw Petunia and Dudley, both looking ill at ease and ready to bolt.
“You must be Harry’s family!” Mum chirped, ready to welcome them into the fold.
“In a manner of speaking,” Uncle-asshat replied shortly, “Hurry up, boy, we haven’t got all day.”
He walked away with his wife and son. What a rude douchebag.
“Damn, Harry. Good luck. I’ll get you out of jail as quickly as I can.”
We hugged briefly.
“Hope you have – er – a good holiday,” wished Hermione before hugging Harry too.
With a mischievous grin, Harry assured us he would, as his relatives didn’t know he wasn’t allowed to use magic at home. With this, Harry disappeared in the crowds. One second later, Mr and Mrs Granger found us. Contrary to the Dursleys, they were perfectly polite to Mum, so I liked them much more immediately. They left when our group grew with the arrival of the twins and Percy.
“We’ll have to save Harry, right, Mum?”
“Ronnie, Harry must surely want to enjoy some time at home with his family. He’ll, of course, be welcome later in summer.”
Before I could contradict her, we reached the Ford Anglia, where we jammed our trunks with some difficulty.
Time to go home.
Chapter 8: BOOK TWO - RESCUING HARRY
Notes:
TW: Implied child neglect/abuse, mild language
Chapter Text
BOOK TWO: RON WEASLEY AND THE POSSESSED SISTER
CHAPTER SEVEN
RESCUING HARRY
Being back at the Burrow was a breath of fresh air.
I spent my first evening back cuddling either Mum or Dad. It felt so good to be surrounded by a horde of Weasleys. Ginny was bursting with curiosity about Hogwarts; she was extremely excited to leave home the following September, finally. We told her small stories about everyday life at school, under the joyful stare of Mum and Dad. They both told me in private that they were happy to see my relationship with the twins returning to normal. On the most part, it was, even if there was some awkwardness sometimes, especially when my brothers mentioned something to do with Gryffindor in particular.
All in all, life was returning to normal. Not entirely, as that was impossible, but the time passed together at the Burrow helped a lot. Be it the chores or the Quidditch games, it tied us back in the past, when nothing bad had happened yet. I enjoyed it immensely and hoped it would last.
When I felt more secure about my mending relationship, I allowed myself to spend more time with Luna when I wasn’t busy preparing my stuff for next term. After some needling, I managed to convince Mum to bring me for our yearly thrift-shopping trip in Diagon Alley. Usually, she didn’t bring any of us along, as she said we slowed her down; however, she knew my liking for upcycling, so she didn’t mind my help.
Diagon Alley was such a fantastic place. Every sight was magical and whimsical, with the flashing advertisements, flying products, and wizard fashion. We had a fun time collecting good deals in various second-hand shops. Mum was a genius haggler, and I hoped to become one too. We found a sturdy trunk for Ginny, that only needed a minor repairing before being pretty damn cool, and hunted down appropriate robes her size that only required a little darkening around the edge to look good.
We passed by Ollivander. I said nothing. Our finances wouldn’t survive both Ginny and I getting a new wand. Not when we were going to have Gilderoy Lockhart as a teacher. I feared Mum and Dad’s reaction when we would receive our textbook list with all of the fraud’s collection. This was gonna hurt. But at least, Mum wouldn’t have to feed more than two people for most of the year.
Putting those sobering thoughts aside, I helped Mum with the sewing once we were back home. She even allowed me to practice my Mending-Charm under her watchful supervision. Once she trusted me enough not to abuse my privileges, she let me go wild with practising on all my clothes, hemming away with everything I could.
I loved magic so much!
This led me to my main project of the summer: to bring Harry back to the magical world as quickly as possible. For that, I first needed to convince Mum that Harry’s familial situation wasn’t that of a healthy and happy family, because for now, she was convinced that everything was normal with the Dursleys.
First step: get in touch with my elusive friend.
Dobby could intercept letters, sure, but phone calls? I very much doubted it. Thus, I went to Ottery St Catchpole’s Post office and asked the clerk to use their phone booth. The rotary dial telephone awed me a little. It was the first I’d ever used.
“Petunia Dursley speaking.”
“Hullo, sorry to bother you. I wish to speak to Harry Potter, please.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Ronald Weasley, I’m Harry’s friend.”
“What kind of person calls for that boy,” Mrs Dursley mumbled before saying louder: “ I’m sorry, but Harry’s… busy. ”
“Oh. When will he be free?”
There was a short silence.
“One moment.”
I heard the handset being set down, then faint footsteps. From far away, Mrs Dursley shouted something. There was a longer silence. Then, someone retook the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mate! Happy to hear your voice. How’s it going in Azkaban?”
“Ron! You have – Wait, Azkaban? I live in Surrey. Did you read it wrong?”
I chuckled.
“No, no, dear Merlin. Azkaban is the wizard prison.”
“Ah, err… That sounds pretty close, actually.”
Harry’s voice had gotten quieter. I frowned.
“Alright. I just wanted to check in – it’s been a while. Did you receive my letters? Hermione said she didn’t get a reply from you either.”
“You wrote to me? ” Harry exclaimed, confused. “I didn’t receive anything.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Is everything going alright on your end?”
“Oh, um, yes, everything’s fine. Just busy, you know? ”
That wouldn’t do. If Harry felt the need to lie, that didn’t sound good.
“Busy, huh? You finished your homework?”
“Ah… um… No, not yet.”
“Are you able to?”
“... No, err… I mean… ”
“OK. Listen, I want you to know I’m here for you. I’ll get you to the Burrow, alright? Please, answer me honestly so that I can get you out faster. OK? You can just answer with yes or no if your aunt is listening in,” I said, then waited for his answer.
“ ... OK. ”
“So they forbid you from doing your homework?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have access to your stuff?”
“Depends on what you mean.”
“Your magical stuff.”
“No.”
“OK. Is Hedwig locked up?”
“Yeah. ”
“So the only way to contact you is by phone. Or coming in person.”
“Don’t! Err… I mean, that’s… Um… Not… the best idea .”
“Would they punish you if I came by?”
“... Possibly. ”
“Will they punish you for the phone call?”
“I don’t know. If it’s too long, maybe. ”
“Let’s keep it short, then. I’ll be quick. Are you in danger?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Are they feeding you?”
Harry didn’t answer for a long minute.
“Just tell me so I can raise hell. I have a plan.”
“OK.”
That said a lot about Harry’s current state of mind. Usually, he would have replied something witty, like, “I fear the worst.” I didn’t like hearing him so subdued.
“Hey, Harry. Remember what I told you? There’s no need to be embarrassed around me, because I’m the biggest embarrassment to exist, OK?”
“You’re not.”
“Anyway, tell me now, do they feed you?”
“So-so. ”
“Three full meals a day?”
Harry let out a huge sigh.
“No. Is it enough? I really don’t want to… You know… ”
“Alright, little man. Let's wrap it up. I’m running out of coins anyway. Hang in there for me, I’ll ask my parents. You OK with me sharing what you told me with them?”
He hesitated, then whispered:
“OK. ”
“OK,” I repeated. “Whether it works or not, I’ll call you again in the next couple of days to keep you up to date. I’ll get you out before your birthday, mate.”
“I hope it’ll work out. I have to hang up. Thanks for the call. ”
“Take care!”
Harry hung up. I left the Post office in an awful mood. I hated how small Harry’s voice sounded, or how subdued he was. The Dursley were truly shitty people and I hoped Karma would come for them. Hard.
Second step: Sitting down Mum and Dad.
They could ignore throwaway comments, but they sure couldn’t overlook an honest, serious discussion filled with cold, hard facts. If they did ignore it, then they weren’t the people I thought they were.
I spent the rest of the day furiously scrubbing the hardwood floor to evacuate my anger and anxiety. My siblings stayed clear of me cautiously while Mum looked at me nonplussed but happy with my diligence. Evening came soon, and Dad came back from the Ministry. I acted like usual during dinner, then asked Mum and Dad if I could speak to them for a moment about something important. They looked concerned and followed me obediently to my bedroom.
Once Mum and Dad were sitting on my bed, I sat down stiffly on my creaking desk chair. They were beginning to look worried.
“Ronnie, dear, you look like you’ve got something heavy on your mind today. Did your brothers do something?”
I took a deep breath. I needed to say everything at once, so that they couldn’t interrupt or dismiss my concerns.
“No, not at all. It’s got nothing to do with them or me. It’s about Harry. You know, I’ve mentioned a few things in my letters, but not all of them. So you know his relatives are Muggles, right? You met them at the Platform. Well, the thing is, they hate magic, and they hate Harry. It’s been this way since the day they had to take him in. Until last summer, they made him sleep in a cupboard, and I’m not talking about a big cupboard like the one we got for our brooms, right? And they barely feed him. And that’s not me exaggerating because I’m always hungry. I swear, they literally don’t feed him three times a day. I asked him, OK? There is also how they make him do all the chores around the house. Not like we do here, I mean, he does everything. And those are the big things, but there’s also how they locked up his owl so that he can’t reach out to anyone. And you know, they hate magic, right? So they locked up his wand and school stuff so that he can’t do his summer homework. They hate him. They call him names and humiliate him and yell at him, and they tell everyone in his neighbourhood that he’s a delinquent, so that no one wants to be his friend or to help him. He really needs help, and I can’t do anything without you.”
I stopped, out of breath, and waited.
Dad exchanged a look with Mum.
“Son, that’s a serious thing to say. Are you sure?”
“I just told you everything I know, and I’m sure Harry hasn’t told me everything. He becomes so nervous and ashamed when we talk about them. I swear to you, he really needs our help. He doesn’t belong there. Please. ”
Mum was wringing her hands together, visibly upset and thinking about the revelations. At least, they seemed willing to believe me, and that was a step in the right direction.
“Oh, that poor boy. What can we do?”
“First,” I said. “We could bring him here. Even if it's only for part of the summer, I’m sure it would already make a huge difference for him. He could eat every day and be treated well. And he would just be a regular kid.”
“Hum… You are right,” Dad said thoughtfully. “No child should feel unwelcome in their own home. Dumbledore wouldn't have placed him there if he knew what Harry’s living situation was like. He said he put Harry there for his protection against You-Know-Who’s followers after that night… But it seems that the Muggles are more harmful to him… ”
“I’ll owl Dumbledore myself,” Mum added, frowning hard. “I’ll tell him exactly what you’ve told us. If it’s even half as bad as you say, we need to find a way to help. And those Muggles, I’ll give them a piece of my mind!”
That, I would love to witness.
“Are we getting him soon?” I asked hopefully.
“It’s not as easy as that, son. We need permission first.”
“Ask the Dursleys and they’ll only be too happy to give us Harry.”
“Be as it may. We’ll wait for Dumbledore’s reply.”
I didn’t like the sound of Dad’s answer.
“What if he takes too long to reply?”
“Then we’ll see if the situation arises,” Dad said, getting up. “You’re a good friend, Ron. Harry’s lucky to have you.”
He patted me on the shoulder. I tried to smile, but failed. Anyway, it was best not to push. The decision was made.
“Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mum. You’re great, you know? I love you.”
“We love you too, sweetheart,” Mum said before taking me in her arms to hug me. “Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
I hoped it was true, because I had backup plans that would make them very angry.
Step three: prepare for Harry’s arrival.
The following day, I watched Errol’s departure with Mum’s letter to Dumbledore in his beak. That old bird had better not lose the letter on the way like he tended to do, or else I would cook him without any guilty conscience.
Once the breakfast was over, I deep-cleaned Bill’s bedroom. Dust, spider-webs and their inhabitants, fallen leaves from house plants, all went away in a flurry of activity.
Once I was done, the windows were shinier than they had been since their creation, the floor was scrubbed like new, the carpets were freshly beaten, and the sheets had been changed. I even fluffed the pillows, just to be thorough.
“Hey, can you do ours now?”
The twins’ curious heads were watching from the door.
“In your dreams, nitwits.”
“Is the Queen staying with us this summer, dear Ronniekins?”
“It sure looks like it, isn’t it?”
“Harry’s gonna stay with us,” I replied. “That’s it.”
I shrugged. There was nothing wrong with a bit of cleaning, especially for a first-time house guest. I wanted Harry to be comfortable and happy with the Burrow.
“Guys, you’ll be nice to him, right?”
Fred and George exchanged a look before turning to me with more serious faces.
“Of course, Ronnie.”
“We’ll be on our best behaviour.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die!”
“Thanks, guys. It means a lot to me.”
They left rapidly, as I knew they would. Apparently, the best way to make them take something seriously was to be emotional. All the embarrassment in the world was worth it if it meant my brothers wouldn’t prank or bully Harry. His stay would be as perfect as I could make it. For that reason, I gave my bedroom the same treatment as Bill’s, as well as Scabbers’ cage. Even years later I still couldn’t believe that a grown-ass man would let children clean up his poops like Pettigrew did. What a miserable rat.
That night at dinner, Mum commented on how well I did that day and ordered my siblings to do the same. They all groaned and huffed. Oopsies.
“Muuuum, I’m sure Harry won’t mind if there’s a little dust in our room!”
“Harry?” Ginny exclaimed. “Harry Potter is coming here?”
At least, Ginny wasn’t mad at me anymore. She tried to begin cleaning up her room after dinner, but Mum sent her to bed, clearly amused by her daughter’s crush. We had a good time this evening before the fireplace, as Mum taught me how to dye clothes successfully. That was gonna be extra helpful for my fourth year, if things happened like Before. In the meantime, I used it on all my maroon sweaters, dyeing them in nice blues and greens.
The next morning came without a letter from Dumbledore. I kept busy in the kitchen all morning to be close at hand for Errol’s return. After lunch, Mum agreed to let me go back to the village. So I went to Ottery St Catchpole’s Post office again. The clerk was busy with an irate elderly lady, whom I recognised as one of the twins’ past victims. So I tiptoed to the phone discreetly.
“ Vernon Dursley speaking. ”
Crap. Time to take my best commercial voice:
“Hi, good morning, sir. I’m a friend of Harry. May I–”
“ Who is this, and why are you calling MY house for him? ”
“My name is Ron Weasley. I’m Harry’s friend. I–”
“ Harry Potter does NOT get phone calls here! You’ve got the wrong number! ”
What an idiot. How did that make any sense in his big head?
“Please–”
He hung up. What a fricking douchebag. I put the phone back and stared at it for a moment. Would it be a bad idea to call back directly? Or was it best to wait for another day? My goal wasn’t to get Harry in trouble, far from it. In that case, I decided not to call back. Maybe it was better to wait for the weekend to be over, so that Petunia would be the one answering.
To be sure to put Harry’s situation’s urgency at the forefront of Mum’s mind, I immediately told her what happened. I had to explain some stuff about phones so that she understood the basics.
“Maybe they were busy.”
I stared at Mum, unbelieving. She wasn’t trying to sweep that under the rug, right? Then there was an explosion followed by hollering, so she went that way with a rag firmly in her fist. The topic didn’t come up again, as Mum was busy ordering the twins around to clean up their mess.
As usual when anxious and jittery, I attacked some more cleaning to decompress. I was elbows deep in wax when Dad came back early from work.
“Hullo, Daddy-oh. Any news from Dumbledore?”
“Uh. Oh, no. Nothing. What are you doing?”
“Waxing the furniture and railings.”
“Bad news, huh?”
“Harry’s uncle doesn’t want me to talk to Harry. Is it OK if I send Mr Dursley a letter to ask permission to bring Harry here?”
“Oh, of course. Errol will surely be back soon.”
“No, I meant sending a letter the Muggle way.”
Suddenly, Dad looked way more awake than five seconds prior. The conversation devolved into a discussion about the Muggle posting system. Dad was fascinated to learn about stamps and philately, as well as postcodes and envelope formats. This sweet man was such a cutie-pie that I couldn’t resist hugging him. He took it in stride, not interrupting his questioning, and even proposed doing it with me the following day, as it was his day off work.
On Sunday, we did just that. I showed him the material I had bought the previous day at the Post office and explained where to write every piece of information. I let him lick the stamp, which he did with a slightly suspicious expression, as he was used to the twins. When we were done, we went to Dad’s garage.
In my letters home, I lied about learning a lot about Muggles and their machines, so that I could explain away some knowledge I shouldn't have had, but had from Before. In this instance, I was able to explain a few concepts about the objects he had collected at work, including an electric toothbrush, a ping pong racket, and a Game & Watch from Nintendo.
“You need batteries to make it work. Full ones, not the ones in your collection.”
Dad was slightly disappointed about that, but the information was sufficient to make him quite joyful.
I loved that man so much.
Dumbledore gave us the green light, saying that Harry only needed to spend two weeks at his relative’s house to keep the protective spells alive. The Headmaster’s approval apparently counted a lot for my parents, as they immediately decided that whether or not the Dursleys responded positively to our letter, we would still get Harry by the end of the week.
I was becoming a regular at the Post office. The clerk recognised me and gave me candy for being “such a polite young man”. I happily popped it in my mouth as I dialled the Dursleys’ household. It rang in the void before going to voicemail. I hung up and tried again.
“... Hello? ”
My face lit up in joy.
“Hey, mate. How’s it doing?”
“ I’m fine. But I can’t stay long. My aunt will be back soon. ”
“OK, let’s cut to the most important part then: Dumbledore said we could take you for the rest of the summer. I sent a letter to your relative to ask for permission, but I don’t know how long it’ll take the Muggle way. Anyway, don’t worry about it. We’re coming for you whether they like it or not. At five o’clock on Saturday.”
“ Woah, really? That’s… That’s amazing. I’ll be ready for— I need to hang up. See you! ”
He hung up hurriedly.
“See you too,” I said to thin air before hanging up.
I looked forward to seeing my friend again and to having him safe and fed properly. My little duckling will be home soon, hallelujah.
For the next few days, there wasn’t anything else to do but wait. I was anxious about it because there would most certainly be a clash of personality between my parents and the Dursleys. Fortunately, Mum said she would behave and that Dad was driving us. I was grateful for it, as Dad was a calming presence on Mum, who was gonna be in a foul mood if Harry’s uncle acted rudely again. Although there was a possibility she was going to be angry anyway, now that she knew how Harry was treated.
On Saturday at half past twelve, Dad took the wheel of the Ford Anglia, Mum went shotgun, and I climbed into the back seat. Ginny was pouting at the front door, disappointed that she couldn’t come with us to collect Harry. Since Mum didn’t know about the car being enchanted to fly, Dad took the long and tedious way. It took three and a half hours to go from Devon to Surrey, then twenty more minutes to Little Whinging. Finally, we arrived at Privet Drive, which was exactly as I expected it to be.
“There, Dad. You can park behind the grey car.”
That was an adventure in itself. It reminded me of Maman and made me smile tenderly. Once we were parked approximately, we all got out of the car. I briefly studied Mum and Dad’s Muggle clothes again, flattened my hair, and straightened my back before going up the alley to the front door. Something moved behind the curtains. They were waiting for us. As Dad was about to knock, I took the lead and rang the doorbell instead.
The door opened just enough for Vernon Dursley to glare out at us.
“Good afternoon, Mr Dursley!” Mum exclaimed, pushing the door open wider as if she belonged here. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Dad and I followed inside. His eyes were darting everywhere. He mumbled something about Muggle home design being fascinating. I disagreed, but kept that to myself. No need to insult them.
Vernon tried in vain to reassert control.
“Now, listen–”
“Harry, dear!” Mum cut him off when Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying Hedwig in her cage. “Are you ready?”
“Hello, Mrs Weasley. Mr Weasley. Ron,” He added with a big smile when he saw me at least. “I’m all set.”
He made a hand gesture in the direction of his trunk, which was placed at the foot of the stairs.
“Finally,” Mr Asshat muttered, stepping aside as Harry came closer. “Just take him and go.”
Dad, however, wasn’t ready to leave yet:
“Mr Dursley, is that a toaster? Brilliant device is—”
“Arthur, dear, let’s not linger,” Mum said, pulling him back by the arm. “We don’t want to inconvenience Mr and Mrs Dursley.” She turned to Vernon with a polite but firm expression. “We’ll be off, then. Thank you for letting us take Harry with us. We’ll be taking good care of him.”
Vernon opened his mouth to retort, but Mum had already turned back to Harry:
“Into the car, love. We’ll have you home in no time. Ron, would you help your father load the trunk into the car, please? Oh, and Harry, you can let Hedwig out. She can fly ahead to the Burrow.”
Harry obeyed mechanically, encouraging Hedwig to go while Dad and I each took a side of the trunk. We loaded it into the Anglia and climbed into the car after saying goodbye to the Dursleys. Private Drive rapidly disappeared in the rear mirror. Harry was smiling like he just won a litter of puppies.
“Hey, we brought some sandwiches for the road. It’ll take some time. Help yourself, I made your favourite.”
He inhaled it. Then he took a second one. I followed suit.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry. Arthur and I have been worried about you, especially after what Ron told us about your family. How are you doing, sweetie?”
“Fantastic, now that I’m with you. Thank you for having me. It means a lot to me.”
I couldn’t resist giving him a half hug.
“Any time, mate. I promised, didn’t I?”
Harry’s smile could blind someone. We chatted happily for the long ride, deciding on our fun schedule for the rest of the holidays. There was much to do: flying, Quidditch, the market, board games, and preparing for his birthday. Harry was thrilled.
The Burrows came into view.
“It’s brilliant!”
“Thank you, dear.”
They got out of the car. Dad levitated Harry’s trunk out on the ground.
“Wait! Dad, can I do it, please?”
When Dad agreed easily, Harry’s eyes boggled. I got my wand and levitated the trunk, inviting my guest to follow.
“I prepared Bill’s old room for you. It’s on the third floor. I’m on the fifth, just under the attic. Mum and Dad are on the fourth, in case of an emergency. Percy and the twins are on the second. Don’t mind the explosions. And Ginny’s on the first. Hi, Ginny.”
Staring at us from her bedroom, Ginny squeaked and closed her door. I chuckled and continued up the crooked stairs.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to do magic outside of school?”
“Ah, it's difficult for the Ministry to know when an underage wizard does magic in a magical household, because of all the magic going around, you know? That’s unfair for people living only with Muggles. We’ll ask my parents if you can practice too, once you’re done with the summer homework. They only let me do it under supervision. More or less. There we are, welcome home!”
I put the trunk at the foot of the bed.
“Oh, and lucky you, there’s a bathroom on this floor. There’s another one on the first floor. Oh, and by the way, there’s a ghoul in the attic, it bangs on the pipes sometimes. Don’t worry about it. Hmm… I think that’s it. I’ll give you a tour tomorrow. Dinner will be ready in a few. You need help unpacking? There’s plenty of space in the wardrobe.”
Harry put his stuff away with a lot of energy. He told me all about how he had a lot of fun scaring Dudley away with bogus spells. However, in retaliation, his uncle had punished him by locking Hedwig up, barring him from contacting anyone. The only saving grace he had was that the Dursleys still didn’t know Harry wasn’t allowed to use magic, and he was going to keep it that way for as long as possible.
One hour later, Mum called us to dinner. Harry was unfailingly polite, even to the twins, and he looked nonplussed by Ginny’s behaviour. He didn’t know how utterly bizarre it was for her to be this shy. Usually, she was such a funny chatterbox. Instead, it was Dad who took that role tonight, asking about Muggle stuff with great enthusiasm. It was nice, warm, and homely. Mum stuffed Harry with soup, bread, and treacle tart.
“I made it myself,” I announced proudly to Harry.
“You’re good to marry,” Fred replied.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find you a good match,” George added with a wink.
I snorted, despite a pang in my heart. I got a brief flash of the mirror of Erised, which I quickly chased away. No need to spoil a perfectly fine evening. After dessert, Harry and I spent a while chatting in my bedroom before Mum said it was time to sleep. We went downstairs to bid Dad and my brothers goodnight, before parting ways at Bill’s room.
That night, despite my efforts, I had a nightmare about the reflection in the mirror of Erised. It happened less frequently since my return home, but it still touched me hard. I woke up in the middle of the night with a tear-stained pillow. I roughly turned it over on the dry side and resolutely went back to sleep, thinking of only good, happy things.
CRASH!
I woke up suddenly and jumped out of bed to open my door. Other doors opened on the different floors.
“Fred, George!” Mum called in a quickly angering voice. “If you two–”
“It’s not us!” Fred cried.
“It came from upstairs!” George added.
“I concur,” Percy said. “It wasn’t them.”
I came down to the fourth floor, curious about the situation.
“Um… Err… In here,” a timid voice came from the third.
I followed my parents to the floor below.
“Harry, dear? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I’m sorry. I swear it wasn’t me. I’m so sorry. There was a creature. He said his name was Dobby and that he was a house elf. It was so strange. He told me I must not go back to Hogwarts or else I’ll be in mortal danger.”
“Oh, sweetie, that was just a bad dream.”
“No, it… It really happened. He said he was the one to steal my mail this summer. He also said something about his wizard family he serves…? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Yeah, house-elves have masters,” I explained. “They work as servants for rich wizards. There are some at school too. Did he say who’s his master?”
I already knew, of course.
“No… He hit himself on the head as punishment when I asked.”
Mum and Dad exchanged a look above our heads. Finally, Mum clapped her hands.
“Everyone back to bed now.”
Doors shut on every floor below us.
“Alright, dear. It’s late. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. If it comes back, don’t hesitate to wake us up.”
Harry nodded vigorously. Everyone went back to bed.
The next morning at breakfast, Harry had calmed down and told us all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Harry, and the theft of his letters. My brothers loudly agreed that it was very fishy. Mum and Dad were concerned about an intruder threatening our guest. Dobby didn’t say who was plotting in secret or who his masters were. House-elves had powerful magic; however, they couldn’t usually use it without their master’s permission.
“It could be someone’s idea of a joke,” Dad commented thoughtfully. “Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”
“Draco Malfoy. He hates me.”
“Terence Higgs,” I added. “He isn’t so happy about losing his place on the Quidditch team.”
“He would not gain anything from Harry’s defection,” Percy retorted. “He graduated. On the other hand, Malfoy will gain much more, as the Seeker position would be vacant.”
Dad muttered about the Malfoys. Mum ignored him with the force of habit:
“Arthur will keep an ear out at the Ministry. In the meantime, put it all out of your mind. The boys are right. It must be a joke from someone who doesn’t have your best interests at heart. Here, take another toast, dear.”
The issue was considered solved. Life went on at the Burrow like Harry had always been part of it. He accompanied me to the market or fed the chicken when it was my turn for the chores, he played Quidditch with my siblings, and he had long conversations with Dad after work. I introduced him to Luna, whom Harry seemed to quite like. I gave him a tour of Ottery St Catchpole, where he insisted on buying Muggle candies he had never tasted before.
We had lots of fun. On the thirty-first of July, the eleventh and the twenty-second of August, we celebrated Harry’s, Ginny’s, and Percy’s birthdays with great food and giant cakes I helped make, decorating the first with golden Snitches, the second with Quaffles, and the third with a Prefect Badge in fondant. The final visual rendering was… interesting. But they all enjoyed their cakes anyway.
Two weeks after Harry’s arrival, we received our letters from Hogwarts. Mum looked worried by the long list of new textbooks. The new teacher for Defence against the Dark Arts required seven expensive books for all five of us. Thirty-five books in all! Lockhart was such a selfish prick. Unfortunately, there was nothing we could do about it, so we decided to go on Diagon Alley with the Grangers during the last week of the holidays.
That would be my chance to begin my yearly project of avoiding Canon. My plan was simple: take the Diary from Ginny and give it to Snape or Dumbledore for “inspection”. There you go.
Easy peasy.
Right.
Despite my numerous and careful explanations about the Floo, Harry still ended up in Knockturn Alley. No luck for my little man. Hagrid found him safe and sound. No harm, no foul. We found the Grangers without any problems, then separated to do our errands. Harry, Hermione, and I strolled off along the cobbled street, chatting about our holidays while eating enormous, decadent ice-creams from Florent Fortescue.
I had to drag Harry away from “Quality Quidditch Supplies”, Hermione had to drag me away from a lovely little junk shop, and I was sure Harry would’ve had to drag both Hermione and me from Flourish and Blotts when the time came. At least, that’s what I thought before seeing the crowd of middle-aged women squeezing inside the book shop for the signing of Gilderoy Lockhart.
Hermione squealed. Mum swooned.
For frick sake. He could not be that handsome. There was no way in hell.
I finally saw him.
That’s it? All that jazz for that? I felt cheated.
“Eeep”
Ah. Harry got kidnapped. I admit, I could have helped him get away to shield him from embarrassment, but if my memory serves me well, he would be gifted an entire set of books. Every penny counts, after all. Lockhart announced his new post at Hogwarts, and I sighed. Hermione did too, but not for the same reason.
Then came the pivotal point with the Malfoys’ arrival. Dad joined us, and whoa. What an intense expression. Not as bad as with the twins last year, but still very unusual for such a mild-tempered man. I stared at Lucius Malfoy without blinking as he reached into Ginny’s cauldron to take a very battered book. I didn’t listen to any of the back-and-forth after that, as I was trying to inch toward my sister discreetly. That was a little difficult without looking around me to avoid stepping on feet.
Dad suddenly threw himself at Malfoy.
The situation descended into chaos, with one side the twins edging Dad on, and the other side Mum screaming to stop, as well as the clerk from the shop trying to assert his authority. Fortunately, Hagrid turned up and pulled Dad and Lucius apart by the scruff like some unruly kittens. I snorted despite myself.
“Here, girl, take your book. It’s the best your father can give you—”
There!
Malfoy thrust the book at Ginny, who put it back in her cauldron. He then left with Draco, and we all went outside of Flourish and Blotts. Shaking with fright, the Grangers left hurriedly. I was disappointed when saying goodbye to Hermione. At least we would see each other again next week. Mum stormed over to Dad, berating him for fighting in front of his impressionable children.
I dashed to Ginny, offering chivalrously to carry her cauldron. She let me, with a relieved thank you.
Easy peasy.
Right.
We travelled back to The Burrow using the Floo. Still in a huff, Mum forcefully took the cauldron from my arms, ordered everyone to wash up, and put us all to work in the kitchen. I tried many times to take the books back, but Mum kept giving me other chores to do, telling me she would prepare our textbooks herself. After dinner, I tried again to access the cauldron. But it was gone. I asked about it. Mum had already packed it in Ginny’s new trunk.
Crap.
In the following week, I broke into Ginny’s bedroom a few times, searching for the Diary. I searched in every nook and cranny, but to no avail.
Double crap.
During my latest search, Ginny caught me and threw me out shrieking like a Banshee. She raised hell, involving Mum and Dad. I tried telling that I was searching for a journal of mine, but Mum wouldn’t hear it and made me degnome the garden.
Triple crap.
The end of the summer holidays came too quickly to try again. My anxiety hiked up as days passed by. Harry looked at me with some concern. However, he got distracted on our last evening, as Mum prepared a sumptuous dinner and the twins filled the kitchen with rounds of fireworks. I tried to use the fireworks as a distraction to go into Ginny's room again, but Percy caught me in the corridor.
“What are you doing, Ronald? Mother ordered you away from Ginny’s propriety. I will–”
“You’ll do nothing, Percy,” I said seriously, staring him in the eyes. “Because I know what you’ve been doing in your room this summer.”
He looked aghast. His expression morphed into deep disapproval, and he left with a huff. I rejoined the festivities, dejected and trying not to let it show.
I kept questioning myself and the situation. Did Lucius Malfoy put the Diary in Ginny’s stuff? If so, did she find it? If not, would he get it inside Hogwarts differently? What was I supposed to do? I hated responsibilities. I wanted none of it. And now, the school’s safety hinged on me. I hated it with a passion. I wasn’t made for this shit. I wasn’t a hero, nor was I even a brave Samaritan. All I ever wanted was peace and quiet.
I hated this year already.
Fuck this shit.
Chapter 9: BOOK TWO - BACK TO HOGWARTS
Notes:
TW: Brief mention of death
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHT
BACK TO HOGWARTS
“What in blazes d’you think you’re doing?”
“Ah. Nothing, sir,” I replied politely with a winning smile. “My friend lost control of his trolley. Here, let me help you.”
I helped Harry back to his feet under the scrutiny of Muggle passersby. The station guard sent us one last suspicious look before being swept away by some lost people. I picked up Hedwig, who was shrieking indignantly at the rough landing. Harry began to panic about the blocked barrier to the Platform. I discreetly knocked on the brick wall.
One look at the giant clock told us the Hogwarts Express was gone. No problem. I didn’t even have to be the voice of reason, as Harry himself suggested we simply wait by the car. Therefore, we did just that. Dad never shut the doors despite my warnings, and for once, I was happy about it, as we were able to load back our trunks and sit in the car to wait far from the curious crowd.
“Is Hedwig hurt?”
Harry didn’t think so. According to him, Hedwig was just affronted, which I found funny for some reason.
“They’re here!” Harry exclaimed suddenly after waiting for ten minutes.
Mum and Dad were rushing to the car. When they saw us inside, their faces immediately changed to one of deep relief. We got out to meet them.
“Boys! Oh dear, what happened? Are you alright?”
Mum began scanning us like we were close to death.
“Harry crashed into the barrier. Was it sealed on your side, too?”
“Yes, it was,” replied Dad. “We Apparated behind the station and went around to find you gone.”
Before they could get upset about us not staying put, I explained about the Muggle crowd getting curious about an upset Hedwig. That calmed them down enough for them to debate what to do: whether to send a letter to Hogwarts or drive the long way there. Harry and I stayed outside of the discussion, especially when Dad confessed that the car could fly. Mum was furious to learn that little fact. He pleaded, explaining that he had put an enchantment to make it invisible, too.
Harry was getting excited, I could tell. Me too, to be honest. Flying in a car sounded like lots of fun. And way more comfortable than a broom.
In the end, Mum relented. I didn’t know what was said during the last part of their discussion, but seeing Mum blush told me enough to know that I definitely did not want to know.
We got in the car. Dad drove normally to the end of the city, and when the buildings gave way to the countryside, he pressed a silver button on the dashboard. Everything vanished. Then he pushed a lever, and we rose into the sky.
The Invisibility Booster failed before we even reached the clouds. Dad repaired it in a second, but it was enough to get Mum angry again. She didn’t make us turn back, fortunately.
And so we went. Mum made for a competent co-pilot, and she always kept a vigilant eye on the train, once we found it. While doing it, she fed us sandwiches and toffees, as if the whole situation were perfectly normal.
The road was long and uneventful. It even became boring. What a life to lead. Excitement came back when the engine whined in protest, but three taps of Dad’s wand and the ride was smooth again. It was growing darker and colder when Mum told us to change into our school robes. It was an adventure in and of itself, as we were still transparent, as was our stuff. That was a fun endeavour.
“I think I put my pants on backwards,” I whispered to Harry, who chortled for a long time.
Little gremlin.
Mum asked for our help finding a familiar landmark on the dark horizon. Once we found the many lights coming from Hogsmead, Dad drove downward, far below the clouds. He zigzagged a bit, “eeped” a little, then landed next to Hogsmeade Station.
“Here we are!” Dad announced cheerfully. “All in one piece.”
Dad pressed the Invisibility Boost again. I was happy to see that my pants were in the right direction. Harry, on the other hand, was soon grabbed by Mum, who cleaned the fudge off his face. I mocked him mercilessly. He fake-glared at me before rolling his eyes.
A familiar voice called for the first year in the distance.
My parents bid us goodbye with hugs and kisses, saying they would put our trunks on the train with the others. We joined the crowd of our loud classmates. As it was impossible to find anyone in the mass of people, we simply let ourselves be carried along the Platform.
“Ron!”
I turned my head. Hermione crashed into us.
“Harry! Boys, where have you been? I searched the whole train for you!”
“Eh. Long story. Let’s find a coach. We’ll tell you.”
We climbed into a coach pulled —I could only assume— by Thestrals. There, we told Hermione what happened to us with the blocked barrier. Luckily for me, she was the one who suspected foul play rather than a simple malfunction. The conversation centred on Dobby and the possibility that he might be behind our misadventure.
Soon, the carriage swayed to a halt, and we jumped out in the mud. I glared at my messy shoes.
“Ron!”
I sighed and turned my head in the direction of Percy, who was hurrying in our direction. The twins were coming too.
“Where have you been?”
“We missed the train, Dad drove us to Hogsmeade.”
“There is absolutely no way you made it in time—”
“I’ll explain later. Right now it’s freezing cold, I’m hungry, and I don’t wanna miss Ginny’s or Luna’s Sorting. Let’s go.”
I shook them off easily. Once in the Great Hall, Hermione drifted away from us to join the Gryffindor table while we went in the opposite direction. We sat with the other second-year Slytherins, greeting Nott and enquiring about his summer. Around us, students were talking eagerly, exchanging news and shouting greetings. Malfoy sneered at us and went to sit a few places over.
When Professor McGonagall entered the Great Hall, followed by a line of scared-looking first-years, the buzz of talk faded away. I sent a thumbs up in Ginny’s direction, but she snubbed me ostensibly. Luna, on the other hand, smiled brightly at me. The Sorting Hat sang his yearly tune. Poor thing must be bored out of its mind after centuries of the same stuff.
I recognised one of the first boys to be sorted. I had forgotten entirely about Colin Creevey’s existence. He was evidently sorted into Gryffindor. After many names, it was Luna’s turn. It lasted not even thirty seconds before she was sorted into Ravenclaw, and I clapped enthusiastically. When there were only a couple of students left, it was finally Ginny’s turn. She was immediately sorted into Gryffindor. No surprise there.
McGonagall took the Sorting Hat and the stool away while Dumbledore stood up.
“Welcome, one and all, to another year at Hogwarts! Before we dive into the joys of our grand feast, I would like to take a moment to share some important updates. As a few of you may be aware, last year presented medical challenges for one of our staff members. Sadly, we bid farewell to Professor Quirrell, who is no longer with us —his tenure as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor has, shall we say, come to an untimely end. I trust you all to honour his memory with a moment of quiet reflection.”
He marked a short pause. Around me, people were gasping and talking to one another. I looked in the direction of the staff table. Snape was already gazing at me. We exchanged a look before Dumbledore continued:
“Now, on a much lighter note, I am delighted to introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, none other than the illustrious Gilderoy Lockhart! Professor Lockhart is not only an accomplished wizard but also a celebrated author and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award. I am sure his expertise and charm will prove invaluable to you all this year.”
I grimaced.
“And now, without further ado, let us begin the feast. Tuck in!”
The plates and pitchers before us filled suddenly with food and drink. I helped myself to everything I could reach and began to eat.
“Quirrell is dead ?” Harry said, shocked.
“Well, he certainly looked ill by the end of the year,” I replied with a shrug.
Despite the “bad” news, the hall echoed with talk and laughter, Quirrell already forgotten. What was not forgotten was my late arrival. As soon as the feast ended, Percy found me at the door of the Great Hall and manhandled me to an alcove. Harry was frowning fiercely, and he took my arm to pull me out of Percy’s grip.
“Now, talk.”
I sighed. Then, in a whisper, I explained about Dad’s car flying and its invisibility ability. Percy didn’t seem to believe me, as there was no way Dad would take such a risk when he was himself working for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. I shrugged.
“The twins’ taste for forbidden adventures must come from somewhere.”
Percy’s scowl didn’t abate, and he left us to carry his Prefect’s role. Harry and I immediately retreated to the Slytherin common room with the rest of our house. Finding our green dormitories put me in a fantastic mood, despite Malfoy’s glares and comment about the incident at Flourish and Blotts. He apparently still hadn’t digested his father’s black eye. Malfoy apart, the evening was great, and I went to bed quite happy and excited.
The next morning at breakfast, the prefects distributed our timetables. The number of doubles we had made me cringe a little, but at the very least, we still had a nice little afternoon break on Fridays.
“Looks like we’ll spend the day with the Hufflepuff,” I remarked. “Double Charms and double Defence.”
“We’ve got only Potions with Hermione,” Harry said with a disappointed look. “And History of Magic.”
“Gone are your naps in History, then. Poor little man.”
“That was once !”
Our first day back at school was… eventful. In the morning, everything was fine, with Flitwick teaching us the Tickling Charm, which resulted in a lot of laughter and betrayed stares. Lunch happened normally, too, until Colin Creevey asked Harry for a signed picture. It went downhill from there, with Malfoy making fun of Harry, and then Lockhart putting in his two Knuts to make everything worse and even more humiliating. After that, our first Defence lesson was just a narcissistic show, and it just confirmed the fact that I hated this guy.
Fortunately, the next day we had our first potion class of the year. As there was never dilly-dallying with Snape, we got into it rapidly, and we learned how to brew a Fire-Protection potion. I had to stop Harry in extremis when he tried to take a pinch of wartcap powder with his bare hands. Snape snapped at him and gave me two points for saving a camarade from “easily prevented injury”. He clearly wanted to gain some advantage for the House Cup.
When the bell rang for lunch, Snape ordered me to stay behind. I shrugged at Harry and Hermione, who left to wait in the corridor. Once the classroom was empty, Snape turned to me and closed the door with a flourish of his wand.
“Mr Weasley. I trust that you remember our talk from last year.”
“Er… Which one? Is it about Quirrell?”
“Indeed. I hope you do not plan on bragging about knowing of his death before your classmates.”
“Of course not, sir! That sounds a little morbid. Even if he deserved it.” I added in a quiet voice.
“Be as it may, the other information you have is still very much secret. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I said nothing, and I don’t plan on addressing it either.”
Snape nodded sharply and sent me away.
In the following days, Harry didn’t get any peace: either Creevey was stalking him, or Lockhart was. Hermione and I did our best to redirect Creevey gently but firmly. Concerning Lockhart, Hermione wasn’t of any help, as she seemed under his charm. What the hell. As a previous heterosexual woman, I could very readily admit to a man’s charming features without any shame; however, I simply didn’t understand what it was about him in particular that attracted every girl and woman. He was so obviously a narcissist and selfish bastard!
Anyway, apart from Lockhart, our first week ended without any hitch. I had plans for the weekend to introduce Luna to Hermione, and I hoped that it would go well, for I recalled vaguely that they didn’t get along perfectly Before. In any case, my influence would hopefully smooth things along. I wanted Luna to have friends in Hogwarts.
My plan had to change a little, however, when the Captain of the Quidditch team made a special announcement on Friday night in the common room. I didn’t like Malfoy’s smirk, who was standing next to Flint. There was no way in hell that he would buy his way into Harry’s position. Not after Harry won us the Quidditch Cup last year.
The team gathered around their captain, and I tiptoed to the back of their group. Flint told his team about the generous gift from Lucius Malfoy: seven brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand and One. The latest model, which outstripped all the other brands.
“Here,” said Flint with a piece of parchment in his hand. “Professor Snape gave us permission to practice tomorrow so we can train our new Chaser.”
Malfoy lost his smirk.
“Chaser? I’m not a Chaser, I’m the new Seeker!”
Flint sent him an unimpressed stare.
“We’ve already got the best Seeker in school, Malfoy. So either you become our new Chaser or you replace one of our Beaters. But you definitely don’t have the right build for that. You have a problem with my and Professor Snape’s decision?”
Malfoy was blushing madly and simply shook his head without a word.
“Good. I want you on the pitch by seven o’clock. Dismissed.”
The happy scoop about Malfoy’s gift to the team went around quickly, and soon most of the students here celebrated the news. On its own, it was already a significant push to put us in first place, but adding to that the fact that Ravenclaw’s amazing Beaters and Seeker had graduated… Slytherin was sure to massacre the competition.
“The other teams are going to be green,” Harry said excitedly.
“Yeah, Slytherin green !” I added.
He rolled his eyes. Poor misunderstood me.
By October, the Slytherin Quidditch team had been spied on by their rivals several times. They were not happy at all about the brooms. The twins — finally allowed back on the team — even took me aside to interrogate me. They were livid.
They were not my only siblings to be livid, and surprisingly, they were the only ones who didn’t resent me recently. It was different for Percy, who still hadn’t digested my small bout of blackmailing during the summer. I regretted it immensely. Alas, I was too cowardly to approach him and apologise.
The situation with Ginny was similar. Whenever we passed each other in the corridors, or during dinner, or even in Study Hall, she would ignore me completely. I could have been wearing Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, and it would have had the same effect. I didn’t know what to do. Besides the whole Diary thing, I hated leaving our relationship in such a state.
At first, I left her alone to let her calm down and forget her anger. After more than a month, I decided it was time to take action. So I tried to approach her. Her face looked washed-out and drained when I found her in the courtyard, alone and visibly lonely.
“Hey, Gin. Long time no see. How’s life treating you?”
Ginny abruptly looked in my direction with owlish eyes.
“Oh, hi… Is Percy sending you?”
“Er… no. We’re not really on speaking terms right now. Is he bothering you?”
“He’s just a worrywart,” Ginny said with a slight frown. “I’m fine.”
I studied her from head to toes and back again.
“Yeah. You sure? You look… worried. And tired.”
“I’m fine!” she snapped.
“Okay, okay! Just saying. No need to bite my head off.”
She visibly regretted her outburst, as she looked away and bit her lips nervously. I wanted to make her feel better, help her with her problems, but I didn’t know how. She despised being looked after like a baby, being worried over, or anything in the same vein.
“Sorry…” Ginny whispered, now staring at her feet. “I’m just… tired. That’s all. Everything’s fine.”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice:
“You’d tell me if it wasn’t, right?”
“Of course.”
Mmh. I didn’t believe that for one second. But she looked so uncomfortable that I hesitated before insisting:
“Well, if you’re ever feeling weird or sad or lonely or… anything… Just let me know, yeah? Or Percy. Or even George. If you’re really desperate, I’m sure you could even ask Fred.”
She snorted.
“Thanks, Ron. But I’m fine. Really.”
In this situation, I believed it was better to retreat before she would completely close up —or worse— get angry. So I pressed her hand in mine shortly, hugged her, and left. A few days later, I heard that Percy had taken her to the Hospital Wing for a Pepperup. That wasn’t gonna do shit in her circumstances, but at least she knew that she wasn’t alone. Or I hoped so anyway.
Chapter 10: BOOK TWO - THE ROGUE ELF
Chapter Text
CHAPTER NINE
THE ROGUE ELF
By the time Halloween arrived, I woke up one time to the sudden realisation that I was an idiot.
A very stupid idiot.
Why did I try to steal the Diary from Ginny’s stuff during the summer instead of simply telling our parents that I saw Malfoy put something in her cauldron?
Such a stupid idiot.
Harry had to stop me several times from braining myself with a textbook. I was furious with myself. How could I have missed such a simple solution to my problem? Now, it was too late to do it, unless I was ready to face a lot of questions from my parents.
“Ron… What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m the stupidest idiot to ever stupid on this earth. Kill me, please.”
As my face was smooched behind my hands, I couldn’t see Harry’s expression. But I heard his snort. Little gremlin.
“If another troll gets inside during the feast this year, I’ll be sure to send you on its way.”
I groaned. No troll this year, that I knew. But something else.
“I have a better chance of dying of food poisoning.”
Harry was the one to groan then.
“Not that again. Let those poor bats live their lives.”
“I do! But not above my food. Bats are great and cute. Yes. But not hygienic. Do you know how many diseases they carry? They even carry the flipping rage .”
“Who carries the rage?”
“Hi, Hermione. Ron is on about the bats.”
“Not that again. You’ve been talking about them the whole day.”
I was misunderstood.
“The ceiling must be enchanted, you know? Like the candles don’t drop wax on students,” Hermione added, following suit seamlessly. “Perhaps it is explained in Hogwarts: A History .”
“Or you could ask Professor Snape.”
“What, exactly, am I to be asked about?” a sombre voice said from behind us.
We all jumped in fright. I turned around to see Snape on the last step from the dungeons. He lifted an eyebrow, staring us down. Of course, Hermione and Harry fumbled around like always.
“About the bats,” I said, blushing horridly. “I think I saw one… drop something into the food.”
“You will be relieved to learn that Professor Flitwick charms the ceiling to avoid such an unfortunate accident. Now, go inside. The feast is about to begin, and you would not want to miss the entertainment the Headmaster has planned.”
We did as told. Hermione whispered to me an unhelpful “Told you so” and then went to her table. During the feast, I found myself throwing suspicious looks at the ceiling. It didn’t stop me from stuffing myself. When the dessert was finished, Dumbledore announced a small show of dancing skeletons: Rattle and Tap.
“The rumours were true,” Harry whispered excitedly.
The Headmaster took out his wand and made a large sweeping wave with it. At once, all the candles were extinguished, plunging the Great Hall into a state of semidarkness. Tick fog began to roll across the floor, and eerie and upbeat jazz music started playing from the corners of the room. Five skeletons wearing top hats and bearing canes suddenly appeared out of nowhere. People near the apparition points yelped in surprise.
With bones clicking and clacking, the strange troupe gave us an amazing tap dancing show, with bony feet creating a percussive symphony. It was unbelievable. They then juggled with their detached skulls without missing a beat. The show ended with an impressive backflip from the leader and dramatic poses from the others.
We were left in awe, applauding wildly.
“I love magic!” Harry exclaimed, eyes shining brightly.
The feast ended shortly after the disappearance of the troupe. With a rumbling sound, everybody left the Hall with enthusiastic chatter and sleepy steps. Harry and I waited for Hermione by the doors.
“This was some extraordinary charm work!” Hermione said when she reached us. “I didn’t know the Magic World had performing arts.”
“There are a lot of these,” I said with a huge yawn. “There are circuses too, and bands like the Weird Sisters. It’s just a little more elaborate than the Muggle equivalent. Except for the Chinese. Those Muggles are scary talented.”
“Have you –”
Someone shrieked in the distance. We exchanged a look before my friends hurried in this direction. I sighed, then ran after them. When someone yells, why go in their direction? That only brought problems, which ultimately proved to be the case, as we found a large crowd gathered around a grisly sight.
“Is that Mrs Norris?” Hermione asked in a hushed tone.
“Looks like it.”
Filch was already there, screeching and sobbing hysterically. Poor man. I would be in the same state in his stead.
Dumbledore and a few teachers arrived on the scene at the same time as we did. He left with Mrs Norris, Filch, McGonagall, Snape, and Lockhart. With them gone, Sprout and Flitwick worked together to disperse the mass of curious students. Before we were ousted, we were able to see what was written on the stretch of wall:
“ THE CHAMBER HAS BEEN OPENED.”
Even with the first Quidditch match of the year about to happen, the student body could talk of little but the strange events of Halloween night. Filch was losing his mind in grief, Ginny was disturbed, Hermione was researching in the library, and I was watching all this, completely overwhelmed. Fortunately, Harry was more focused on Quidditch practice than the new Hogwarts mystery.
Hermione’s curiosity reached a peak when she discovered she couldn’t put her hands on Hogwarts: A History for the next fortnight. So during our double lesson of History of Magic, she decided to interrogate Professor Binns. Nothing he said was news to me, but everyone else was captivated.
When the bell rang, we rushed to Study Hall, whispering between ourselves.
“So. Did he imply that Dumbledore can do Dark Magic?” I commented. “Or did I understand that wrong?”
“Oh. What do you mean?” Harry asked.
“That is not the debate,” Hermione retorted, brows furrowed. “What I wonder is if the Chamber exists. And if so, what the monster is. Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be human.”
“The castle is centuries old,” I commented with a shrug. “And there are a lot of secret passages and secret rooms, according to my brothers. So what’s one more? And about Dumbledore not being able to find it, well, Finnigan, Patil, and Thomas are right, aren’t they? It wouldn’t open easily or to just anyone.”
“Is there magic like that? That only works for some people and not others?” Hermione wondered out loud.
“Yeah. Lots of family magic and stuff in Pureblood families. Like Slytherin, to stay on track.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked again.
“He was a Parselmouth.”
“What’s that?”
Hermione jumped a little, her expression one of excitement.
“Oh! I remember reading about this! Those are the people who can talk to snakes. Salazar Slytherin was famous for it. That’s why the symbol of the Slytherin house is a serpent.”
Harry’s mouth fell open. He then blanched a little. I wondered if he would tell us about his own ability.
“Exactly,” I answered. “So, who wanna bet that the big scary ‘monster within the Chamber’ is a snake? Or that the secret room can only be accessed with Parseltongue?”
As I spoke, we turned a corner and found ourselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. We stopped and observed the scene in silence.
Hermione noticed something wrong with the spiders running away through a window.
I deflected, saying that they were perhaps afraid of us.
Harry recalled something wrong with the water on the floor.
I deflected, saying that it was a coincidence.
They decided to investigate the room from which the flooding originated.
I tried to deflect again, saying that it was a girl’s toilet.
Hermione rolled her eyes and opened the door. It was gloomy, dirty, and frankly disgusting. However, it lacked indecent graffitis to complete the style.
“This is a girl’s bathroom,” Myrtle said with a disinterested frown. “They’re not girls.”
“We’re not staying long,” I interrupted. “We just wanted to ask you if you’d seen anything strange lately.”
“Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.”
“Did you see anyone near here that night?” Harry added.
She wasn’t any help. Lucky me. After she dove into her toilet, we finally left, only to be accosted by Percy. I grimaced.
“RON! That’s a girls’ bathroom! What were you doing there?”
“Ah. Err. Hum. I spilt ink on my cloak, and this was the nearest bathroom. Hermione told me no girl actually uses this bathroom anyway.”
“Don’t you care what this looks like?”
“We’re twelve, Percy. Man, get your mind off the gutter.”
Percy blustered, face flaming red. He stuttered for a moment. I used it to carry out a strategic retreat. We arrived at Study Hall late. By some chance, Madam Pince was the one in charge tonight, and as was often the case, she was so busy with an extra-large tome that she didn’t notice our late arrival. For almost half an hour, there was no sound outside of the scratching of our quills and the turning of pages.
“Who can it be, though?” Hermione said in a quiet voice. “Who’d want all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?”
I didn’t answer. Harry, on the other hand, hummed pensively before suggesting Malfoy, as he seemed and sounded very happy about the current situation.
“No,” I said firmly. “His family is really extremely proud of their blood status. They probably have extensive family trees going way back. You’d think that if they were descendants of one of the most prestigious wizards in History, they’d tell everyone and their neighbours.”
I put a finishing point to my essay, dried it, and rolled it up. When I raised my face, they were still deep in thought. Hermione asked if another Slytherin came to our mind who was loud about their disdain for Muggleborns. She had no luck, as Harry and I were somewhat reclusive and barely spoke to anyone in other years. When it happened, Harry only talked about Quidditch.
“Most clever people don’t spout racist stuff out loud when they don’t know whether they’re amongst like-minded people,” I declared at last. “Even if we were to talk to the Heir right now, we most likely wouldn’t realise it.”
The subject was dropped.
Five minutes into the fateful match between Slytherin and Gryffindor, I remembered Dobby. The elf’s existence had entirely evaded me until it was too late and a mad bludger kept chasing Harry away. Lucian Bole —one of the Beaters— tried to whack the ball in the direction of Katie Bell or Angelina Johnson a few times, but the Bludger kept changing direction and shot straight for Harry again.
Flint asked for a timeout. I watched him talk to Madam Hooch. I had no idea what he told her, but after some time, the match resumed.
“Why won’t they stop the match?” I shouted with big gestures. “What the frick is wrong with those people?”
“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, looking at me with surprise.
“Don’t you see this Bludger is acting up? It’s not supposed to do that. Why are people always trying to kill Harry during Quidditch?!”
Just then, the Bludger smashed into Harry’s arm. He dived abruptly, heading straight for the ground. He hit the mud and rolled off his broom.
I ran to the stairs, Hermione following closely behind. While the commentator was announcing Slytherin’s victory, all the players touched ground again and crowded around Harry. I skidded next to him just as the teachers arrived—Lockhart amongst them.
“Stand back,” the great idiot said, rolling up his sleeves, ready to cast.
I sped in front of him.
I gasped.
Oh fuck.
I folded in half.
Literally.
I screamed.
Everything went black.
I woke up in the Hospital Wing. On the bed next to me, Harry was sitting surrounded by his team. He was stretching his previously broken arm in all directions under the scrutiny of Flint, who clearly wanted to make sure his star Seeker was brand new again.
Pomfrey was raging in the background, clicking phials and clanking trays. Lockhart was there, too, chatting away uneasily.
The doors bashed open loudly.
Snape swept forward, his black robes billowing menacingly. His face was a mask of barely contained fury, his dark eyes gleaming with a kind of rage that made me want to disappear. I was in so much trouble. He went to speak to Pomfrey quietly, until Lockhart interrupted to say something surely stupid, and then—
“ Enough! ” Snape’s voice cut through the room, making everybody shut up. “Lockhart, you insufferable charlatan! What do you think you are doing?”
Lockhart, blissfully unaware of the storm he’d unleashed, grinned nervously.
“Ah, nothing to worry about, dear colleague. Just a little healing spell gone awry. I’ve handled far worse! Once, in the Sahara—”
“Enough! Enough. If that student dies of internal injuries or magical destabilisation because of your idiocy, Lockhart, I assure you, you will wish you were the one vanishing.”
Lockhart paled but attempted a weak chuckle.
“Come now, Severus, let’s not be dramatic—”
“Dramatic?” he repeated, his voice soft and deadly. “If you had the faintest idea how much damage you’ve done, I wouldn’t need to intervene. But, alas, the questionable decision to employ a fraud has left me little choice. If you so much as lift your wand against a student again, I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your days trying to regrow your own limbs.”
Without waiting for a reply, Snape turned his attention to me, casting a diagnostic spell with a quick flick of his wand. Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey had finished her preparations and joined us. She firmly closed the curtains around my bed.
“Mr Weasley, you are awake,” she remarked. “Are you in any pain?”
Mouth wide open in awe and shock, I took a while to answer. Bizarrely, I didn’t feel anything.
“I administered a pain-relieving potion,” the Matron explained. “Now, I want you to drink this before anything else.”
I blinked at the phial in her hand.
“Is that Skele-Gro?”
“No. This is a Calming Draught. You’ll need it.”
“Why?”
“Drink, now,” Snape ordered.
I obeyed. I gulped audibly and felt immediately woozy.
“Now, Professor Snape and I will stabilise you before your transfer to St. Mungo’s. Your parents will be notified and meet you there.”
“What? Why St. Mungo’s? Can’t I just take a potion and be done with it?”
Snape and Pomfrey exchanged a look. I felt like panic would’ve overcome me if not for the Draught.
“Time is the key,” Snape said. “We cannot afford to lose any.”
And just like that, they went to work without any explanation. I tried to ask again, but Snape shot a spell in the direction of my face.
Everything went black.
I woke up.
Everything was agony.
I heard voices around me, but for the life of me couldn’t understand a word.
Everything went black again.
Hours and hours later, I woke up in near pitch blackness. My body felt sore from head to toe. I had the worst case of pins and needles in my legs I had ever gotten. Somehow, I must have made a sound, because a lamp on the side of my bed lit up to show the face of Mum. She had red-rimmed eyes. My stomach cramped at the sight.
“Ronnie? How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Sore. What happened? Professor Snape knocked me out.”
“Oh dear. The healer will explain everything when she gets back. Are you thirsty? Here, let me–”
She fussed over me for a while, fluffing my pillows, straightening my sheets, and covering me with additional blankets. When I was on the verge of losing patience, the door opened and Dad came in with two mugs of tea in his hands. Once he saw that I was awake, he hurried to my bedside, almost knocking his mugs on the floor. He fluttered his hand over me, visibly debating about touching me, before declaring that he was going to alert the healer.
He came back quickly, accompanied by an elegant lady in an abominable lime green uniform. She introduced herself as Kanya McCalla, my assigned healer and the person who performed my surgery. For at least half an hour, she touched me in various places, tested my reflexes, and feelings in my limbs. A quill hovered next to her, writing neatly every observation she made. When she had manhandled me enough, she sat next to me, opposite my parents, to finally give me the answers I asked for.
“Alright, so the hip bones, or pelvis, are essential for keeping your body together and working. They hold your upper body and legs together. Without them, your legs were disconnected from your spine, so you weren’t able to stand or walk. That is why you crumpled. The hip bones also protect important organs like your bladder and intestines. Without your bones, your organs shifted around, some got crushed during your fall, and stopped working properly.”
I paled drastically during her speech. And it wasn’t over.
“There are big blood vessels running through your pelvis, and as they were momentarily unsupported, some got pinched, others tore. It caused dangerous internal bleeding. Fortunately, Hogwarts’ Mediwitch acted quickly to stabilise you and avoid any damage to your sciatic nerve.”
“So… I’m fine now?”
“You are. We fixed the damage done and regrew your hip bones. You’ll need to use a cane and be careful for at least a couple of weeks. No strenuous activity. No running. No jumping. You’ll also be on a strict potion regimen. Hogwarts’ Potion master has already volunteered to provide for you. You’re in very capable hands.”
“I know. He’s the best.”
She smiled at me. After a few more words and a wish for a swift recovery, she left the room. The morning sun was now shining through the tiny window behind Mum and Dad. I felt exhausted and said so. Mum kissed my cheeks and bid me goodnight.
I fell asleep.
I got discharged by early afternoon. Mum and Dad were in a tizzy at first, as they wished to take me home to recuperate; however, there wasn’t any recuperating that needed to be done at home rather than at school. After some back and forth, they surrendered and I Flooed to the Headmaster’s office.
“Good afternoon, Mr Weasley.”
“Ah. Hello, sir. Sorry to barge in.”
“No need to fret, dear boy. I knew of your potential arrival. Would you care for a seat? I understand that you require some rest after your journey.”
I fumbled around and sat down uncomfortably in the chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk.
“I believe your siblings will be most relieved. They have been extremely worried.”
“Oh. Err. I’ll… go talk to them. Is Harry okay?”
“Yes, quite well indeed. Madam Pomfrey healed his arm in a jiffy. However, I fear he is quite distraught about your bout of heroism.”
He peered at me from above his half-moon glasses. I blushed from the roots of my hair. Then I realised something and groaned dejectedly.
“Professor Snape is furious with me, isn’t he? Am I in a lot of trouble?”
Dumbledore smiled in a definitely amused fashion.
“Well, I wouldn’t presume to know our dear Severus’ feelings on that particular matter. His ire seems to be mostly directed at… someone else. I believe he is currently brewing a veritable potion regimen for you, which is not something he would do for just anyone.”
My blush intensified. I gulped and gulped without being able to say anything. Dumbledore took pity on me and sent me on my way with a candy. I left his office and paced at the bottom of the stairs, overwhelmed by embarrassment, anxiety, and joy. Annoyed with my emotions, I lightly slapped myself on the cheeks before going on my way, clanking my cane away on the stone floor. I probably looked ridiculous, walking like a penguin with crushed glass in my arse, but there was nothing for it.
When I reached the Entrance Hall, I found an unsuspected crowd of redheads and other associates. The loud noise of my cane alerted them to a newcomer. When they saw me, I was bombarded with hugs and pats on the shoulder for a while. Once my siblings were done with me, Luna and Hermione took their place in turn, holding me tight. Harry stood awkwardly apart. Damn. Dumbledore was right.
“I’m fine. You could even say that I’m… in hip-hop shape.”
The twins laughed. Hermione, on the other hand, visibly warred with herself not to hit me. But at least, it amused Harry, who lost part of his constipated look. We moved to the Great Hall, sitting at the closest table because I was starting to tire. The interrogation lasted until I had no more details to share. My siblings left after that. Luna hugged me again for a very long time before drifting away.
An awkward silence fell over us. I sighed loudly.
“Dumbledore said that you were ‘quite distraught about my bout of heroism’.”
“It’s my fault you got hurt,” Harry whispered, refusing to look at me directly. “You could’ve lost the use of your legs because of me.”
“If that had happened, it would not be because of you, but because of my poor decision-making. And a little misfortune, because I actually didn’t mean to take the spell in your stead… I was aiming to tackle him.”
“Ron!”
Hermione was aghast. Harry snorted.
“So, anyway, what did I miss?
“A lot,” Harry said, to Hermione’s visible surprise. “I got a visit last night in bed.”
“You dog .”
This time, Hermione did slap me behind the head. I chortled.
“Ignore this idiot, Harry. Tell us what happened.”
He did. As soon as the Slytherin dormitory was silent but for some snoring, Dobby had appeared out of nowhere to bemoan Harry’s decision to come back to Hogwarts. He had confessed to sealing the barrier to Platform 9¾ and to tampering with the rogue Bludger. He also had let out information without meaning to.
“So there is a Chamber of Secrets and it’s been opened before,” Hermione gasped with incredulity.
“Did he give some sort of time frame? That would be hella convenient, mate.”
“No, he almost knocked himself out when I asked.”
“That explains why he’s crazy,” I said. “Come on, he wants to save you by killing you during a Quidditch match? That’s ridiculous. We need to tell Snape.”
“As if he would do anything,” retorted Hermione disdainfully. “You told him about your suspicion last year, and nothing was done about it. We still don’t know who tried to kill Harry twice. And you, too.”
My expression became fixed. I forced myself to relax and look less suspicious.
“Done nothing? He was there for all the following matches, and he was stalking us on a regular basis. No one tried anything harmful again, did they?”
“Hm. Yes, I guess you’re right.”
She didn’t sound happy about it. Harry watched us hesitantly a moment before deciding to trust my judgment. I volunteered, since I would’ve had to meet Snape anyway for my potion. And a possible tongue-lashing.
“I was led to believe that we had an accord about uninspired and reckless stunts.”
I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. How embarrassing. I was not gonna cry in front of Snape because he was disappointed in me!
“You said: ‘Next time you suspect a teacher of harming a student, do not act on your own. Come to me.’ I remember perfectly!”
“Then explain yourself.”
“You weren’t there. No one was stopping that… man when he was about to hurt Harry badly. People all believe the bull— Err— the lies he spreads about his abilities. I couldn’t just watch him transform Harry into a potted plant or something else!”
“What exactly makes you think that getting injured in Mr Potter’s stead was a better alternative?”
“That wasn’t the plan… I was aiming for a tackle.”
Snape’s mouth then did a strange thing. Again, he stared at me like I was the biggest inconvenient idiot.
“Sorry, sir. Thank you for saving me despite my being a dunderhead. And thank you for the potions. It means a lot to me.”
“Your sycophantic attempts will not work on me, Mr Weasley. I warned you last year, and I hold my promises. You have detention for the next month. You will report to me each Tuesday evening after dinner.”
Ouch.
“Yes, sir. Do I need to bring equipment?”
“There will be no need for it.”
As he seemed ready to dismiss me, it was time to broach the subject of a certain insane elf.
“Sir, I have something else… to tell you.”
Snape closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. He muttered something about déjà-vu before giving me his entire attention.
“About the match, I don’t know if you were told about the mad Bludger that was attacking Harry…”
“So I heard, indeed.”
“We know who did it. It’s kind of a long story.”
With a gesture of his hand, he invited me to lay it on him. So I did. I explained everything; the stolen letters during the Summer, the closing of the Platform, the Bludger attack and all the threats and hysterics during nightly visits. The part where Dobby spoke about the Chamber of Secrets grabbed Snape’s attention.
I stayed silent once my tale was told. Snape seemed deep in thought when he told me to come to him next time the elf appeared. He asked for his name again, which I gave. He hummed pensively. Five minutes later, he escorted me back to the Slytherin common room. He stopped in front of the entrance of the room, told me to keep my wits about myself, and spun around to leave in a flurry of cloak.
Such class.
Chapter 11: BOOK TWO - CATCHING UP TO CANON
Notes:
TW: Gas-lighting, mention of death, mention of grooming
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TEN
CATCHING UP TO CANON
Something wasn’t right.
Even if my memories about Canon™ were faulty on some points, I was almost sure that by mid-December, there should have been at least one other petrified victim and the start of the famous Duelling club. However, neither happened. I had no idea what had happened to make such a difference.
Of course, life liked to prove me wrong, so on the eighteenth of December, Ernie MacMillan and Hannah Abbott found the petrified body of Justin Finch-Fletchley. And the sort-of petrified body of Nearly Headless Nick. The double attack caused a wild panic. Everyone signed off on staying at Hogwarts for the holidays.
The very same evening, the Headmaster announced the creation of the Duelling Club. It started the next day, on Saturday. At eight o’clock sharp, a chattering crowd of first and second-years piled up around a golden stage in the middle of the Great Hall. We managed to sneak up to the front.
“Flitwick was a duelling champion when he was young,” Hermione said. “Maybe he’ll be the one teaching us.”
“Knowing our luck—” Harry began.
Lockhart walked onto the stage. Hermione squeaked. I sighed. Harry groaned.
Snape followed suit. Hermione groaned. I squeaked. Harry sighed.
“Snape’s gonna trounce him,” I stated with a big smile. “That’ll be glorious.”
Lockhart gave a speech, introduced his ‘assistant’, and the two professors bowed to each other before raising their wands in front of them. Lockhart, that big, oblivious idiot, said that neither of them was going to be aiming to kill.
“One can hope,” I muttered to Harry, who snorted.
Of course, Snape did trounce Lockhart, yeeting him away with an overpowered Expelliarmus. Every Slytherin cheered loudly. Many girls squealed with worry. Unfortunately, Lockhart got up in one piece. He seemed to finally understand who his opponent was, so he ended the demonstration and split the students into pairs. Harry and I partnered up, while Hermione was paired up with Neville.
It was lots of fun. For us. Some other students had resorted to hand-to-hand combat or even wrestling in the case of Bullstrode and Zabini. Seeing the disaster, Lockhart called for another demonstration. The pair next to him was Hermione and Neville, so he ‘volunteered’ them. Snape disagreed: he swapped Neville for Harry.
Harry and Hermione went on the stage, each standing on one end, being coached by a professor. Poor Hermione, blushing furiously, was given a terrible hand, as Lockhart was wiggling his wand, explaining a most certainly rubbish spell. Harry, on the opposite side, was listening attentively to Snape’s whispered instructions.
“Three – two – one – go!”
Harry disarmed Hermione easily. Whatever protective spell Lockhart had tried to teach Hermione, it hadn’t worked. The duel continued in the same vein until Hermione, frustrated, was close to tears. In the end, Harry let Hermione attack him, in order for him to demonstrate the real protective spell Snape had taught him.
The demonstration was done, and pairs were encouraged to try it themselves. When the attention shifted away from the stage, Hermione ran away out of the Great Hall. Harry and I exchanged a look before going after her. We managed to catch up to her on the second floor. She was sobbing.
“Hermione, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Do you need help to the Hospital Wing?”
She shook her head, eyes red and puffy. We watched her with concern for a bit, waiting for her to speak first. After a long silence, she finally broke it.
“I’ve never been humiliated like that. I feel like… like a complete failure.”
“But you aren’t!” Harry exclaimed. “You know more than anyone in our year!”
“Apparently not,” she mumbled in a dejected tone.
“You know what people say,” I replied gently. “‘You can only be as good as your teacher. ’ Lockhart sucks and so you couldn’t do the spell. That’s on him, not you. It means nothing about your intelligence or your talent. If you and Harry had been in each other's shoes, you can bet that you’d have had no problem at all casting.”
“But Professor Lockhart…”
“Is a fraud. You’d think that after what he did to me, people would realise that.”
Hermione’s face did something strange. She looked guilty.
“What?”
“Oh, Ron. I’m so— so sorry. When that happened, I thought… Well, I thought that Professor Lockhart’s spell malfunctioned because of… of you. I’m so sorry. I— I thought it was your fault and that if you hadn’t intervened, it would’ve healed Harry without any problem. That you were just… jealous or something of Professor Lockhart’s talent. I don’t know anymore. I feel awful about blaming you. It’s clear now that he isn’t who he claims to be.”
For a moment, I felt hurt. But then, I forced myself to remember that she was only thirteen years old and had no reason to doubt a public figure like Lockhart. So I sighed and let go of my anger. I didn’t serve any purpose.
“OK. Alright. Let’s drop it. Do you need a hug?”
She nodded shyly. I gave her a bear hug, pulling Harry along. When I let go, they both were blushing like mad. I loved them so much that I wished I could hold them in my pocket.
“Harry, mate of my life, teach us now what Snape taught you. We have plenty of time before lunch and then our visit to Hagrid. Yeah?”
Hagrid, bless his heart, couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. During our afternoon visit for tea, Hermione asked —quite innocently— if he knew anything about the last time the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. He paled and trembled, trying in vain to change the subject to safer waters. It didn’t take. Not with bloodhounds like my friends.
In an uncharacteristically soft voice, Hagrid began his tale:
“Yeh see, it were fifty years ago when the Chamber was opened fer the first time. I were jus’ a third-year then, no much older than yeh are now,” He took a big, shaking breath. “Rumours spread through the school like wildfire – a monster lurkin’ somewhere in Hogwarts, attackin’ students. Nobody knew what it was or where it hid…”
“But the attacks stopped, didn’t they?” Hermione replied, leaning forward on her seat. “They caught the culprit?”
“Arr… Not exactly.”
In a whisper, he confessed to being blamed for it.
“What! But why?”
“They reckoned it was me ‘cause I had… well, a bit of an unusual interest in magical creatures, yeh know? And… there was Aragog.”
“Aragog?” Harry repeated. “Who’s that?”
“That’s my friend Acromantula,” Hagrid explained under Hermione's shocked gasp. “A traveller gave ‘im to me when he were still a tiny thing in an egg. Kept ‘im hidden in a cupboard ‘cause folks wouldn’ understand. But when the attacks started, they thought he were the monster. O’ course, it weren’t Aragog – he wouldn’t harm a soul in the castle! But no one listened. They expelled me, snapped me wand.”
“Those people were right idiots if they genuinely thought a sweetheart like you would intentionally hurt people.”
Touched by my defence, Hagrid sniffed before patting me on the head. Ouch.
“But the attacks stopped after you left?” Hermione insisted.
Hagrid nodded gloomily.
“So the real culprit framed you,” I summarised. “And now he’s back. Or his heir.”
“Didn’ expect it’d come roarin’ back all these years later… Wha’ if someone else dies this time? Awful times, I tell yeh.”
“‘Someone else ’?” Hermione shrieked, aghast. “Someone died last time?”
Visibly regretting his blunder, Hagrid nodded.
“A Muggleborn girl. Awful times. Truly awful. Took ‘em hours ter find her body.”
Hermione was pale as a ghost. Oblivious to her upset, Harry continued his questioning:
“If it wasn’t Aragog, then… Do you know what did kill that girl? Surely they… examined her body. Maybe they found something? Some traces?”
“Nothin’. All I know is tha’ spiders fear tha’ creature above all. Aragog asked me a lot to let ‘im go when the creature was lurkin’ around. I asked ‘im many times wha’ it was, but he always refused ter tell me. I stopped askin’, because I didn’ wan’ ter upset ‘im.”
Upsetting a man-eating giant spider. Right. Hagrid had some issues.
Our visit was cut short after the subject was dropped. I smooched Fang one last time before we left for the castle. The silence between us was heavy, with Hermione thinking about her possible fate, Harry pondering the unsolved mystery, and me unsure of what to tell either of them.
Learning about Myrtle’s death had shaken Hermione more than I expected, as she left Hogwarts with the rest of the students when the term ended. The castle was nearly empty for the holidays. Like last year, my siblings were the last Gryffindors staying. All Hufflepuffs left, probably because they had the biggest number of Muggle-borns, and Ravenclaws had only a small number of OWL and NEWT students. And Penelope Clearwater. Huh.
In contrast to the other houses, Slytherin had a lot more people staying: Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle amongst them, unfortunately. Unlike last year, we therefore didn’t have the dormitory for ourselves. That was disappointing. On Boxing Day, we went to a discreet corner of the common room to open our gifts without Malfoy and his goons’ derogatory comments.
I loved to see Harry so happy about his new hand-knit jumper. The Dursleys’ gift, on the other hand, was shameful. A single toothpick and a note to tell him to find out whether he’d be staying at my place again this summer.
“Hermione is already looking into it with her parents,” I told Harry. “I think she was feeling a little left out last summer. But I’ll only allow her some time, the rest is for me.”
Harry looked a little off-kilter at being treated like the child of divorced parents with shared custody time, but he didn’t comment on it, simply saying that he was looking forward to it.
Wearing our yearly jumpers, we joined everyone for Christmas dinner, sitting with my siblings. Ginny was even more pale and withdrawn than the last time I saw her. I forcefully sat her next to me and made a point to engage her as much as possible.
Surrounded like this with my clan, it was only too easy to ignore Malfoy’s snide remarks about our new jumpers. I wondered briefly if he was jealous. Then I simply stopped thinking about the prat and instead concentrated on funnier people.
My favourite part came with the dessert and Christmas crackers. I pulled one with everyone around me, and an extra one with Ginny. I received a pretty flower bracelet that I immediately gifted to her when she kept eyeing it. She smiled, and her face looked ten times healthier.
Harry groaned when I received a Kazoo. He was right to, since I was planning on using it a lot.
Gathering all my nonexistent courage, I cautiously approached Snape. He was clearly expecting it, as he didn’t make much of a fuss. He probably understood that the less struggle meant the less time spent around me. When I read the joke I received, I was convinced that the crackers were somewhat magical.
I sighed.
“Why should you never tell hips your secrets?”
Snape looked severely unimpressed. His face was somehow deeply comical to me, or I was suicidal, because his reaction made me chortle as I read the punchline:
“Because they just can’t lie!”
I retreated quickly after, as his face took on a dark edge. Jeez. These crackers were crazy! It only got confirmed when I saw the gifts Ginny had gotten: a set of Worry Dolls, a notebook, an animated ceramic Guardian Angel, and De-Stress Smelling Salts. It was funny in a sad way. Maybe it would help. I hoped she would use the new notebook instead of Riddle’s.
Thanks, Buddha, thanks, Holy Mary, and Thanks, Merlin.
My prayers were answered a couple of weeks later. I had developed the habit of frequently checking the second-floor corridor in front of Myrtle’s bathroom. If my memories were right, which turned out to be the case, any day before Valentine’s Day, Ginny would get rid of the Diary. I hadn’t been sure of the date, only that it could be as far as mid-February. For once, I had some luck, as it happened way sooner than that. Perhaps something changed from Canon, or else I simply had a faulty memory.
Anyway, on one Saturday when Hermione was tutoring Neville in the library and Harry was at Quidditch practice, I wandered to the second-floor corridor to find over half of it flooded. Ice-cold water was still seeping from under the bathroom door. Inside, I found Myrtle wailing dramatically.
“Hullo?”
“Who’s that?” Myrtle asked in a miserable voice. “Come to throw something else at me?”
Jack - fricking - pot!
“Hm, no. I’m not gonna do that. Sounds awfully rude. Are you OK?”
Myrtle emerged from her toilet with a shy expression. She blinked at me suspiciously for a time before tilting her head to the side.
“Do you know who threw it at you?” I asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.
“Oh. Well, I have no idea… I was just lounging in the U-bend, thinking about death… And it dropped right through the top of my head! It’s over there," Myrtle said, pointing at a sink.
There, right under the sink and completely waterlogged, was sitting the famous Diary. It looked so inconspicuous; small, thin, and shabby. I picked it up, staring at it apprehensively. It certainly seemed nondescript, except for the year on the cover: 1943. On the first page, there was the fading name “T. M. Riddle” in neat calligraphy.
I pocketed it.
On the way back to the dungeons, I thought hard about the plan to follow now, and I finally decided to keep it as simple as possible to keep my lies to a bare minimum. It was always better in the long run, as I could forget part of my story and compromise myself. So in the end, I decided to write in the Diary. Only trivial things, mind you, as I didn’t want to risk being emotionally manipulated.
To be on the safe side, I drew a toilet.
To be fair, it was a very nice-looking toilet: all curves and little sparkles on the side. Finished with my art piece, I pulled my quill away from the page and waited. The ink shone brightly and then vanished. No answer came. I drew again, this time a caricature of Lockhart’s head stuck in the same toilet. The ink shone again, then was sucked into the page again.
‘Hello, Ginny. How did your day go?’
I gasped. The words faded away.
‘I’m not Ginny. Who are you?’
‘Hello, how should I address you?’
‘I asked you first,’ I scrawled in pompous looping writing.
‘My name is Tom Riddle. Will you tell me your name now?’
I pondered the question before I had an epiphany.
‘I’m Roonil Wazlib.’
‘Nice to meet you, Roonil. How did you come by my diary?’
‘Someone tried to flush it down a toilet. Probably Ginny, since you thought I was her. Who is she, by the way?’
‘Ginny Weasley is a friend. She is a first-year student at Hogwarts.’
‘How old are you? Aren’t you too old to be friends with an eleven-year-old girl?’
Riddle’s reply came slowly in a tidy and confident writing:
‘Age is irrelevant to a true friendship, especially when one can offer understanding and guidance. I am merely a confidant to Ginny, someone who listens without judgment. She is not a mere child to me; she is someone with potential, just as I once was. What matters is the bond we share, not the years that separate us.’
I winced.
‘That sounds like what a groomer would say.’
Now, Riddle’s neat script turned untidy, as though he was growing frustrated.
‘Grooming? How quaint. You mistake a desire for connection and influence for something far less meaningful. I only seek to empower those who are willing to listen. Ginny was lost and alone, and I offered her solace and a sense of purpose. It’s not manipulation – it’s the guidance of someone who understands the true nature of power and friendship.’
What a load of bullshit.
‘Apparently, she found your understanding of friendship lacking. You could even say that it didn’t make her flush with faith.’
I snorted uncontrollably. There was no response. I didn’t need anything more anyway, since I had way more information than I hoped for.
After putting the Diary in my pocket, I went to Snape’s office. I only had to knock once before being invited in. Snape was sitting at his desk grading papers. He looked up, saw me, and pinched his lips together. Without a word, he pushed his quill away and told me to sit in the chair in front of him.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I need serious help right now.”
“What is it this time, Weasley?”
I got the Diary out of my pocket. Snape’s eyes fell on it, then went back up to my face, waiting.
“I found a… diary. But it’s not a regular one,” I added hastily when Snape visibly lost patience at the word ‘diary’. “It talks back. And my Dad always says never to trust something that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.”
Snape looked more intrigued than irritated now. He asked me to explain the situation in detail. So I did. I told him how I heard Myrtle cry in the bathroom, how I went to see if she needed help, and I recounted what she told me about the “surprise attack”. Then, I said that I had decided to keep it, as it was visibly unwanted and still usable. I transcribed my conversation with the mysterious Riddle and everything he said about my little sister.
“That sounds like a worrying dynamic, indeed,” Snape admitted, after having accio'd the Diary to himself. “You are correct to assume this diary is dangerous.”
He flipped through the empty notebook, cast a few spells, and then his frown disappeared, replaced by a blank face. That didn’t bode well.
Indeed, it didn’t.
Snape pulled me to Dumbledore's office, where Professor McGonagall was soon summoned. I was asked to repeat my story in front of both the Headmaster and his Deputy. They listened to me and took the situation with all the seriousness it deserved. I felt relieved. With the Diary in Dumbledore’s hands, I knew that Ginny was finally safe and that the appropriate wizard would soon discover the existence of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.
McGonagall left by Floo to collect Ginny. In the meantime, Dumbledore and Snape talked in soft tones, congregating around the Diary on the corner of the desk. I pretended to be engrossed in the bowl of lemon drops given to me, so that I could discreetly eavesdrop on the two Professors. I heard the words “dark” and “powerful” a couple of times. After some time, their conversation seemed to end.
Dumbledore sat back in his chair and turned his calculating gaze on me.
I squirmed and dropped my eyes on his beard.
“You said you exchanged names with this Mr Riddle,” he said calmly, with no inflexion on Voldemort’s name. “Did you give him your name?”
“No, of course not, sir. I told him a fake name. There’s power in a name, right?”
He hummed pensively. Then he smiled at me.
“There is, indeed. You did very well today, Mr Weasley. More than you can imagine. I believe Slytherin is to be awarded twenty points for quick thinking and asking for help in a timely manner.”
I thanked him in a soft voice, not daring to look either him or Snape in the face, not when I risked selling the game so easily in front of two mind-readers.
Luckily, McGonagall arrived with Ginny in tow before the atmosphere could turn awkward. But she didn’t turn up only with Ginny. Mum and Dad were also there. As soon as they saw me there, they fussed over me, clearly in the dark and worried about Ginny and me. It took McGonagall a few attempts to be able to calm Mum down long enough for Dumbledore to explain the situation. He kept it short and to the point.
“Ginny, sweetheart, is that true?” Mum asked at the end of the tale, taking Ginny’s face between her hands. “Did you write in that diary?”
She initially tried to deny it. However, she wasn’t fooling anyone. Soon, she broke down in tears and admitted, in between sobs, how she had been writing in it all year.
“Ginny! ” Dad exclaimed, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I taught you anything ?”
Wow. Victim blaming. Nice one, Dad. He went on and on about not trusting such an artefact, about better having shown him or Mum, and the Diary being obviously full of Dark Magic.
“I d-didn’t know”, Ginny sobbed. “I found it inside one of the books Mum got me. I th-thought that – I just… It’s not my fault! It was Ron’s!”
What.
Everyone turned to me.
I blinked a few times, thinking and coming short of an answer to the accusation.
“What do you mean, Ginny?” Mum asked.
“It was his diary! He tried to ge– get it back during the summer. I– it’s his f–fault. I on– only kept it because… because Finders Keepers!”
What.
Whoa.
“That was another notebook,” I lied with as much aplomb as I was capable of. “I finally found it back in my trunk at school.”
That had a bigger impact on Ginny than expected. She completely lost it. She cried erratically, denying my innocence in the situation, shrieking that it was all my fault and that she hated me and that I needed to be punished because nothing would have happened if not for me.
She was right. But no one could ever know.
At Dumbledore’s request, Snape gave Ginny a Calming Draught. It worked in short order, and Ginny slumped in Mum’s arms, still crying silently, and her posture defeated.
“I realise this has been a terrible ordeal, Miss Weasley, but I’m afraid I need some more answers from you. Before that, I must ask of you,” he continued, this time addressing Mum and Dad. “That you sit, for there are details of this affair that Miss Weasley is not aware of.”
Huh.
Was he seriously going to do what I thought he was going to do?
He actually did.
He revealed Tom Riddle’s other identity. Then, while our parents were busy gasping in shock, Dumbledore turned to Ginny to ask if she ever felt strange while reading the Diary. If it ever made her do things.
Despite the Calming Draught, Ginny had to draw a great breath before answering, tears pouring down her face. She confessed about losing time and waking up with paint on her fingers after the message appeared next to Mrs Norris’ petrified body. She admitted to waking up covered in feathers and not knowing where they came from. When she had confessed everything that could be confessed, she begged not to be expelled.
“There will be no punishment. Lord Voldemort has hoodwinked older and wiser wizards. Now the Diary is safe with me, no attack will occur again, and no one needs to know about your implication. By the end of this year, Madam Pomfrey will be able to revive each and every victim of petrification. There has been no lasting harm done.”
Dad thanked Dumbledore a lot, then McGonagall offered to lead Ginny and our parents out to the Hospital Wing for a check-up. Dumbledore asked me to stay. Mum kissed my cheeks and Dad hugged me, whispering in my ear how proud he was of me. I blushed, mumbled, then blinked my eyes furiously to chase tears away.
Before long, only Dumbledore, Snape, and I remained.
“Hogwarts as a whole owes you a great debt of gratitude, even as unplanned as the rescue was. I recognise that it would be tempting to… make your pride known publicly, alas, I must ask you to keep silent about this year’s events.”
What a nice way to ask me not to boast.
“That’s not my style, sir.”
“Good, very good. Now, do you have anything more to discuss with me?”
“Actually, yeah. Yes,” I rectified under Snape’s glare. “I understand that my involvement must stay secret for Ginny’s sake, but you’re going to tell everyone that the school’s safe, right? Hermione is Muggle-born, you see, and she’s been upset about it all. And the other Muggle-borns, too.”
“Of course, the joyous news will be shared at dinner tonight.”
“Will it be enough for the Ministry? Will you have to give proof it’s over? What if they don’t believe you? They could decide to make Hagrid a scapegoat again and send him to Azkaban for good this time!”
“Easy, now, dear boy. Trust me to handle the Ministry with the discretion it requires. Hagrid is quite safe from public suspicions. If he avoids spreading more of his past involvement with the Chamber.”
Fair enough. But I doubted Hagrid had other friends in school to spill the beans to.
There wasn’t anything more to discuss, so Snape escorted me to the Hospital Wing. On the way, he snidely congratulated me for following his instructions from November, about going to him instead of acting alone. Despite his tone, I took the compliment with a shit-eating grin. He shook his head and left me in the care of Madam Pomfrey. Mum and Dad were still here, chatting quietly with Ginny.
Pomfrey took me aside to quickly check me out for any lasting damage from the Diary. I came out with a clean bill of health.
That night, Dumbledore's announcement at dinner was welcomed with loud cheering. Clapping enthusiastically along with everybody else, I chanced a look in Ginny’s direction. She was already looking at me, expression mixed and unreadable. I attempted a small smile. She didn’t return it, turning back to her classmates.
A rock dropped on my stomach, and my smile became fixed.
At least, she was safe.
That was the most essential part.
Chapter 12: BOOK TWO - GOOD NEWS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GOOD NEWS
Hogwarts’ atmosphere changed drastically. The students were happier, and the teachers calmer. Suspicious looks behind one’s shoulder were a thing of the past, and everybody enjoyed the new general mood. With life going so well, I had the time to organise a small picnic for Luna’s birthday celebration. I invited Harry and Hermione, who joined us for a fun afternoon during which Luna taught us how to make Butterbeer cap necklaces. Hermione seemed nonplussed, but Harry had a blast.
The next day, on Valentine’s Day, Lockhart had also organised… something. The Great Hall was unrecognisable. The walls were draped in oversized, garish pink flowers, and heart-shaped confetti was gently raining down from the ceiling.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked when he joined me at breakfast.
“That crap is getting in my food!”
Harry shrugged and wiped confetti off his bacon. Once the Hall was full of students, Lockhart made a speech, introducing his ‘singing cupids’. They looked hilarious, I had to admit. All day long, they would deliver Valentines in gruff tones that just killed me off. How nice to hear about love in such deadpan voices. Despite my disdain for Lockhart, even I had to admit that the day was entertaining.
Just before entering the Great Hall again for dinner, one of the dwarves delivered a ‘musical message’ to Harry. He had to literally kick Harry in the shins and trip him up so that he would stay in place and suffer through the ordeal. It was awful to witness. And more so to hear. Malfoy just made it worse by betting aloud that the message was from Ginny. I didn’t know who, between Harry and Ginny, was the most embarrassed about the whole thing.
The incident was soon forgotten about when Slytherin massacred Ravenclaw in the first match of the new year. Snape was present this time around, contrary to Dobby.
All was well. Nobody got broken in any way. Well, except for Ravenclaw’s spirit, of course.
March came around the corner. I turned thirteen.
Puberty was knocking, and I didn’t know how to feel about it. Until then, I had preferred to bury my head in the sand and ignore the changes that were coming. However, that couldn’t go on for much longer. Things were changing, parts I didn’t want to think about were developing, and soon, my voice would crack. At the very least, I was pretty happy to avoid the pains of periods and growing breasts.
Life was so strange. I probably needed some kind of therapy to come to terms with my new gender, but I feared that if I approached the subject with someone I knew, I would be put in a box from which I later couldn’t escape. Even if I still felt like a woman, things would hopefully change with some more time. After all, this is something Papa explained a couple of times Before.
When I was a little girl and he was teaching me about gender, he told me that, sometimes, when someone incarnates many times as the same gender, when they were suddenly born again in the opposite one, they would feel ill at ease, like they were in the wrong body. This was why transgender people existed. His explanation sounded solid enough to me, now that I was actually living it.
However, I wasn’t planning on being anything other than a boy, and then a man: I was more the type of person who wished to be an anonymous sheep in the middle of the flock rather than to stand out. Being in a male body was my new life, and I had better accept it.
Nonetheless, Papa had another theory that I wouldn’t escape so easily. According to him, the same explanation also went for sexuality. If someone incarnated for dozens of lives as a heterosexual woman, the day she was born again, this time as a man, there was the possibility that during her first life as the opposite gender, she would keep her previously heterosexual orientation; therefore, she would be a man attracted to men.
This explanation also made a lot of sense to me right now, as I wasn’t sure I could imagine myself with a woman. The Mirror of Erised had shown it too; without the shadow of a doubt, my heart's desire wasn’t to spend my life with a woman. Far from it. And it wasn’t either to date someone ‘my age’. That would be disgusting. I was surrounded by babies. There was no way I would ever see them as spouse material.
I was thirteen going on forty-one. I was older than all my ‘older’ brothers, older than some of my teachers, like Snape, Lockhart, or soon Lupin. I was almost the same age as my parents, for fuck sake. How would they take it the day I brought a partner to the Burrow, someone closer in age to them than to me?
Not thinking about it. It was a problem for future me to solve. After all, the best way to deal with problems is to ignore them until they eventually go away.
One could hope.
On April Fools' Day, someone — I heavily suspected Fred and George — pulled a prank that was sure to become legendary.
That morning at breakfast, everything seemed normal until a cascade of rainbow-colored bubbles erupted from the head table, drenching a lone teacher from head to toe. When Snape reappeared, his customary black and austere robes were a bright magenta, similar to Lockhart’s on Valentine’s Day.
His reaction was… Well. Let’s just say that the culprit would be in for a painful punishment once they were found. His robes were restored to their usual state with a simple flick of his wand, except for a faint pink shimmer that stubbornly clung to his cuffs for the rest of the day.
I still felt ambivalent about it. If the prank had been expanded to the rest of the staff, I would’ve found it hilarious. But with Snape being solely targeted, I wasn’t a big fan.
Harry smothered a grin when he felt my gaze on him.
“Come on, he kind of deserves it,” Harry commented in a whisper. “It’s probably someone he yelled at in class.”
I shrugged and dropped the subject. I wasn’t the only one in Slytherin to be a bit miffed about the incident.
The Easter Holidays came fast and hard. We were given flyers about the electives available for third year. The time had come to choose our subjects, and it was a headache. Percy momentarily put aside his resentment to share his experience with me. I also received letters from Dad, Bill, and Charlie, in which they each gave me plenty of advice on what to choose and why. I shared the helpful pearls of wisdom with my friends.
“Ignoring my Dad’s obsession and consequent bias about the subject, Muggle-Studies is kind of useless. Both for Muggle-borns and Wizards alike,” I said when Hermione mentioned that she was interested in taking the class. “Bill says that he learnt ten times more useful information from friends and colleagues. It’s an easy O, though, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Hermione was visibly not happy about that assumption. After a brief internal deliberation, she crossed the subject off her list.
“What do they say about the others?” Harry asked. “I have no idea what to take. Percy said to ‘play to my strengths.’ Whatever that means, since we don’t have strengths in those subjects yet.”
“Charlie’s whole letter is about Care of Magical Creatures. So he’s not the most objective guy. Bill liked the class a lot. Says it was nice to have an outdoor class. And that it was fascinating in later years, because the creatures are more exciting. Anyway, I’m definitely taking it.”
“To nobody’s surprise,” Hermione commented with an amused smile. “If your cooing is anything to go by, each time you see an animal. It sounds fascinating, I agree.”
She ticked the space next to the subject on her list. Harry did too. They were in for a surprise when they discovered the identity of our teacher next year. I was planning on helping out for Hagrid’s class to work out despite his… careless nature. There was no reason for it to be a disaster. Hagrid was passionate and knowledgeable about his subject, which made for a great teacher.
But I had to admit that he would be a better teacher for 5th to 7th year, when students fully understood the dangers of magic, that being in Care, but also in Potion or even Transfiguration. Before that, the 3rd and 4th years were still a bit too young to show proper caution: a case in point was the Canon fiasco involving Malfoy and Buckbeak.
I wasn’t going to let that happen.
“What about Arithmancy?”
“Definitely not for me,” I said immediately, crossing it off my list. “Numbers are not my thing, even if the subject sounds interesting. No doubt you would be a pro at it, Hermione. It sounds very logical and methodical.”
Hermione agreed with me wholeheartedly and ticked the subject. Harry didn’t seem to know whether to take it or not yet. We skipped it for now and went on to the topic of Ancient Runes.
“It’s basically a language course.”
“It is much more than that, Ron!” Hermione retorted. “Runes are very important in all branches of magic!”
“I didn’t mean it was a bad thing. I’m taking it,” I stated, showing the little tick I had put next to it. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”
“Oh, hum... I’m taking it too. And you, Harry?”
He ticked it too. I felt like he was simply following our lead to avoid being alone. No matter; he would be able to quit any subject he didn’t like later anyway.
“And last: Divination. That’s a must,” I declared solemnly. “I look especially forward to it. Bill says the teacher can be a little weird, but that the subject is great.”
“Percy, too, recommended it,” Harry added.
“Predicting the future sounds captivating,” Hermione acquiesced.
We all ticked it. In the end, Harry chose to follow my example and not take Arithmancy. Hermione was a little disappointed, but the fact that we took the time to run through our options seriously calmed her down. When she was out of earshot, Harry confessed to me that he was afraid to be rubbish at a subject in a class he would share only with Hermione. I understood the sentiment.
Better not to tell her, though.
In early May, everyone unofficially knew Slytherin was going to win the Quidditch Cup again this year. By the end of the month, it was confirmed. Even with Ravenclaw’s victory against Gryffindor, they just couldn’t catch up to Slytherin’s score. The team’s heavy victory against all other houses was mainly attributed to Malfoy’s donation of brooms. Draco strutted around like an annoying baby peacock. At least, his irritating behaviour made him the preferred target of the rest of the school’s ire rather than Harry.
One day at the beginning of June, Professor McGonagall announced that every petrified victim had been revived and was resting in the Hospital Wing. There was an explosion of cheering. I guessed it was more for Nearly Headless Nick and Justin Finch-Fletchley than for Mrs Norris. I was happy for her, too, anyway, and, seeing Filch carry his cat like a precious baby in the following days, I was happy for him, too.
However, there was someone unhappy about the news.
That day, Draco Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood for the first time.
“Wow, Malfoy, what a groundbreaking insult,” I spat in his direction. “I’m sure your ancestors are beaming with pride over your originality. Not sure if they’re proud that you’re constantly being outclassed by someone you claim is beneath you, though.”
Draco’s pale face turned a deep red.
“At least I don’t need to stoop to defending filthy Mudbloods to make myself feel clever!”
Fuming, he left with Crabbe and Goyle.
“What did he call me? I don’t know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course…”
Hermione looked intrigued and vaguely insulted in advance.
“It’s a slur to talk about Muggle-borns. You know, since some people believe that blood is everything, theirs is pure and yours is… filthy. It’s a disgusting word to call someone. Think of the N-word in the Muggle world. That’s the equivalent. Not the kind of words people usually use in civilised company.”
Now, Hermione looked properly insulted.
“What a dirty little—”
She cut herself off, fists closed at her sides. I took her by her elbow, pulling her in the direction of the stairs.
“Let’s forget about it. We have a study session to go to, right? I want to look up the recipe for the Swelling Solution. I’m sure it’ll be on the exam.”
The distraction worked. She spent the entire journey to the library reciting the recipe by heart.
What a weird little fellow.
By the beginning of the second week of June, there was no joy to be had anymore, as the exams began. The written papers were easy, and I was confident in my answers.
On the other hand, I wasn’t so happy with my practicals. My bunny slippers in Transfiguration were two sizes too small for me, my Shrinking Charm seemed weak compared to others, and my Swelling Solution was more orange than yellow. All in all, I was satisfied nonetheless, as I had done my best.
After our last exam, we set up a comfy blanket next to the lake and flopped on it with a big box of chocolate to share. Standing up in front of us, Hermione was visibly giddy, and I was fully prepared for her to go through our exam’s answers like always. But I was wrong in my expectation.
“I’ve been waiting to tell you since this morning,” She told us with a cheerful smile. “I received a letter from my parents.”
Harry looked about as confused as I did.
“We’re going to France this summer,” she announced before marking a dramatic pause. “And you’re coming with us, Harry.”
“What?”
Hermione was smiling widely, satisfied with the reaction to her surprise.
“What do you mean?” Harry asked, bewildered.
“Well, Ron gave me the idea some time ago, when he so graciously granted me permission to borrow you for the holidays. So I wrote to my parents to convince them to invite you. I gave them the Dursleys’ telephone number, and they got permission from them. You’ll still need to spend the first two weeks with them, because of the protections, you see, but after that, we’ll collect you to leave the country. My parents sent me booklets about all there is to do. And there are whole magic neighbourhoods! We’ll have so much fun!”
Harry’s jaw was on the floor for a long moment. Hermione sat next to him, showing all her favourite pages in the guides, chattering all along. Once the shock had passed, Harry's eyes lit up like Christmas lights, and he avidly read what Hermione pointed at.
I watched them organise their vacation. That didn’t happen Before. Did it? It didn’t ring any bells. Canon Harry spent agonisingly long months at the Dursleys, with few breaks after his birthday at the Burrow. That is what I remembered anyway. So, how had things changed this much? Was it because we discussed the Dursleys' neglectful guardianship more openly? Was it because Hermione was ticked by the fact that Harry had spent all the previous summer with me?
I didn’t know what changed the situation that much. But I was all for it. When thinking of the summer holidays, I was always a little anxious about not being able to take Harry in, whether due to financial constraints, my parents' availability, or any other reason I couldn’t think of. Now, that weight was taken off my shoulders without even having to lift a finger.
“Ron?”
I startled. Hermione and Harry were looking at me.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Hermione asked with hesitation.
“Of course not. Don’t be daft now, mates.”
Hermione mumbled something about being called ‘mate’, but the conversation quickly went back to tour-planning.
In the following days, Harry seemed a little less enthusiastic than before about the trip to France. He tried to hide it, but I managed to corner him before the end-of-term feast. He denied having any problem.
“Dude, I can see the wheels turning in that little head of yours. What’s wrong? Don’t you want to spend the holidays with Hermione?”
“I do! I do want it. It’s just…”
He sighed, eyes staring obstinately at his shoes.
“I don’t want you to feel left out…”
What a sweet little man.
“Harry. I don’t. Well, yeah, that would be fun to spend the summer with you and all. But I’ll live. I’ve got a house full of people to have fun with. You don’t. I’m grateful for Hermione’s parents inviting you. It’s way better than you staying with your crappy relatives. I swear I’m fine with it, mate, stop with your puppy eyes. I knew what I was signing up for when I told Hermione that we were divorced parents with shared custody. You’ll spend next summer with me.”
Harry groaned softly.
“Not that again.”
“Deal with it, you’re our sweet love child. ”
He groaned again.
“Don’t call me your ‘sweet love child’ ever again. Seriously. Let’s go before I lose my appetite.”
“So rude. I raised you better than that.”
I so loved hearing Harry groaning in despair.
Another thing I loved was seeing the Great Hall decked out in Slytherin colours for the second time. Dumbledore awarded us the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup. Our table was so loud with heavy clapping and wolf-whistles that I wondered if it would collapse.
All too soon, it was time to take the Hogwarts Express.
Once on the Muggle side of the train station, I hugged both Harry and Hermione tightly.
“Have fun in France. Take lots of pictures to show me, right?”
They promised. Harry left with his uncle, who looked less angry than the last time I saw him, and Hermione left with her parents when they were done talking with Mum and Dad.
Time to go home.
Chapter 13: INTERLUDE
Summary:
First interlude. How people see Ron.
Notes:
This is the first interlude on how people around Ron think about him and what they feel for him. I hope it'll help you understand some of the other characters' actions (especially Ginny, since a few people are on the fence concerning her reactions to Ron).
This interlude is different from the future ones, as it's the first one. Here, I lay the foundations of the main relationships, from meeting Ron to the end of second year. In future interludes, the different POVs will be reactions to some existing scenes, or even sometimes a rewriting of an existing scene from someone else's point of view.
PS: Already two people mentioned Fleur/Ron in the comments, and I'm very confused about it. RON IS GAY. And Fleur's role will be very very small.
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE I
Molly and Arthur Weasley
Ron has always been a quiet one, at least compared to the rest. Helpful, observant, never loud unless the twins had wound him up past reason. There was a steadiness in him, a kind of attentiveness that seemed too grown for a child his age. Molly had often caught him comforting Ginny when she cried, or helping her slice carrots in the kitchen while murmuring her name like a song. He had such strong motherly instincts—he reminded her of herself sometimes, the way he fussed over others, the way he quietly filled in gaps left by more chaotic siblings. Other times, it was Arthur she saw in him: the softness, the easy patience, the simple way he took responsibility without needing to be asked.
They’d always known they could rely on him.
When he left for Hogwarts, there was pride and certainty. He would thrive in Gryffindor, no doubt. He’d make friends, the right kind. And if he missed home, Percy would be there. The twins, too, if they could pause their jokes long enough. They imagined letters full of stories, names of new mates, and small triumphs. But the days passed, and then the week. No letter. Molly’s worry had grown quiet and deep.
So she’d written to Percy.
The answer had arrived stiffly. Ron had been sorted into Slytherin. The twins were taking it poorly. They had, apparently, been cruel.
That truth had struck like cold iron.
Molly could still remember the moment Ron had come into the Headmaster’s office. How he'd looked at her with eyes wide and guarded, flinching when she reached for him. How, after the fake Howler, he had asked—in a voice far too small—whether they hated him now. Her heart had cracked then, in a way that didn’t fully heal. She and Arthur had made sure, after that, to do everything they could to show him how wrong he was. That their love wasn’t conditional. That they were proud of him, always. That Slytherin had nothing to do with who he was to them.
They’d read his letters differently after that. Looked between the lines for signs of pain, of loneliness. But gradually, they’d seen him begin to bloom again. He’d forgiven the twins, remarkably. Molly hadn’t expected that, not so quickly, not so completely. But Ron had always been more compassionate than he let on. By year’s end, he had not only survived that rocky beginning—he had orchestrated a plan to rescue Harry Potter from a wretched home. A plan that showed daring, cleverness, and loyalty.
He had done it out of care. Out of instinct. Harry had become his, in a way. A new duckling under a wing. Molly had watched that with amusement during the summer, how Ron watched Harry at meals, nudged him to rest, and handed him seconds without asking. He nurtured like someone born to it.
Then came second year.
They’d almost lost him. Lockhart—fraud, fool—had nearly killed their son. He’d spent hours in surgery, and it was only because of Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape that he lived, and lived whole. They owed them both more than they could say. And though it still surprised her to think it, Molly was grateful—truly grateful—that Snape was Ron’s Head of House.
But the worst wasn’t over.
Mid-year, they were summoned to Hogwarts. The terror was immediate, raw, and familiar. Another child in danger. But this time, it was Ron who had raised the alarm. It was Ron who had seen the signs, who refused to look away. Who’d noticed Ginny fading and pushed until someone listened. He saved her. Their daughter. Her life, her soul. Molly knew, in her deepest self, that if not for Ron’s quiet attentiveness—his habit of fussing, of watching—Ginny might have been lost forever.
And once again, it was also Professor Snape who helped save their child.
Ron returned home from his second year pale and thinner, but alive. Whole. His eyes had seen too much already, but he still helped with dinner, still teased Ginny just enough to make her laugh. Still offered his father a cup of tea without being asked.
Molly and Arthur didn’t say it aloud, but they were both hoping—fervently—that next year would be quieter. That their son could just be a boy for once. Not a hero. Not a caretaker. Just Ron. Safe and home again.
Percy Weasley
He had always seen potential in Ron. Even as a child, Ron had stood apart—not loud and wild like the twins, not dragon-obsessed like Charlie, or untouchably perfect like Bill. Ron was precise. He listened. He followed the rules. He was thoughtful, polite, and eager to learn. And clean, for Merlin’s sake. Percy had cherished those traits—rare gems in the chaos of the Weasley brood. He had believed, truly, that Ron would go far. That he might even follow in Percy’s footsteps, or surpass them.
But then Ron had arrived at Hogwarts and been sorted into Slytherin.
The shock of it had dulled Percy's breath. In that moment, he hadn’t thought of what it must feel like for Ron to sit alone at a table he hadn’t expected. Percy had thought instead about what could have gone wrong. What fault line had split beneath Ron’s feet to send him there? It was only right, he’d reasoned, to warn him. To advise caution. To remind him that Slytherin had… a reputation. He had told himself he was being a responsible brother.
And then came the twins. Their jokes. Their pranks. Their cruelty.
Percy had disapproved, as he always did, but he had done nothing. Just a few jokes, he had thought. Just sibling teasing. But then the Howler had come. Ron’s face, pale with dread, as their mother’s voice shrieked accusations of disgrace. Percy hadn’t questioned it—hadn’t doubted for a second that those words were real. Because hadn’t he felt the same? Disappointment, embarrassment?
It was only later—too late—that the truth came out. The Howler was a cruel fake. Their parents came to Hogwarts, faces pale with fury and guilt. They hadn't written it. They had come to defend Ron.
Percy had wanted to feel righteous, to feel included in that family unity. But then Ron had walked into the Headmaster’s office.
Small. Quiet. His hair dyed a sickly green, his robes stained with graffiti, insults clinging to the fabric. He looked… breakable. Fragile. Nothing like the clever, curious brother Percy remembered. And in that moment, the silence inside Percy shattered.
He had let this happen.
He hadn’t joined the twins, but he had watched. And done nothing. He had sided with expectation over empathy. When their father later said that choosing a House over one’s family was a betrayal of Weasley values, Percy had swallowed the words like poison. He had chosen exactly that—had looked at Ron’s difference and found it shameful, instead of worthy. And that difference was what made Ron extraordinary.
After that, Percy tried—quietly—to be better.
He watched over Ron from a distance. Checked on him when he could. Asked subtle questions of professors. He learned Ron had been pushed down the stairs. Percy had investigated it, of course. Asked for names, outcomes, justice. But no culprit was ever found.
Still, Professor Snape was watching. Percy saw it—how the professor always seemed to appear at Ron’s side, silent and alert. It comforted Percy more than it should have. The year ended without further incident. Ron had made it through.
Percy had felt hopeful.
Then summer came. Ron returned home. And he brought Harry Potter with him.
Something shifted.
Ron had changed. There was confidence, yes—but also a sharpness, a cunning edge Percy hadn’t expected. And then came the blackmail. Not even subtle—just direct. Shameless. Percy had been furious. Humiliated. He had secrets of his own, and Ron had cornered him with them, manipulated him like a common street rogue.
Percy had drawn a line then. He would not be fooled by that soft face again. Ron was clever, clearly, but also dangerous. Corrupted, maybe. Percy distanced himself. Ginny was starting her first year—scared, homesick, and clearly unwell. She needed him. She deserved better. Percy wouldn't fail her like he had failed Ron.
And when Ron was hurt again—badly, this time—Percy had been scared, of course he had. The idea of losing his brother chilled him. But he didn’t go to the Hospital Wing. He didn’t write. He didn’t visit.
Instead, he waited, listening carefully for updates. Quietly celebrating every bit of good news. Relieved when Ron lived. When he healed. When the danger passed.
But he stayed away.
Because even after all that, he still didn’t know how to look Ron in the eye and say: I failed you. I chose my pride over your pain. And I’m sorry.
Fred and George Weasley
Fred and George had always known Ron was different. Not in the kind of way that got you praise or attention—not like Bill’s leadership or Charlie’s obsession with dragons, or even Percy’s self-important perfectionism. No, Ron was strange in a way they hadn’t known what to do with.
He could be unexpectedly funny, dropping dry remarks that caught them off guard and made them wheeze with laughter. But then, just as quickly, he’d be back to reading in corners, fussing over chores, or reminding them of the rules like he’d been born with a Ministry handbook tucked under his arm. He was a kid who sometimes acted like a tiny professor, or worse, like Mum.
And so they pranked him. Shoved him. Needled him, like brothers did. Because Ron made himself a target by being so odd. So serious. So… boring, sometimes. They didn't hate him. Not at all. But he was hard to provoke, and provoking people was what they did best. So they rose to the challenge.
Then came his first year at Hogwarts.
The Sorting Hat declared Slytherin, and their laughter died in their throats. A Weasley, their brother, in Slytherin. The betrayal stung deep and wild. They joked that he’d turned traitor. That he was a snake in their den. He even called himself a Malfoy, of all things.
So they made him pay. Loudly. Publicly. The Howler, the pranks, the graffiti—they showed the school where Ron Weasley really came from.
Until the day they were caught.
At first, they were annoyed. Typical—getting scolded for what was, in their minds, justified fun. But then they heard it. Ron, sobbing into Mum’s arms. A broken little sound that didn’t belong to their cheeky, weird, bookish brother. That sound haunted them.
And when Ron, with green-dyed hair and tear-streaked cheeks, told them it had all been a prank —that his Malfoy claim had been a joke at Draco’s expense—it wasn’t just guilt that hit them. It was shame. The deep, hollow kind that made their stomachs twist.
They hadn’t just bullied their brother. They’d humiliated someone who had been playing their game. Who had been trying, in his own bizarre way, to be funny.
They didn’t know how to fix it. They tried to approach him after the stairs incident, to mumble something like an apology. But he wasn’t interested. And they couldn’t blame him.
Then, somehow, Ron came back to them.
He had tasks, he said. Plans that required mischief. Of course, they agreed. What else could they do? They weren’t used to guilt, but redemption—that they understood. And slowly, month by month, Ron started acting like himself again. A little weird. A little witty. A little boring. But Ron, their Ron. And he didn’t hate them.
They were stupidly, overwhelmingly relieved.
Then, his second year rolled around, and Ron brought home Harry Potter.
Their parents whispered words like abuse and neglect when they thought no one was listening. Ron told them not to prank Harry. Not to tease him. So they didn’t. And when they met the boy himself, so small and skittish, they understood why.
But the way Harry looked at Ron, like he was sunlight. Like he was safety. Like a duckling with its mum. It was sweet. It was funny. It was also the clearest proof they’d ever had that Ron wasn’t who they’d thought he was.
He wasn’t a snake.
He was warm. And soft-hearted. And foolishly brave.
He threw himself between Lockhart and Harry with no regard for himself. He got hurt trying to protect someone. It was reckless. It was idiotic.
It was Gryffindor.
And in that moment, Fred and George understood something they’d missed all along. Ron didn’t look like a Weasley, not in the way they measured it. But he was one through and through. A Gryffindor by any other name.
Their little brother. A little weird. A little brilliant. And finally, finally, someone they were proud to stand beside.
Ginny Weasley
Ginny had always found Ron annoying.
Even more than Percy, because Ron wasn’t loud in his self-importance. He was quiet about it. Calm. Detached. Like he thought he was smarter than the rest of them, but didn’t need to say it out loud. He’d just look at them with that bland, placid face while they whined about hand-me-downs and laughed at the twins’ chaos, and then he’d go back to his books like he was made of dull stone. He didn’t complain. He didn’t chase or roar. He didn’t like Quidditch. He liked order.
And he was so much of a Mum’s boy, following her around the kitchen like a little shadow, eager to help and always trying to cheer her up. Always trying to take care of things. He was twelve going on forty, and it made Ginny grind her teeth.
But then—sometimes—he was unexpectedly funny. Crude, even, in a way that made her snort. And when the twins picked on her, Ron was the only one who ever stepped in, shielding her like a scrappy little guard dog. When she cried, he’d make her hot chocolate without a word and leave it on her nightstand. He never asked why she was upset. But he knew.
When he left for Hogwarts, Ginny hadn’t expected to miss him. But she did. More than she wanted to admit. And when she didn’t miss him, she felt angry at him for not missing her back.
That year, Mum and Dad had strange grown-up conversations in low voices. Ginny wasn’t supposed to hear. But she did. She heard that Ron had been sorted into Slytherin—something no Weasley had ever done. That the twins had done something in response. That Ron had been pushed down the stairs. That he’d been injured. They never told her the whole truth, but they didn’t have to. She pieced it together. She was worried, of course. But she was also bored at home, the last chick left in the nest. Part of her would have gladly swapped places, injury and all, just to have something interesting happen.
Then Ron came home for the holidays.
He was quiet and composed as ever, hoarding Mum’s and Dad’s attention without even trying. Ginny scowled at him behind his back—until she learned he’d brought home Harry Potter. Harry Potter.
That changed things.
If Harry liked Ron, if Harry chose Ron, then maybe Ron wasn’t so boring after all. Maybe he was cool. Maybe he was more than just the quiet, nagging shadow of their family.
That was, of course, before Ron tried to steal her diary.
And just like that, he was back to being himself: smug, meddling, and insufferable. Ginny had never been more relieved than when the Sorting Hat placed her in Gryffindor. She didn’t want the whispers and judgment Ron had gotten. She didn’t want to be the black sheep.
She was proud of herself for doing it right. For being the daughter who didn’t mess things up.
But then… none of it mattered. Not after Tom. Not after the blackouts, the missing time, the cold dread of knowing something was wrong but not knowing what. Students were hurt. Her magic leaked from her bones like water through a sieve. And all of it, in her mind, went back to Ron. It was his diary. If he hadn’t made this diary enter her life… Maybe she wouldn’t have trusted it. Maybe it wouldn’t have gotten her.
He was the root of it, she thought. Just like he had always been different. Slytherin. Odd. The cause of things breaking apart.
Then he almost died.
He threw himself into danger like a fool and ended up in the hospital. And suddenly, the whole house was Ron, Ron, Ron. Just like always. While Ginny wasted away, unseen.
And then he ratted her out.
He told adults about the diary. Exposed her secret. She hated him for that. The betrayal, the humiliation. But then… he admitted the diary had never been his to begin with. And her fury twisted into shame.
She had been ready to blame him. Had blamed him for everything.
Then came the truth.
The diary belonged to You-Know-Who. It had been a trap. It had been killing her.
She had nearly died. Actually died. And the aftermath wasn’t a heroic recovery or a parade. It was whispered stares and cold silences. It was feeling broken. It was being pitied.
And that was when Ginny finally saw Ron.
Not the perfect brother. Not the quiet favourite. Not the golden boy.
But a victim. Like her.
He hadn’t been the centre of attention because he was admired. He had been injured, humiliated, alone. She had hated him for surviving something she hadn’t even understood.
And worst of all, he had been the only one who saw what was happening to her. The only one who acted. The only one who saved her.
It was a bitter, humbling realisation. She felt like a monster. For resenting him. For blaming him. For not seeing the boy behind the badge of shame.
So she promised herself something. That next time, she'd be better. She would try, really try, to be the kind of sister he had been to her.
And maybe—just maybe—be someone worthy of being saved.
Harry Potter
To Harry, Ron was a lifesaver. Not metaphorically—not only metaphorically—but in every possible sense of the word.
Ron was the first person who had ever chosen him. Not because of a scar, not because of a name, but simply… because. He’d looked at Harry with a grin and a ham sandwich and said, “Mind if I sit here?” And that was it. From that moment, the world had changed shape.
Ron had guided him into this strange new life like he’d done it a hundred times before. Magic, Hogwarts, Houses, ghosts—Ron explained it all with such irreverent ease that Harry felt stupid for ever being afraid. He made Harry feel like he could belong, not as a guest or a fluke, but as someone with a place.
And when Harry had questions about his parents, when he felt the aching hunger of the missing pieces in his chest, Ron never looked away. He listened. He didn’t rush to fix it, didn’t try to cheer him up with empty words. He just listened, fully, like no one ever had before.
Ron made space for him. Every day. Without question.
Even when Harry didn’t notice danger coming, Ron did. At his first Quidditch match, when Harry’s broom went wild, it was Ron who noticed something was wrong. Ron, who leapt into action. Protective, sharp-eyed, furious. That fury was strange to Harry at first—no one had ever been angry for him before.
Ron fussed, sometimes, yes—but not in a smothering way. In a way that made Harry feel wrapped in a blanket he didn’t know he needed. It was the warmth of care. Of safety.
He was also absolutely hilarious. Blunt, irreverent, sometimes gross—but Harry adored it. It made things feel light when the world felt heavy. But Ron’s laughter, Harry knew, wasn’t flippancy. It was armour. Behind every joke was a boy who would throw himself in front of danger, over and over again, for the people he loved.
And he did.
When Harry had to go back to the Dursleys, dreading every second, Ron came for him. Did what no adult had ever done. What Harry had fantasised about his whole life—a stranger sweeping in to rescue him. And the stranger turned out to be a freckled boy with a green obsession, a fondness for baked beans, and a way with animals that made Hagrid jealous.
Ron was everything the Dursleys hated. And everything Harry loved.
Ron gave Harry his first hug. Just wrapped his arms around him like it was nothing. Like Harry was huggable. And Harry had panicked, because of what Uncle Vernon used to say about boys like that. But with Ron, none of that mattered. Ron’s hugs were solid and warm, and safe. They made Harry feel like a real person. A good person.
Then Ron saved him again.
Another Quidditch match. Another hit. This one meant for Harry, but Ron had moved first—had shoved him aside and taken it straight on. He nearly died. And Harry could still feel the way his heart had tried to claw out of his chest in the hours that followed.
And yet, Ron laughed it off. Joked like he’d tripped on a stair, not come within inches of death. Harry envied that composure. That certainty. That quiet knowing of who he was.
Ron was confident, not in a loud way like the twins, but in a way that radiated from his bones. He knew who he was: someone who gave. Who protected. Who stayed. A boy who could make space for others and still keep hold of himself.
And for Harry, Ron had become everything that mattered. His protector. His comfort. His escape and his home.
He was warmth. He was sanity. He was love.
He was Ron. And to Harry, that meant safety. That meant life.
Hermione Granger
Hermione had always known how to be alone. Alone with her books. Alone with her thoughts. Alone with the constant hum of knowing more than everyone else in the room and being punished for it in the quiet, subtle ways that hurt the most.
She had resigned herself to it. To being the girl no one really wanted to talk to. To being too much. Too eager. Too loud in the wrong ways and too quiet in others.
So when she first met Ron Weasley, she assumed he was just another boy like the ones she’d known in primary school—too cool to be kind, too lazy to bother. She expected that familiar mix of charm and dismissiveness. That polished interest that disappeared the second she refused to do their homework. The kind of boy who used you for your brain and discarded you with a joke.
But Ron wasn’t that.
Not even close.
He was quiet in the strangest way. Not shy. Not withdrawn. Just still. Like he didn’t need to fill the room to be in it. He listened. Properly listened. And when he spoke, it wasn’t to show off. It was to ask questions. Real ones. And not always smart ones—but curious ones. Ones that made her stop and think, because he was looking at things from angles she hadn’t considered.
He wasn’t just a Slytherin boy with a mischievous grin. He was calm and studious, sometimes even more focused than she was. And he had this way of learning that was almost infuriating—he picked things up quickly, not just facts but understanding. And then he’d go and ruin the moment by cracking some ridiculous pun about bezoars or broomsticks that left her half-laughing, half-rolling her eyes.
He drove her absolutely mad. And she adored him for it.
Fond exasperation became her default setting around Ron.
It was in the way he scribbled half-legible notes in the margins of his textbooks, only to recall an obscure spell word-for-word during practice. It was the soft, barely perceptible pride he took in her praise, and the way he offered his own so generously, quietly, without fanfare.
And then he nearly died.
Twice.
And each time, he brushed it off like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just terrified her. Like she wasn’t lying awake every night afterwards, replaying every moment, wishing she'd seen it coming. Wishing she'd stopped it.
He made jokes. About dying.
She wanted to hex him. Or hold him forever. Or maybe both.
Because Ron didn’t value himself the way she did. He gave without thinking. Protected without pausing. He’d throw himself into danger like a chess piece moved for sacrifice, and it made her want to scream. Because she knew what that kind of loyalty cost. She knew what happened to people who always played the shield.
And still, he made her laugh. Still, he made her feel seen. Still, he showed up for her—in the classroom, at breakfast, when she was scared, when she was insufferable, when she was herself. Always.
He was kind. And generous. And clever—clever in ways that sneaked up on her. Sometimes, she’d look at him mid-sentence and realise he’d just solved something she’d been agonising over for days. And it made her feel a strange mix of frustration, and admiration, and awe.
Because Ron wasn’t just her friend.
He was her first friend. The first person her age who treated her like an equal. Like she belonged. Like she was enough.
And sometimes, when she looked at him across the table—inking a note to Harry, or hiding sweets under his sleeve, or smirking after one of his infuriatingly accurate predictions—she felt a flutter of something she didn’t quite have a name for.
But mostly, she just felt lucky.
Because Ron wasn’t just clever. Or brave. Or funny.
He was Ron. And that was more than enough.
Luna Lovegood
To Luna, Ron was something quiet and rare in the world.
She met him on the worst day of her life, when the world felt like it had cracked open and everything she knew was slipping through. Her mother was gone. Everything hurt. And then Ron was there. Like he’d been sent, though not in any grand or shining way. Just a boy with steady eyes and a gentle presence who didn’t try to fix her sadness, didn’t talk over it, didn’t run away from the silence that followed.
And after that, he never left.
Not when she was too quiet. Not when her answers didn’t match the questions people asked. Not when she talked to creatures no one else believed in or wore earrings that jingled with little runes of protection. Ron stayed. He listened. He nodded and asked more.
Luna had learned early that most people only saw the outline of her—the peculiar girl, the strange one, the ghost with “radish” earrings. But Ron never saw just that. He saw her. The whole of her. The way her father did. The way her mother used to.
He saw her inner world and didn’t try to sweep it aside. He didn’t smile politely while waiting for her to stop talking. He didn’t mock her. He asked questions. He wondered with her. He let her talk about nargles and snorkacks and ley lines in the Forbidden Forest like they were perfectly ordinary topics—and somehow, in his presence, they felt that way. Safe. Real. Possible.
Ron never needed her to be normal. In fact, it seemed like he liked that she wasn’t.
And in truth, Ron wasn’t like the others either.
He was different in his own quiet ways. Soft where others were sharp. Curious where others were dismissive. Accepting in a world that always wanted to sort and divide.
With Ron, she didn’t have to shrink herself to fit. She didn’t have to translate her thoughts into something more palatable. She could just be —strange and airy and gentle—and he never flinched. Instead, he made space.
At Hogwarts, that mattered more than she could ever say. She’d been afraid to go. Afraid of hallways full of eyes that would glance and then look away. But Ron had been there from the beginning. He walked beside her like a shield—sometimes literally, glaring at people who stared too long or whispered too loudly.
Every Sunday, without fail, he’d come to see her. He had other friends—friends who laughed at normal jokes and played Quidditch and didn’t talk about invisible creatures—but Ron never left her behind. He brought her with him. Sat beside her in public without shame. Introduced her like she mattered. Like she belonged.
He made her believe, for the first time, that maybe she could have more than one friend. That maybe other people could learn what Ron already knew—that being different didn’t mean being lesser.
Ron made her feel like she was enough.
Enough to be seen. Enough to be heard. Enough to be loved exactly as she was.
And to Luna, that kind of magic was rarer than anything she'd ever read about.
Severus Snape
Ron Weasley was not what Severus Snape expected.
When the boy was sorted into Slytherin, Snape had braced himself for a headache. Another Weasley—surely loud, foolish, and hopelessly Gryffindor at heart, mistakenly dropped into his House. Snape expected grandstanding. Rule-breaking. Bumbling theatrics from a red-haired sidekick with more heart than brain. He expected mediocrity wrapped in bravado.
But Ron wasn’t any of those things.
He was quiet. Watchful. Alarmingly sharp. Not afraid, but not brazen either. He answered correctly, succinctly, without seeking approval. He didn’t try to impress—he simply did the work. Efficient. Undistracted. Strangely mature for his age.
There was something almost unsettling about how poised he was. He didn’t flinch under Snape’s glare. He didn’t crumble when reprimanded. He accepted correction without ego or resentment. No defensiveness, no smugness. Just… stillness. And control.
He listened. He observed. He adapted.
It was, in many ways, unnerving.
Snape noticed how Ron worked. How he helped Potter without overshadowing him. There was no competition, only quiet support. And that, more than anything, made Ron stand out. He absorbed material quickly and asked thoughtful questions—not for praise, but because he wanted to know. He knew how to be clever without being cruel. He knew how to be brave without making it a show. When he made mistakes, he admitted them plainly. When he failed, he didn’t wallow. There was something grounded about him, something deeply composed.
And he never played the martyr when things went wrong. When he was targeted—mocked, injured, or blamed—he endured. No complaints. No whining. No manipulative theatrics. He simply took it.
Snape saw it early: Ron had depth. There was pain under the surface, tightly held. Snape saw it most clearly when the truth of his family’s bullying emerged. The calm exterior gave way to something deeper, rawer. The sort of suffering one learns to tuck away, to survive by not reacting. Snape recognised it. That quiet, bitter endurance. That desperate need to be enough, to not be a burden. That razor-thin line between anger and guilt.
He saw himself.
And he hated how protective that made him feel.
But Ron kept shifting the lines Snape had drawn around him. Just when he thought he had the boy figured out, Ron would surprise him again—with dry wit, deadpan cheek, or some absurd, well-timed deflection that left no room for punishment. His mischief wasn’t Gryffindor brashness. It was subtle, intelligent. Cheeky in a way that wasn't disrespectful, just… disarming. Snape often found himself privately amused, against his better judgment.
Snape should have been irritated. But he wasn’t. Not really.
Then Ron was hurt again. Targeted. Snape’s fury was barely containable. And when the boy woke and calmly stated that a professor had tried to kill him, not with fear, but as a quiet fact, Snape saw something that terrified him.
Ron’s instinct wasn’t to survive. It was to protect.
That terrified Snape more than any child’s brilliance ever could. Because that instinct burned people alive. It consumed you slowly, until all that was left was ash and other people’s safety.
Ron didn’t even see it as a choice.
So Snape punished him for his recklessness. Gave him detention. Scolded him for idiocy. Not because Ron deserved cruelty, but because he needed boundaries. Because someone had to make him stop before he got himself killed.
And then, after all that… Ron came back anyway. Continued to treat him like someone worth the effort.
Not to complain. Not to seek comfort or validation.
He sought connection. Not attention. Not admiration. Just genuine, human connection. At Christmas, he brought Snape into the chaos of crackers and jokes—not out of insolence, but out of some strange, maddening warmth. Like he believed Snape was a person worth including. Like he wasn’t afraid of him. No one else had dared that. No one but Dumbledore.
And then he did it again. Shattering assumptions.
He simply handed Snape a Diary and said, “I need serious help.” He followed Snape’s earlier instructions to the letter: he came to him, not Potter, not Granger, not Dumbledore. No fuss. No drama. Without asking for praise.
And that, to Snape, was growth.
Then came the family confrontation. The blame-shifting. The outburst from the girl. And Ron didn’t retaliate. He lied smoothly, cleanly, to protect her. He took the weight of the moment and kept his mouth shut.
He saw patterns. He held secrets. He was calculating. Subtle.
Snape watched with a tight jaw. Saw it all: the way Ron had misdirected Tom Riddle with a false name, the way he manoeuvred the situation to protect Ginny’s dignity, the way he never once sought credit for anything.
The boy was a Slytherin to his core: calculated, loyal, precise. But also something more. Something almost impossible.
He was self-sacrificing.
Too brave for his own good.
And worse still, kind.
He was annoying. Inconvenient. Endearing. And relentlessly sincere.
Snape hated it.
He hated how the boy made him laugh.
He hated that Ron reminded him—just faintly—of someone long gone. Someone who saw through his walls and refused to be frightened away.
But most of all, he hated that he wasn’t immune anymore.
Ron Weasley was dangerous. Sharp. Calculating. Resilient. Reckless.
He was a clever little snake.
He was maddening.
And he was Snape’s.
Chapter 14: BOOK THREE - UNCOMFORTABLE CONVERSATIONS
Chapter Text
BOOK THREE: RON WEASLEY AND THE UNREGISTERED ANIMAGI
CHAPTER TWELVE
UNCOMFORTABLE CONVERSATIONS
Initially, my summer plan was to spend quality time with my family and have fun before a year that would likely be dangerous again. Unfortunately, fate had other plans, which included plenty of uncomfortable conversations that I could have done without, thank you very much.
The first one happened the day after our return from Hogwarts. After breakfast, Mum and Dad announced a family meeting. They ushered us into the living room, made us sit quietly, and then stood before us. I thought they were going to announce that Dad had won the Grand Prize.
They did not.
“Your father and I think it’s important to explain to all of you what happened with Ginny.”
Oh. That.
Ginny was furiously blushing and seemed ready to bolt. On the other hand, Percy and the twins looked lost. I never asked if they were told anything about the Diary business. Apparently not.
“Ginny found a strange diary,” Dad explained. “Which seemed harmless at first, but was in fact filled with dark magic.”
“What!”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, boys, please settle down and let your father explain.”
The twins sat back down. With a soft voice, Dad explained everything that happened between Ginny and the Diary: the blackouts, the possession, the attacks, and the identity of the Diary’s former owner. When Voldemort was mentioned, my brothers became awfully pale and stared at Ginny with great concern. She made herself as small as possible and stayed quiet throughout the entire explanation.
“But thank goodness,” Mum exclaimed with a great sigh of relief. “Ron discovered the danger and went to Professor Snape for help. They went to Professor Dumbledore, and that’s when we found out what was really happening.”
“You went to Snape ?” Both Fred and George cried.
“Boys.”
Mum’s warning made them shut their mouth, but they kept looking at me like I was touched in the head. Rude. Snape was the best solution for a dark magic problem!
“Now, you all must understand: Ginny was never to blame for what happened to her,” Dad said in a solemn voice, looking each of us in the eye before continuing. “She was just a victim, tricked by dark magic. And while it was awful that she had to go through all of that, no lasting harm was done, and that’s what matters most. Ginny’s safe, and the diary has been taken away. No one else will be harmed by it.”
“And remember,” Mum said. “We’ll always protect you, no matter what. So, never feel ashamed of asking for help when you need it, even if you are scared that you’ll be in trouble. Please, children, your safety is our top priority. We love you no matter what errors you may make.”
They made us promise to come to them if we had any problems. We promised. Dad repeated his famous piece of advice about objects with no brains. When Mum and Dad left the room, the twins immediately turned to Ginny.
“So, you spoke to You-Know-Who? That’s bloody terrific.” George commented.
“How was he? Did he teach you any scary spells?”
Well.
At least the twins' curiosity had a great effect on making Ginny come out of her shell. She shared some details about Tom Riddle and the diary's impact on her. It visibly lifted a heavy weight off her shoulders, and the following week showed a significant difference in her behaviour. She acted way more confidently, almost as if we were back to last summer.
After one week of being openly supported and comforted by the whole family, Ginny finally approached me when we were both assigned to clean the hen coop.
“I’m sorry.”
Blinking in surprise, I turned to her.
“What about?”
She sighed heavily, not looking in my direction, and uncomfortable.
“I was angry at you, because I was scared that I was gonna be expelled for what I did. So, I was mean to you afterwards. You didn’t deserve it.”
Her face was a deep, bright red. She hated that admission, I was sure of it.
I felt awful because I did deserve her anger and resentment, but I couldn’t admit that to her.
“Thanks, Gin. I appreciate it. We good now?”
She hesitated a moment.
“There’s something else?” I asked, curious.
“You wrote in it…And… He… He didn’t say… anything, right? I mean… A– About me?”
“Oh. No, don’t worry about that. He didn’t repeat anything you told him.”
That must have weighed a lot on her mind, because she looked so relieved to hear my answer. After that conversation, she acted happier than I had seen her in a long time. It was great to see.
The next uncomfortable conversation was short-lived. Emboldened by my reconciliation with my sister, I decided to pluck up my courage for another bout of apologies, this time from me.
One Sunday, as Percy and I were on the way back from market duty, I took advantage of our one-on-one time to try to clear the air.
“Hey… Percy, about last summer… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used your relationship with your girlfriend against you. It was wrong. I’m really sorry.”
Percy had a deep frown on his face when he answered:
“Wrong? That is putting it lightly, Ronald. You used my vulnerabilities against me to get out of trouble.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I just… I felt like I didn’t have a choice–”
“You always have a choice. And this? This was manipulation, plain and simple. Blackmail, like a common… delinquent. It seems you've found your true calling in Slytherin. And frankly, I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Percy, I –”
“Save it. Apologies don’t erase intentions.”
He sped up to the Burrows with his baskets full of goods. I trailed behind in silence, crying silently without being able to stop. I hid my red-rimmed eyes as best as I could, hoping that nobody would ask about it.
The following week, I dove into my summer homework. There was an awful lot of it: essays for History, Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms, as well as some sketching and labelling for Herbology. Nothing for Defence Against the Dark Arts, for obvious reasons.
I spent some time at the Rookery with Luna, who also had some sketching to do. It was peaceful and even a little relaxing to sit in the orchard at the Lovegoods. No way could it be less relaxing than being at home, where there was a heavy tension in the air. Ginny spilt the tea about Percy’s secret girlfriend, and for some reason, Percy seemed to hold me responsible for that. I tried to defend myself, but he wouldn’t hear me out, so I made myself scarce whenever I could.
The twins made fun of Percy constantly. If it wasn’t about Penelope, it was about him being a prefect, and when they were inspired, they moulded the two together, laughing about all the baby prefects they would make together. It was tiring to hear them argue every day.
After a few days of it, Dad took Percy aside one evening after work and forbade us from eavesdropping. Mum put us to work in the kitchen so that none of us could give in to temptation. Once dinner was ready, Dad and Percy joined us, both red in the face. My siblings and I were bursting with curiosity, but Mum changed the subject when the twins asked what was going on.
The general conversation that night turned to our summer homework and the chores we had for the next day. Dad didn’t participate much, contrary to his habit.
Once dinner was over, Dad told the twins to wait in their bedroom and that he would join them shortly. Ginny and I exchanged a curious look. Why did Dad want to talk in private with everyone tonight? Why not announce a family meeting and be done with it in one swell loop? That was so strange. And suspicious.
Even stranger was the fact that Mum was the next to take someone aside. She corralled Ginny toward her bedroom and ordered me to stay put in the living room. I spent a long time waiting. Percy was in the same room as me, but he didn’t talk to me or even look in my direction.
I used the occasion to write to both Harry and Hermione, wishing them safe travels to France. By the time Errol delivers my letter, they should be ready to leave the country. I was so happy for Harry. For Hermione also, of course, but mainly for Harry. I hoped everything would go according to plan and nothing would spoil their fun vacation.
I startled when Dad suddenly appeared at the foot of the stairs, face violently pink and his brow furrowed. His face did a weird thing when he looked at me. He gazed at me an awkwardly long time before letting out a long sigh and beckoning me over. I gulped audibly and followed him upstairs. We climbed the stairs in silence, save for some groaning and dramatic wailing coming from the twins' bedroom.
Once in my room, Dad sat in my desk chair, while I sat at the very edge of my bed, ready to bolt. Dad sighed again, adjusted his glasses, then rubbed his hands on his trousers and cleared his throat.
“Right”, he began, shifting uncomfortably. “So, er, your mother thought – well, I thought too, of course – after this week and um… About your brother, Percy, you see. Hum. You see, Percy is at an age when…”
And suddenly, I understood.
And I hated it.
“Well. You turned thirteen. It’s time we, um, had a little chat. About… well, growing up. And, uh, certain things you might be noticing. Or, err, wondering about.”
I let out a sigh that resembled a sob.
“Dad, no. Please, no.”
Dad coughed into his fist, face pink again.
“Now, now, Ron, this is important. Best hear it from your father rather than, um, Fred and George, because Merlin knows what they’d tell you, and I shudder to think… Just, please ignore whatever they might tell you in the future. Right? So… What I want to talk about is, uh, err… changes.” Dad gestured vaguely at me. “Things… happening. To you. And feelings! You might— might start feeling differently about… people.”
I thought momentarily about the Mirror of Erised. Then, I buried it deep to avoid sadness from taking over.
Dad pressed on, his discomfort so obvious it was painful.
“Look, son, your mother and I— We were your age once, you know. And it’s completely natural to—um—to develop interests. In others. Romantically. And when that happens, you need to be, uh, respectful, and kind, and also— well, careful.”
The sound that came out of my mouth wasn’t human. More like a dying whale. I couldn’t even plead out loud anymore.
“You see, wizards— well, and witches, too, obviously— have a way of, uh, expressing their feelings. Physically. Err, eventually. When they’re older! Not at thirteen, but maybe in one year or two…”
Please, kill me.
“But it’s important to understand now that, um, relationships are built on trust and mutual, uh, interest. And that you should never, ever let Fred and George tell you anything about, well, anything.” Dad sighed heavily. “I had a whole thing prepared about dragons and hippogriffs, but your mother said it was just silly.”
“Eugh. I think the hippogriff thing might’ve been less awkward.”
“Really?” Dad asked, face brightening. “Oh! Well, I think you’re still a little young for the part about dragons, but let’s go with the hippogriffs. So, well, it’s like this: when approaching a hippogriff, you must always be respectful, because if you rush in without thinking, you could get your head bitten off. Relationships are exactly like that!”
“Be respectful, wait ‘til everyone’s ready, don’t rush in, everything’s normal. OK, can we be done now? Please? I beg you.”
Dad nodded quickly.
“And, of course, if things ever seem confusing, you can always ask me anything. Or, you know, your mother. Actually, yes, let’s go with that— ask your mother. Glad we had this talk, son!”
“Please, get out.”
Dad left, closing the door behind himself. I let myself fall face-first into my bed, groaning all the way down.
This horrifying evening had at least one good consequence, as the twins completely stopped teasing Percy about his love life.
Small victory.
One evening during the last week of July, Dad came back from work in a flurry, face pink from excitement and beaming widely. He grabbed Mum in a big hug and kissed her. A lot. Too much, honestly.
Once he separated enough to breathe, he exclaimed loudly for the whole household:
“We won the Daily Prophet Draw! Seven hundred Galleons!”
Mum shrieked in happiness. Ginny, Fred, and George followed suit, dancing a weird gig around the kitchen. Percy and I were calmer in our display of joy.
“That’ll be so much more material for our inventions!”
“New brooms!” piped Ginny with a large smile. “New shoes !”
“Books,” said Percy dreamily. “Lots of shiny new books.”
Dinner that night was especially loud, as everyone shared more and more ideas on how to spend the money. Ultimately, what I was expecting came quickly. Mum dreamily suggested a vacation. Then she fantasised aloud about bringing all the family together. The mention of visiting Bill or Charlie, where they lived, excited everyone, even if Percy seemed a little disappointed that all the money would go to a trip rather than their everyday expenses.
I understood his point of view, which would also be the same for other people. I knew what this looked like from the outside: a pair of irresponsible adults favouring a superfluous vacation over their children's needs. And part of me could see it, with my parents choosing to spend so much money on one trip rather than everyday expenses. But at the same time, it made sense. My family had always favoured family time and spending time together.
Also, Mum and Dad hadn’t had a vacation in decades. If they ever had a vacation in the first place! They married during the war, which was the worst time to go on a trip. Then, they had child after child, until it was just impossible to care for so many infants on a vacation they wouldn’t even remember. Now, we were older and self-sufficient, and they had the financial means to reunite their whole family for a nice time in an exotic destination.
Who could blame them for their decision?
I certainly didn’t.
And I must admit that visiting Bill and Charlie sounded amazing. Sure, we exchanged letters, but I hadn’t seen them in person since they left Great Britain. That was years ago. The more I thought about the idea of that trip, the more thrilled I became.
Once the trip to Egypt was firmly decided, Dad took an appointment with his boss to request time off work for a whole month. Meanwhile, at home, Mum organised everything: from booking our accommodations to packing half the house in enlarged trunks.
Only a few days after winning the Grand Prize, the trip was ready to happen. Charlie had taken time off work, and a portion of the prize was allocated to him to purchase a Portkey to Great Britain, as well as to compensate for his lost salary for the next month. Charlie was still new in his reserve, and as a junior teammate, he wasn’t allowed to take paid time off. It sucked, but the prize allowed for this expense.
Charlie arrived at the Burrow the day before our departure. We welcomed him like a rock star, with hugs and kisses, and the twins went as far as to ask for his autograph. Charlie took it in stride because he was a boss like that. Despite everyone wanting to bombard him with questions about his new, exciting life, Mum sent us all to bed early, as our Portkey to Egypt was scheduled to depart at an ungodly hour in the morning.
For once in Weasley history, my family was up and about in time. We still rushed in every direction like beheaded chickens, but at least we did not miss our extremely expensive international Portkey. It was my first time using one, and I wasn’t a fan, especially as it was a very long trip. When we landed in front of the British embassy, I threw up in a bush. It was humiliating, and the embassy employee accompanying Bill was not impressed.
“Hope you don’t mind that I won’t kiss you,” said a deep voice once I rejoined everyone. “No hard feelings, right? Until you brush your teeth, though.”
I turned to Bill. And I froze, mouth agape. Bill stared at me with a bit of concern when I failed to answer his quip.
“Dude, you look so bad ass. Oh, Em Gee. Bill. Your hair. Dude, dude. Gimme your face.”
He burst out laughing. Mum wasn’t as enthused as I was about Bill’s new style. Especially the long ponytail. But was she blind? She created such a good-looking lad! She should be proud. I sincerely hoped I could grow up to have such good looks. I decided here and there that I would let my hair grow from then on. I wanted to look as cool as my brother.
Bill and Charlie helped load all our trunks in the back of three buggy-like Jeeps with enlarged interiors. It ended up being a tight fit, but in the end, we left without trouble, Bill driving the first car, Charlie the second, and Dad taking the rear.
Mum had booked us what I believed to be some sort of ancestor of Airbnb. It was way smaller than the Burrow, and we would all need to bunk. There was a scuffle to decide who would room with whom. In the end, I ended up with Ginny and Charlie. I hoped Charlie didn’t mind sharing with the two “babies” of the brood. Percy wasn’t pleased about sharing with the twins, but Dad thought he would have a good influence on them so that they would behave.
As if.
This was the best trip I had ever taken, before and now. Bill knew every good place to be, and he was a knowledgeable and fun guide. He took us to Cairo’s incredible Museum, sharing anecdotes that were not included in the Muggle official guides. He taught us a few hieroglyphs and even taught us how to draw them. Percy and I especially liked this educational part.
Of course, as any respectable tourist in Egypt, we took a tour on a camel’s back. Mine was a real cutie, little miss, and I managed to have her spit on Fred’s back. It was fun. What was less fun was when the twins tried to shut Percy in a pyramid. Luckily, Mum and I caught them in the act. Percy seemed to mellow a little toward me afterwards.
When we took a lunch break in front of the Great Pyramid, we took the Photo™. I took great care in carefully displaying Scabbers on my shoulder, with his little paws visible. Mum loved these pictures and suggested to Dad that they were the perfect ones to send to the Daily Prophet, which had planned to write an article about Dad winning the Grand Prize. That part of the Plot being taken care of, I later decided to simply leave Scabbers at “home” for the rest of the vacation. No need for unnecessary baggage.
As a “local”, Bill also had the best addresses for food. He knew many secret spots with great food, and he made us try the national dish, which everyone regretted when night came, accompanied by numerous gas-filled disasters. Ginny kept getting outraged at me, but it only made me laugh harder, as I was used to roommates getting mad at me for my nightly farts. Harry and Theodore now took it with as much dignity as they could, but it had taken them two years to get to this point.
The morning after the first Gassy Disaster, Ginny refused to leave her bed. Charlie and I shrugged and joined the rest of the family in the kitchen for a scrumptious breakfast. Mum and the twins were preparing food to bring with us for our daily excursion, while Dad and Percy were nodding off into their teacups.
“Charlie, Ron, good morning, sweethearts,” Mum greeted us with a big smile. “Where’s Ginny?”
“She’s brooding. You could even say that she has a… gas-titude.”
Charlie choked on his mouthful of coffee before laughing his ass off.
“Go get her,” Mum replied without trying to decipher our dumb asses. “I want us to be on our way before nine o’clock.”
Grumbling to myself, I went back upstairs. I opened the door without a care in the world, before passing the threshold.
“OUT!”
Face pale and eyes wide with panic, Ginny threw a nearby shoe at me. I stopped short, eyes locked on the big red stain on the sheets that Ginny was trying to scrub away frantically.
Oh.
“I’ll get Mum.”
I did just that, with utmost discretion, so as not to bring attention to the situation to the rest of the household. No need to embarrass poor Ginny like that. Mainly because I didn’t trust the twins to be kind about it. And also because in my experience, men tended to be stupid idiots about this subject.
Sucks for Ginny. Now, the embarrassing episode of the beginning of the summer with the whole Talk seemed way more helpful.
Ginny refused to look me in the eye after that morning. I acted as if nothing had happened, and it was visibly the right thing to do, as she progressively relaxed, realising that nobody else knew and that her secret was safe.
I had to intervene later in the day, when we were scheduled for some snorkelling in the Red Sea, and the twins and Charlie began to rib Ginny playfully when she refused to participate. They just thought she was afraid, and Ginny was getting progressively redder in the face. I diverted their attention with a challenge. It worked like a charm, and we were soon racing in the water.
Later that night, Mum hugged me close and kissed the top of my head, thanking me in a low voice.
“It’s my role as a big brother, right?” I said with a shrug. “And I know that boys can be stupid sometimes.”
On one of our last days in Egypt, we visited the bazaar to purchase souvenirs. Initially, I had planned to buy some affordable gifts for my friends, but I quickly found that I had exceeded my budget. A necklace with a gold beetle pendant drew my attention. I couldn’t resist the irony of offering Hermione a Beetle, knowing what her Canon counterpart did with Rita Skeeter. I bought it. Hermione wouldn’t understand the joke, as I was simply going to tell her the talisman was for luck.
Because I was clichéd and quite proud of it, I bought the most snake-like statuette to give to Harry. It was an Egyptian cobra, made of copper and wood, with its head reared and fangs bared. It was deliciously Slytherin. Perfect.
For Luna, I waited for the magical bazaar, as I wanted something creature-oriented. I found the perfect gift in a little toy shop. I had to use all my Mum’s lessons about bargaining to get the small Sphinx statue at a reasonable price. It was charming, with vibrant colours, but most importantly, it was able to tell riddles and puzzles. In English, because the shop catered to many tourists.
I left the bazaar with a lighter wallet, but quite happy with my gifts.
It was a Weasley tradition to always be in a rush, so we came back to Great Britain one day before we were due back for Hogwarts. I was sad to say goodbye to Bill and Charlie, but I was looking forward to seeing my friends again.
Speaking of them, I found them in front of Florean Fortescue. They were both brown and radiant, having visibly had a great holiday in the French sun.
For my part, my nose was still a little red, and the rest of my face was a light pink from the severe burning I had gotten in Egypt. Damn genetics weren’t favouring me in this area.
“ Bonjour! ”
Hermione and Harry whirled around, beaming at me.
“Your accent is very decent!” Hermione exclaimed, surprised.
I was, of course, a cheater, but I took the compliment nonetheless. Soon, we were sitting with big ice creams and exchanging stories about our respective trips. Hermione wanted to know everything I learned about the local magical community, and I proceeded to give her an extensive speech about every little thing Bill had explained during our visits.
When I had narrated about anything that came to mind, they took their turn to recount their vacation.
“But tell me the most important part,” I said in the middle of the conversation. “Did you learn cool swear words?”
“Really!” Hermione sighed, a little exasperated.
But interestingly, her cheeks took on a light pink hue, and Harry was smirking. In the end, Hermione could act indignant all she wanted, but she still corrected Harry’s pronunciation. That set me off for a while.
Once we finished our treats, we went on our way to Ollivander, as I had managed to get Mum to sponsor a new wand despite still having one in “working order”. Already done with their school shopping, Harry and Hermione accompanied me.
The small shop was exactly like I was picturing it, only with a lot more dust and cobwebs. Ollivander, too, was like I expected him to be: weird and creepy. He looked quite disgusted by the fact that I was using a wand that hadn’t chosen me.
When he discovered that my borrowed wand was made of Ash, he nearly blew one of the blood vessels in his temple. According to him, it was quite literally the worst type to give to a new master, as it caused them to lose power and skill. The same went for the Unicorn hair core. I suddenly looked even more forward to practising spells with a suitable wand!
The fitting didn’t last long. Ollivander made me try only half a dozen wands before I found my match: a nice ten-inch cypress wood wand with a phoenix core, “surprisingly swishy flexibility.” It felt right, and warm, and welcoming.
“Interesting. It is known that cypress wands only match with a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death.”
I sincerely hoped that wasn’t real-life foreshadowing. I exchanged a “what the hell” look with my friends, who then got pinched expressions, visibly holding back snickers. Bunch of vile little individuals!
I paid six Galleons and hurried out of the shop.
“Given you nearly died each year since joining Hogwarts, his theory doesn’t sound too far-fetched,” Hermione commented.
“You’re a morbid no-good friend.”
“She’s kind of right, though,” Harry replied.
“Traitor.”
Our next stop was the Magical Menagerie, as Hermione wanted to adopt an owl. In the end, she adopted Crookshanks, who was even cuter than I remembered. He was enormous and fluffy, like an angry cloud, with a perfect, tiny, smushed face. I immediately fell in love with the little ginger demon.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” Hermione said, glowing.
Harry groaned noncommittally because he obviously lacked taste. I, on the other hand, excitedly agreed with Hermione, and we kept cuddling the cat, who was purring loudly, like a miniature tractor. For once in my schooling, I regretted not being in Gryffindor, where I would've had constant access to this perfect furball.
Since it was still Summer, and this year’s summer theme was uncomfortable conversations, I couldn’t avoid one last instance of it. When it was time for us to rejoin our parents at the Leaky Cauldron, we made our way there, where we found Dad waiting for everyone, intently reading the Daily Prophet.
“Harry, Hermione, how nice to see you. How are you?”
They made some polite small talk for a minute before Dad put down his newspaper, displaying the mugshot of Sirius Black.
“They still haven’t caught him, then?” Harry asked.
“No luck so far,” Dad said, looking concerned, then ill at ease. “About that, I wanted to have a word with you…”
Dad looked at Hermione and me, visibly debating internally about our hearing the conversation. In the end, he stayed where he was.
“Listen, both the Ministry and Molly would highly advise against me sharing this with you, but I believe you are old enough and you deserve to know the truth.”
He took a fortifying breath before leaning in and lowering his voice, forcing us to lean in too.
“The Minister wants to keep some facts about Black’s evasion quiet. I’ll not go into details, but you are in danger, Harry. It seems that Sirius Black might be after you.”
“But why?” Harry asked, frowning. “I did nothing to him.”
“In a certain sense, you did. Black was a faithful servant of You-Know-Who, and the night you stopped Him, Black lost everything. They say Black’s mad, and he must be, after twelve years in Azkaban, but he’s also clever enough to escape from there and evade the whole Ministry… I’m not telling you this to scare you, Harry. You’ll be quite safe, as there will be Azkaban’s guards stationed around Hogwarts, but I nonetheless want you to be on your guard. And to not seek him out.”
“Why would I?” Harry replied with a faint sneer on his face. “After what he did to my parents, I would rather keep my distance.”
Dad paled drastically.
”You know about that? Well… I am glad you understand. Please, children, keep an eye on each other, and if Black tries to contact Harry… Please inform the Headmaster. May I have your word on it?”
We promised.
I didn’t know if I was the only one to cross my fingers.
Chapter 15: BOOK THREE - NEW PROFESSORS
Notes:
TW: Non-graphic mention of death, mention of past trauma
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NEW PROFESSORS
Crookshanks went spitting mad as soon as he sniffed Scabbers. To avoid Pettigrew’s premature death, I put his little cage on the overhead racks with my trunk. The Animagus was a pathetic sight since Sirius’ evasion went public. He had lost a significant amount of weight, and his fur was patchy at best. Served him right.
“Who’s this?” Harry whispered as he came into the compartment after me.
“Professor R. J. Lupin,” Hermione whispered as she was struggling to get Crookshanks out of his wicker basket. “According to his trunk.”
Harry gaped at the sleeping man.
“So that’s … him. What is he doing here ?”
“He might be helping catch Black,” Hermione replied with a shrug. “He is the last of his friend’s group. Oh, sorry. I mean…”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. And people said I lacked tact? Hilarious.
“Anyway,” I said to cut the silence short. “Lockhart resigned to go back on his travels, so Lupin is probably here to replace him. Lucky us, he possibly can’t be worse than Lockhart or Quirrel. At least he doesn’t smell like garlic, and he only had us buy one textbook, so that’s a good sign. Amarite?”
“Sure…”
Harry shrugged noncommittally, still studying the new professor. I wondered what he was thinking so deeply about. His only past contact with Lupin had been two letters; one bittersweet about his parents, and one maddening about Sirius’ betrayal and murders.
“Did your Dad say anything else after our discussion yesterday?”
I couldn’t hide my wince. That got Harry’s attention.
“I heard Mum and Dad arguing last night. Mum was angry that Dad told you about Black being after you. She doesn’t want you to be afraid and miserable.”
“I would rather be that than to be ignorant of what’s going on in my own life.”
“But you will keep your promise to Mr Weasley, will you? About being safe, and not going looking for trouble, right?”
“When have I ever gone looking for trouble?” Harry replied.
I was about to retort, but then I stopped short. I just realised that he was telling the truth. In our past two years of school, I had done everything in my power to steer him clear of Canon troubles. And I succeeded. There was no Troll incident, no Voldemort confrontations, no crashing into the Whomping Willow, no ventures into the Forbidden Forest. In fact…
“The only one who always ends up in trouble is Ron, anyway.”
Hermione agreed.
“Don’t gang up on me, traitors! I only end up in trouble for good causes!”
“Then Harry and I will make sure that you don’t find a good cause that involves Sirius Black. Right, Harry?”
Harry agreed.
“I should find new friends.”
Because Hermione was a pretty terrible person, she called me a Calimero in a cooing voice. And because she was also a pretty great person, she then put Crookshank on my lap, and I forgave her. While I was busy cuddling the cat, the conversation went to Black-free subjects. After some time, Hermione began to talk about Hogsmeade and everything she had read about it.
“Didn’t your guide say that there is a sports shop?” Harry asked. “I’ll have to take a look.”
I blinked a few times while the conversation continued.
“Wait, back up. You’re going to Hogsmeade?”
Harry blinked at me.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, you need permission from your guardians, so…”
“I have permission.”
“How? The Hogwarts letters arrived in late July, wayyy after you left the Dursleys.”
“Mrs Granger sent it by the Muggle post, and I got the signed permission form when we came back to Britain.”
“How did you even convince them?”
“I promised that I wouldn’t spend more than two weeks at their place again next summer. They were probably thrilled.”
I was speechless for a second. How was it so easy? Weren’t they supposed to be more difficult? Surely, the fact that Harry spent most of his summer holidays away couldn’t be the only reason for this. Then I thought again. Just like I steered Harry clear of troubles at school, Hermione and I also got him away before he could be in other dire predicaments, like Dobby ruining a professional dinner or Marge Dursley being blown up.
Still.
“What about Black? Wouldn’t that be risky for you to go out in the open?”
“There is a good chance that the professor won’t let you go even with your guardian’s permission,” Hermione said, before Harry could reply. “After all, they are muggles and completely unaware of the situation with Black.”
“Surely they can’t ban me…”
“Don’t worry, mate. If they do, we’ll wait till next year to go. Bill says that it becomes boring rather quickly anyway. We wouldn’t be missing much.”
“Come on, boys, there’s no need to plan for–”
Suddenly, the door banged open. Lupin snorted in his sleep, but didn’t wake. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing at the entrance with matching smirks. They looked like cliche bullies in some old anime. I snorted despite myself.
“What –”
“Don’t say something stupid in front of the new professor, cousin.”
Malfoy took an automatic step backwards as he spotted Lupin. He squinted, expression frustrated, before leading his friends out of the compartment. Quick and efficient, without any bloodshed or slurs. Good.
Since the subject of Hogsmeade was now also tainted with Sirius’ shadow, we went back to safer waters. Several hours ran by in as much of a relaxed atmosphere as possible. We exchanged other anecdotes about our vacations to pass the time. When I was in the middle of an admiring tirade about Bill’s new look, the train started to slow down.
“We’re not there yet,” Hermione said, glancing at her watch, taken aback. “There’s no reason for us to stop.”
Curious as ever, Hermione and Harry got up to take a look at the corridor. I preferred to approach Lupin. He truly slept like the dead. I envied him a little for a second, before remembering that it was probably because of the full moon. No more jealousy on my side.
“Professor?” I called from above him. “Mr Lupin?”
He didn’t wake up. I poked his shoulder. The train came to an abrupt halt. I heard distant bangs in other compartments, but the biggest of all was the thud of my head and Lupin’s colliding.
“What–”
I ignored Lupin’s shocked exclamation. I was too busy crouching on the floor with my chin in my hands.
Then, all the lamps went out.
“Lumos,” said a hoarse voice.
The end of Lupin’s wand lit up, illuminating his weary and ashen face. He leaned in my direction, concern and guilt written all over his face.
“Are you okay?”
I groaned.
“Yes, sir. Sorry… I tripped.”
Hermione and Harry followed the light and made their way back to their seats.
“Do you think we’ve broken down?” Harry commented.
Meanwhile, Lupin had taken to examining my face, passing his light in front of my eyes, likely checking for a concussion. He worried for nothing. Or at least, I hoped so, or else Snape would be furious if I got hurt even before putting a toe out of the Hogwarts Express. Finally, Lupin seemed reassured that I wasn’t on my deathbed, and he stood up with a more alert expression.
“Maybe we should go and ask the driver what’s going on,” Hermione suggested.
“Indeed,” Lupin agreed. “Stay where you are.”
Life was dramatic, so the door slid open just at that exact moment.
A dementor stood in the doorway, its towering form casting a long shadow, lit only by the end of Lupin’s wand. Fortunately, its face was obscured entirely beneath the hood.
Then the dementor took a deep, slow, long-winded breath, as if it were drawing something more than just air from the very space around it.
I froze. My breath caught in my chest, and my knees rattled.
I heard my voice from Before. It was far away. And it said something.
Something I recognised.
Something terrible.
“[********]... Je crois qu’il est mort”.
A hoarse voice snapped something.
Light exploded in front of me.
The dementor flew away, and the door slammed shut.
My lungs took big, trembling breaths.
“Harry!”
I turned around. Harry was slumped on the floor, eyes rolled up into his head. I swore and crouched next to him. I patted Harry on his clammy cheeks, trying to wake him up the soft way. When that didn’t work, I slapped harder. Just then, the lights came back on and the train began moving again.
“W – what?”
Harry opened his eyes. I gave him his glasses. Thankfully, they weren’t broken. Then Hermione and I heaved him back onto his seat. I began fussing, but Harry cut me off to ask what had happened and what had attacked us.
“Who screamed?”
“No one screamed,” Hermione replied, agitated.
Harry’s eyes still looked unfocused. He gazed around him, lost and confused.
“But I heard screaming –”
Before he could further question us on the subject, Lupin distributed large pieces of chocolate to each of us. He briefly explained that the creature was a dementor and a guard of Azkaban, before leaving us to speak to the driver. Once the professor was gone, Hermione and I both resumed our fussing, answering Harry’s questions. I urged them to eat the chocolate.
Colours returned to Harry’s cheeks, and Lupin returned to our compartment.
“We’ll arrive at Hogsmeade station in ten minutes,” he said. “Are you all right, Harry?”
Harry muttered something, clearly embarrassed.
“I must say, I pictured our first meeting to go drastically differently. At any rate, it’s good to meet you in person finally. I am Remus Lupin. I don’t know if you remember…?”
“I do, of course,” Harry said, then he cleared his throat. “So that creature…”
“The Dementor, yes. They affect us by forcing us to relive our worst memories. They affect everyone, but they seem to have a particularly strong effect on you. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
I kicked the tip of Harry’s sneakers. He looked at me nonplussed before rolling his eyes.
“I’m fine. Don’t fuss. Professor Lupin saved us. Everything’s fine.”
I didn’t press him further. Nobody talked much during the remainder of the journey. It didn’t take too long, fortunately, and we were able to get a carriage just for the three of us.
Lupin had informed the school about Harry’s collapse —or else Snape had divinatory powers— because our Head of House absconded with Harry as soon as he stepped foot in the Entrance Hall. I went to sit at the Slytherin table alone, where I watched this Year’s Sorting with a bored eye.
When Greengrass Astoria was sorted into Slytherin, I hummed pensively. I was 83.4% sure this was Malfoy’s future wife. Further along in the ceremony, some Vane Romilda was Sorted into Gryffindor, and that name rang a bell too. But for the life of me, I couldn’t recall why.
Harry joined me just as McGonagall left with the Sorting Hat.
“So? You in trouble?”
“Snape dragged me to the Hospital Wing,” Harry whispered. “I missed the Sorting?”
“Nothing you can’t live without.”
Our conversation was cut short when Dumbledore stood up for his welcoming speech. It was not very welcoming, as he spoke about the Dementors and how dangerous they were. Finally, he introduced our two new professors. At the staff table, I looked at Snape, who was staring at Lupin, pure venom in his eyes. I winced. That was such a shitty situation.
Speaking of shitty situations, Harry wasn’t my only friend to have seen a parent die. So as soon as dinner was over, I made my way to the Ravenclaws’ table to check on Luna.
This year’s schedules were absolutely atrocious. As third years, all the Study Hall hours were replaced with our new electives.
“Homeworks will encroach on our week-ends,” I grumbled. “Look at our Mondays… Potions, Transfiguration, Defence, Double Runes, AND Astronomy. Are they trying to kill us?”
“At least half of our classes are with Gryffindor,” Harry commented. “Today we’ll have Care with Hermione. That’ll be nice. I bet Hagrid’s lesson will be fun.”
Fun is not the term I would use.
Anyway, I wouldn’t have to wait long before finding out. After an uneventful Double period of Charms with Hufflepuff and lunch, I got up from the Slytherin table with a determined glint in my eye.
“We should go now if we want to arrive on time. Let’s kidnap Nini.”
“How brave of you to call her that when she’s not around,” Harry snarked while following me to the Gryffindor table.
We recovered the wayward witch and made our way to our first Care of Magical Creatures class. On the way there, Hermione raved about her first Arithmancy class, about how fascinating it was and how she couldn’t wait to learn more. On the other hand, her first dip into Divination hadn’t left a great impression.
“You’ll see when you meet Professor Trelawney,” Hermione whispered, like she was scared about being overheard. “She is… Well. You’ll see.”
“Sounds ominous”, I whispered back with a snort.
We arrived at Hagrid’s hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. We went directly to the new professor to greet him and congratulate him again on his new job. While waiting for the rest of the class, I enjoyed some quality time with my lovely Fang, who slobbered all over me. What a disgusting cutie.
Soon, the last stragglers joined us, which prompted Hagrid to advertise a great “treat” for our first lesson. He led us to an empty paddock and told us to open our books. And how to do it. I followed his instructions with some trepidation, as I didn’t fancy losing my fingers. After some caressing and a gentle purring, the Monstrous book opened.
“Damn,” I exclaimed. “Why do I find that cute?”
“Because you are crazy,” Malefoy retorted with a sneer. “Only an insane person would think this is… cute or funny to give us books that try to rip our hands off!”
Harry barked at Malfoy to shut up. Unfortunately, Hagrid had heard Malfoy’s comment, and he looked crestfallen. After stammering something in his beard, Hagrid left for the forest. A small argument happened between Harry and Malfoy. Everyone was watching them, visibly hoping for a fight. I ignored them all and continued to pet my book. Hermione caught me in the act and muffled a smile behind her hand. I pouted in her direction.
Suddenly, Lavender Brown squealed and pointed toward the paddock.
Hagrid was coming back, leading a dozen collared Hippogriffs toward us. He tethered them to the fence and announced the subject of the lesson. Then, he invited us to come nearer. Harry, Hermione, and I were the only ones to dare. After his explanation about respect, which reminded me of Dad’s Talk, Hagrid asked:
“Who wants ter go first?”
Many backed farther away. But before the wait got any longer and before Hagrid could make his sad puppy eyes again, I took a step forward. And because my brain was rotten, I couldn’t help myself.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
Nobody got the reference, of course. But the most important part was that I did, and it was enough to make me smile like a loon. Hagrid clearly thought that I was smiling in excitement, and he beamed at me.
“Good man, Ron! Right then – let’s see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.”
I climbed over the paddock fence with an inelegant ‘oof’ and a snicker from Harry. Then, I had to face the reality of my situation. I was standing before a gigantic Hippogriff with a big beak and massive talons. And Hagrid… took off its collar! I ‘eeped’ and froze, looking into Buckbeak’s orange eyes.
“Tha’s it. Tha’s it, Ron… Now, bow.”
Hippogriffs wanted respect, so respect is what this one got. I channelled all my K-drama knowledge and bowed like Buckbeak was my stern and frightening boss. My eyes didn’t leave the ground in front of the creature until one of its knees bent and its bowed head came into view.
“Well done!” Hagrid congratulated with an ecstatic smile. “Right— yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!”
“His beak ?” I squeaked. “You mean that sharp thing there?”
People snickered behind me. I blushed. Embarrassed, I decided to give it a try. I moved cautiously toward Buckbeak and patted his beak several times. He closed his eyes, and I cooed. I petted the fine fluff at the base of his beak. So soft. The Hippogriff visibly appreciated it and melted into my touch. Adorable.
The class broke into applause. I jumped out of my bones.
“Righ’ then,” Hagrid said. “I reckon he might’ let yeh ride him!”
“Do I have to?”
Cue the sad puppy eyes. I closed my eyes, trying to find the strength to fight back my people-pleaser streak. I lost pathetically fast. Despondent, I let Hagrid grab me under my arms and put me on Buckbeak’s back. Right. That couldn’t be that much different from riding a horse, right? Except I couldn’t ride a horse that well either. Damn. Was that the heroic death Ollivander was talking about?
Hagrid’s last advice went entirely over my head.
Then we soared.
I hugged the creature’s neck with all my might, trying to find purchase in its feathers. I wanted to scream in fright, but I was so scared I couldn’t utter a sound.
Then, just as abruptly as our take-off, we landed on the sweet, sweet ground. I was so frozen that Hagrid had to pry me off forcefully from Buckbeak’s back. I sat limply on the ground to catch my breath. Never again.
After that, everyone was encouraged to give it a try. Hermione and Harry teamed up on a lovely chestnut Hippogriff, but instead of joining them, I stayed near Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who had taken over Buckbeak. They were making disdainful remarks about both the lesson and Hagrid.
“This is very easy. I knew it must have been, if Weasley could do it–”
“You’re so rude, cousin,” I said casually while standing up.
My weak provocation worked. Malfoy turned to me brusquely.
“Would you stop with that, you utter buffoon. I know you must be envious, what with you being in a disgusting family of blood-traitors–”
“I should punch you in the face like your daddy last year–Eurgh!”
Malfoy strangled me with the collar of my robes.
I heard Harry’s and Hermione’s outraged screams and Hagrid hollering for us to stop from a distance. Suddenly, both Malfoy and I were lifted into the air by the back of our robes. I groaned in pure embarrassment at the picture we made, just like our fathers that one time. I preferred to see it rather than live it myself, thank you very much.
Having successfully broken us apart, Hagrid lectured us about fighting and took ten points from Slytherin. Malfoy looked murderous. I certainly looked rather sheepish, or that was what I was going for. In truth, I was pretty satisfied.
After all, Hagrid’s first lesson ended without any injury.
That was a great victory. Now, I only had to continue distracting Malfoy for all our future lessons.
Easy peasy.
Chapter 16: BOOK THREE - THE BOGGART
Notes:
TW: Blood, graphic death, sort-of forced coming-out.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE BOGGART
Foolishly, I had hoped that my kerfuffle with Malfoy would go unnoticed by the rest of the school. I had no such luck. On Thursday morning, as soon as everybody was seated in the potion classroom, Snape ordered Malfoy and me to stay after class. I had to repress a groan. Instead, I responded with a polite and subdued ‘Yessir’ and bent my head.
It quickly became apparent that Snape was in an immensely foul mood. He snapped at everyone —even Malfoy— and he tore into Neville. He went as far as to threaten to use his botched potion on his pet toad. That was awful to witness, and I sincerely hoped it was an empty threat. Surely, it couldn’t be legal, right?
Well.
Let it be said that Severus Snape never makes empty threats. Fortunately, Hermione had discreetly assisted Neville in rectifying his potion, and it worked as it was supposed to. I heaved a sigh of relief. Snape still took points from Gryffindor because Hermione helped without being asked to.
Class was dismissed. Everyone bolted, except for Malfoy and me. The heavy wooden door slammed shut, echoing through the empty classroom. Snape leaned against his desk, arms crossed sternly, and his dark eyes flicking between us.
“I trust,” Snape began in his signature slow tone. “That neither of you is so foolish as to waste my time with lies. I already know what happened in Care of Magical Creatures.”
I tried and failed not to shift nervously. On the other hand, Malfoy seemed entirely at ease, and he smirked.
“It was just a misunderstanding, Professor. Weasley here couldn’t quite handle his first real lesson and decided to take it out on me.”
I opened my mouth in utter disbelief. Before I could defend myself and right the story, Snape spoke again:
“I don’t care for your petty squabbles. If I hear of another altercation between you two, you’ll both be scrubbing cauldrons until your hands bleed. Do I make myself clear?”
We both nodded.
“Good. You'd better both regain the points you lost. Now, get out of my sight.”
We left. Not wanting to give Malfoy the occasion to taunt me, I hurried to the Great Hall, where Harry had saved me a place next to him. I immediately stuffed my face with mashed potatoes and gravy. Harry seemed to have decided that it was better to let it lie for now. Instead, Blaise, Theodore, and he pulled me into their discussion about our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.
“I heard from some fourth-year students that he’s a competent teacher. For now,” Theodore added. “There’s not much you can tell after only one lesson.”
“We could tell for the last two teachers after only a few minutes into their first lesson,” I grumbled.
He conceded the point to me.
After lunch, Harry and I fetched Hermione to join Lupin’s classroom together. It was nice to be so often paired with Gryffindor. Hermione was a great study partner, and she was studious enough to be a good influence on both Harry and me. I was grateful for it, as I tended to get bored easily when studying.
“Good afternoon,” Lupin greeted when he finally arrived in the classroom. “Today will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands.”
My stomach churned uneasily. Surely, this wasn’t the Boggart lesson. Not as our first lesson. Right? I followed the throngs of my classmates out of the classroom, lost in my thoughts. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten about this, and I had often wondered idly what my boggart would be. I still hadn't come to a consensus about it. It could be either rejection or failure, either by changing too much and dooming the wizarding world, or by not changing enough and dooming some of the people I loved.
Either way, I didn’t look forward to discovering which option it was.
Finally, Lupin invited us into the staffroom. It was empty except for Snape, who made a mean comment about Neville before leaving. He was really in an atrocious mood. I sincerely hoped it would ease with time; otherwise, this year would be very long.
Lupin beckoned us toward an old wardrobe. It banged off the wall and wobbled worryingly.
“Nothing to worry about, class. There’s a boggart in there. Now, my first question is, what is a boggart?”
I put up my hand and answered. After all, Snape wanted me to regain the points I lost. Better begin now rather than later. And that was the easy part. Facing the boggart would undoubtedly be far worse. I felt my hand start to sweat. I hardened my grip on my wand. Then we all practised the incantation.
“Right, Neville, come closer,” Lupin said. “Let’s start with the first step: what scares you the most?”
Neville looked ready to disappear. In the back of the room, Malfoy and his cronies were making fun of the poor Gryffindor. Stuck in the spotlight, Neville had no choice but to tell the whole class that Snape was his worst fear. This lesson was going to give bullies and pranksters a lot of fuel. I wasn’t sure I was a fan. But it was necessary to learn how to get rid of boggarts, as they were pretty fond of magical households.
“If Neville is successful,” Lupin declared after explaining how to make a boggart funny, “the boggart will probably focus on each of us one by one. I want all of you to take a minute now to think about what frightens you the most, and picture how you could make it look ridiculous…”
The room went quiet.
I was so screwed. Frankly, I had no idea how my existential fears could take on a form, as it wasn’t something as concrete as a spider or a snake. How could one represent rejection? How could one represent failure in changing the future?
“Everyone ready?” Lupin asked after a long, pensive pause.
What I felt was a mix of stage fright and an abject fear of what the boggart would look like. I tried to move to the back of the group, but Hermione and Harry both grabbed me by my sleeves. Damn traitors.
“Neville will begin. When I call your name, you come forward to take his place… Everyone back, now, so Neville can get a clear shot. On the count of three… One, two, three!”
Snape got out of the wardrobe. Then Neville cried the spell. Snape was now wearing Augusta Longbottom’s dubious fashion. People laughed.
“Pansy! Forward!”
The boggart took on her own face, but was covered in boils and ugly clothes. “Riddikulus!” Her face was replaced with Hermione’s, boils and ugly clothes still there. Pansy and other Slytherins snickered. Lupin didn’t seem very happy, but he didn’t say anything.
“Parvati!”
The boggart was now a mummy, stiff arms rising like a villain in Scooby-doo. ‘Riddikulus!’ The mummy stumbled on its bandages and face-planted.
“Good! Gregory!”
The boggart grew. And grew. And grew until its head was touching the ceiling. Goyle froze in front of the giant for a moment. Then, with a “Riddikulus”, the giant shrank until it was the size of a mouse, groaning in a comically high-pitched voice.
“Excellent! Seamus!”
The boggart changed into a banshee, who shrieked in an honestly frightening voice. “Riddikulus”. She had lost her voice.
“Vincent, you next!”
There was an uproar on the Gryffindor’s side of the class when the boggart took on the form of a snake. Seamus was rolling on the floor in laughter. Malfoy didn’t seem very happy about his friend being afraid of our house’s mascot. Vincent finally managed to shout the spell. The giant snake transformed into a flabby worm.
“Very good! Lavender!”
The worm became a rat frothing at the mouth. Lavender screeched the spell. The rat became a white mouse in a yellow tutu.
“Cute. Draco!”
Malfoy was sneering, head held high. He pointed his wand in the direction of the mouse. It grew into a humanoid form, growing flowing blond hair and wizard robes. Then Lucius Malfoy stood in front of us.
“Wow,” I couldn’t help but whisper. “Speaking of daddy issues!”
Malfoy cast the spell. Lucius morphed into… Dad. He was dressed in mismatched rags, and he tripped over his robes. Many people laughed at his appearance and clumsiness.
What a little cunt!
“Ronald!”
I walked in front of the prone figure of my Dad, who had been trying and failing to get up. The boggart turned on itself in a blur before settling into its form.
There was a terrible scream.
A spurt of blood from a mangled carotid.
Snape fell to the floor. Blood was gushing from the wounds. He fell against the wardrobe, bloody hands grasping at his throat. A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from him.
“Take… it. Take… it….”
Suddenly, someone was in front of me.
Snape disappeared. In his stead, a dementor appeared, breathing loudly and rattling.
“Riddikulus!” Harry shouted.
There was a loud crack, and the shape-shifter exploded in a wisp of smoke. It was gone.
There was applause. Lupin was talking and congratulating people. I heard all of it like I was underwater, far away, and distorted.
That’s how one can represent failure in changing the future. Neat. Very neat. Huge fan of the experience.
Someone pulled gently on my elbow.
“Ron, are you okay?” Hermione whispered in my ear.
“Fine.”
She made a face.
“Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson! For homework, please read the chapter on boggarts and summarise it for me… to be handed in tomorrow. That will be all. Ronald, please stay behind.”
Talking excitedly, the class left the staffroom. I heard Snape’s and my name coming up a few times, but I ignored it. The door closed behind Harry.
“I know that what happened with the boggart was difficult. It’s important to remember that the fear it represents doesn’t always reflect reality. Sometimes, our fears are more complicated than we realise… It’s not something that should be dwelt upon. You must understand that fear doesn’t have to control you…”
I didn’t answer, preferring to stare at a point in the distance, far away from Lupin’s face.
“If you ever want to talk about it, about Snape, or anything else… I’m here. You’re not alone in this.”
“Can I go? I have Divination.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
I left. Harry was waiting for me. We ran to the North Tower, hoping to arrive on time for our first Divination class. Until today, I had been especially excited for it, but the incident in DADA had quite soured my mood.
It didn’t get better when we had to climb tight, spiralling stairs. By the time we arrived, I felt dizzy and out of breath. The last of our classmates disappeared into the trap door leading to the classroom. Harry and I climbed after them.
When I stepped foot in the classroom, the nostalgia hit me like a slap to the face. I was instantly assailed by the heavy scent of incense, the soft tinkling of windchimes, and the vibrant and dusty colours of the draperies. It felt like home, from Before, at my Papa’s house. It looked and felt like Papa’s secret room in the attic, the one he used to meditate and store his rare books and his crystals.
It felt good, and snug, and bittersweet.
“How nice to see you in the physical world at last.”
I squeaked in fright. Harry snorted. Rolling my eyes, I herded us to a table where I sank into a pouffe, legs crossed. Trelawney introduced herself, and she was such a mood. On style alone, she was my second favourite teacher for now. I was a little concerned when she said that books couldn’t take us far in this subject, so I hoped my enthusiasm would be enough.
“My dear,” Trelawney abruptly said while turning to Daphne Greengrass. “Mind your sister’s dating, will you?”
“She’s eleven!” Daphne argued.
Trelawney completely snubbed her. After that prediction, she made a few other cryptic comments, served us tea, and made us read each other's dregs at the bottom of our cups. It was a laborious exercise, but we did our best to decipher blobs of brown tea leaves.
“So, what can you see in mine?”
“A load of soggy brown stuff,” Harry deadpanned.
I had to stifle my laugh against my textbook.
“There’s some sort of snakes…” He consulted Unfogging the Future. “That means that… ‘ Your life is filled with problems and worries which you need to eliminate before they ruin your life completely. ’ Sorry about that. There’s a thing that could be a… Jellyfish? I guess. ‘ ...jellyfish indicates the need for flexibility in your life .’ Guess you’ll have to take up aerobics or something.”
“Eugh. Anything but that.”
Harry hid his smirk behind his hand. I took his teacup.
“Let’s see about your future then, mister smartypants.”
He was right; it resembled a load of soggy brown stuff more than anything else. I turned the cup in various positions.
“Hum. That thing here looks like a mushroom,” I said while searching for the correct page. “ Oh my god .”
I had to bite my knuckles when I read the paragraph. Harry was looking at me with apprehension.
“So, listen there, mate. ‘ Due to their phallus-like shape–’ ”
Harry went beet red and put his face in his hands. I continued:
“‘... they generally represent the male fertility. There might be talks of a child in your near future.’ Harry! You dog. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Shut up.”
I stared at his cup again.
“There. It looks like an onion, doesn’t it?”
“You keep seeing food everywhere! You’re just hungry, admit it.”
There was a loud sound of breaking china. Harry and I both jumped in surprise. Trelawney went to inspect the damage done by the table with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. I went back to my textbook.
“Oh, lucky you…”
“What now?” Harry groaned, still pink in the cheeks.
“Nothing bad, I promise. ‘ Onions symbolise that you are immune to the outside influence of others. They do not dissuade you from your path. ’ That’s nice. Great strength of character.”
“I prefer that rather than a baby.”
“Don’t we all.”
Someone else broke a cup. Trelawney was visibly losing patience, and she spent the rest of the lesson close to the trio of Chaos at the back of the class. Harry and I served ourselves more tea, then we read stranger and funnier signs in our cups. It was a nice and relaxed affair, and I almost could forget about the disastrous previous lesson.
Almost.
There was no such thing as forgetting about the disastrous DADA lesson. I soon found myself at the centre of the new, outlandish stories circulating through the school rumour mill. At dinner that same day, the general story among my yearmates was close to what happened.
However, things started to deteriorate the day after, when everyone and their neighbours had the opportunity to discuss it in their common rooms and elaborate on crazy theories. I discovered these during my classes on Friday, which I shared with all of the different Houses.
First, I had History of Magic with Ravenclaw. I was surprised by the accuracy of their theory, which was that Snape’s death was symbolic. Some people had used the incident to dissect the psychological implications of my boggart. According to Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein, Snape represented power; according to Michael Corner, he represented authority; according to Brocklehurst and Patil, he represented personal failure. That… was a little insulting for Snape.
But for the rest, that was very close to the truth. I felt quite uncomfortable with people talking so much about my inner psyche, so I avoided speaking to anyone but Harry.
After lunch, I had DADA again with Gryffindor, and I barely participated. The lesson wasn’t practical this time, fortunately, so we spent the lesson going over our essays about the chapter on boggarts. Compared to the previous lesson, this one was tame and kind of boring, so the Gryffindors used it as an opportunity to interrogate me about Snape.
The consensus in Gryffindor was that the boggart was too specific to be a simple coincidence and that the boggart reenacted a scene that really happened. They were convinced that somehow, Snape once uncharacteristically saved my life and that now I felt indebted to him. Wild theories emerged about the life-saving episode, whether it was an evil vampire, a raging werewolf, or even the troll in first year.
That was… a lot to take in. I had to use all my mental strength to keep my poker face and to deflect attention. Harry and Hermione bracketed me and protected me from Seamus’s, Dean’s, Parvati’s, and Lavender’s interrogations. It was a tiring period.
Lastly, I had Charms with the Hufflepuff house. It was… different. Where the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors asked me to confirm their theories, the Hufflepuffs just… whispered between themselves. And they gave me looks. Sad looks, worried looks, and pitiful looks. I hated it. I stopped counting the number of “Poor Ron” I heard. Despite my efforts to block the whispers out, I still heard Susan Bones commiserating with Hannah Abbott about how heartwarming it was to see a Slytherin care so much about his Head of House.
At the end of the day, I was exhausted. With all of my classmates strangely involved in this drama, I couldn’t take a break at any moment. I had the hope that I would have peace during classes shared with other Houses, but that hope was foolish. At the very least, they were kinder than my fellow Slytherins.
“Well, well, well,” Malfoy drawled out as soon as I came into the Common room after dinner. “Shouldn’t you be polishing Snape’s cauldrons or licking his shoes, Weasley?”
Harry suddenly stood between Malfoy and me.
“Shut up, Malfoy. Leave him alone.”
Grabbing me by the elbow, Harry pulled me into our usual corner of the room. Behind us, Malfoy snickered, followed by his cronies and some bystanders.
“Ignore them. They’re stupid.”
I tried. But even in our corner away from the crowd, the whispers followed us. I could feel what felt like the entire House’s eyes on my back.
This day couldn’t end soon enough.
While the interest in my life was confined to my yearmates in the other Houses, things changed after the previous night. Malfoy's efforts in the common room to include upper-year Slytherins in the drama had worked. Now, even people who usually didn’t care about younger housemates were suddenly all up in my business.
To avoid the whispers, I convinced Harry to join Hermione at the Gryffindor table for breakfast. She welcomed us with bemusement:
“Hi. Ron, are you alright?”
I groaned, putting my face in my hands. Harry relayed last night’s confrontation to Hermione, who frowned while staring at the Slytherin table. Just then, a group of fifth-year girls looked in our direction and giggled.
“Don’t they have a life?” I muttered.
“You know they don’t,” Harry said sympathetically.
“You’ve got to ignore them,” Hermione added, frowning even more. “They’re just trying to get a reaction.”
I nodded despondently at those hollow words. Of course, they were trying to get a rise out of me, but knowing it didn’t make it any easier.
“It’s hard to ignore when it’s all anyone talks about.”
Hermione reached over the table to hold my hand briefly.
“I know it’s hard. I’m sorry that you had to… Well, you know.”
“I know what?” I asked, confused. “No, I don’t know…?”
“Never mind,” she corrected herself. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
What was she on about? I was stumped. So, I turned to Harry.
“Does she make sense?”
Harry looked in another direction and shrugged. I was clearly the only one in the dark. I hated that.
“Guys, just spit it out. You’re being mighty rude with your secret subtext conversation, I’m out of.”
Both of them startled, like it didn’t even occur to them before now. Slowly but surely, I could feel my temper rising.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” I snapped. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Just finish your damn sentence so we can move on.”
Eyes widening, they exchanged a look. I hated that sort of shit. That secretive shit I was excluded from.
“Ron, I just meant to say that I was sorry you had to…”
Hermione trailed off again at the exact same time. I gritted my teeth and glared at her. She spoke again, cheeks getting pinker.
“Well. Malfoy is a git and always will be. And it’s none of anyone's business if you…”
She paused for a beat too long.
“If I what ?”
Harry heaved a long sigh and spoke next:
“If you have a crush on Snape. We don’t mind, mate. We’ve known for ages.”
I froze.
“It’s really unlucky that you had to Come Out that way,” Hermione added with a commiserating shake of her head.
My brain couldn’t keep up with the conversation anymore. Some of my emotions must have been blatant on my face, because both of my friends looked at me with concern. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Then I looked all around us. No Gryffindor was close enough to have heard, but I still leaned in and spoke in a low voice.
“What the hell!” I whisper-shouted. “I don’t– I’m not –”
Harry lifted a brow. Hermione just sent me a compassionate look.
“Oh, Ron. You don’t need to hide it or lie about it. It’s just us. Like Harry said, we’ve known for a long time.”
“You’re not very subtle about it,” Harry added unhelpfully while serving himself porridge.
Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs.
“Regardless. We don’t care. We support you. You can talk to us about it, you know.”
I wanted to defend myself, but the words just backed up in my constricted throat. I croaked something unintelligible. My face was burning. I felt like all the air had disappeared from my vicinity.
I shot to my feet. Before they could stop me, I stormed off.
Just as I was about to pass through the doors, Malfoy’s voice called out from the Slytherin table:
“Off to your secret rendezvous with Snape, Weasley?”
Heart pounding painfully, I left without turning around. I couldn’t let anyone see me right now. Not when I was on the verge of tears, panicked beyond reason.
I couldn’t bear it. So I just ran.
I didn’t care where I was going, only that it was away.
Away from Malfoy’s taunts.
Away from Hermione’s careful tone.
Away from Harry’s maddeningly calm nodding.
Away from the growing pit in my chest.
They’ve known for ages.
It was unbearable.
I felt exposed. Vulnerable.
I needed to get away, to be alone.
Mind racing and breath short, I rushed through the empty corridors. I needed to get away before Hermione or Harry or worse —one of my siblings— could reach me. But I also needed to get the furthest away from the Slytherin common room, away from Malfoy or anyone who couldn’t mind their own business.
I wiped my eyes.
I felt messy. Pathetic.
How had things gotten so out of control? How could my stupid boggart lead to that shit to get exposed to everyone’s eyes? I never told anyone anything about my reflection in the Mirror of Erised, no matter how awful and lonely I felt. And now… Despite my best effort…
I didn’t even know which floor I was on anymore.
Each time I heard footsteps echoing close to me, I ran along corridors, I cut corners sharply, and dashed to another flight of stairs. I bolted forward until there wasn’t anywhere further to go. But then, that meant I was on the seventh floor, in Gryffindor’s territory.
What if my siblings heard the rumours?
What if they tell Mum and Dad?
What if being sorted into Slytherin had used up all the acceptance they could give me in a lifetime?
What if there wasn’t any acceptance left for one more freakiness?
My throat was tight. My vision blurred.
I was too close to my siblings for comfort. So I darted in the opposite direction, towards Filch’s office. No one in their right mind would go there. Right?
I turned a corner and suddenly stopped. The corridor was empty. There was nowhere else to go now. I bent over my knees, gulping air desperately. I tried counting my breath, and when that failed, I tried to think of something positive. And when that failed, I let myself fall against a wall and sat on the ground.
It was cold. Solid. Grounding.
But it wasn’t enough. What I needed right now was to hide away from the world.
Hide from stares and bullies.
Hide from well-meaning words and discussions about feelings.
I blinked.
In front of me was a door. A door that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Oh.”
I turned my head to look behind me. On the wall hung a tapestry depicting dancing trolls, like I had an inkling there would be. Until this very moment, I had never been alone long enough to consider visiting the Room of Requirements, but now seemed like a perfect opportunity. No one would find me there.
I hurried to the tall door and stepped inside. The door slammed behind me.
Finally safe.
Chapter 17: BOOK THREE - COMING OUT
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
COMING OUT
“Safe” may have been the wrong term to use, I realised when I saw the sheer size of the mountains of old objects that were towering over me. It certainly looked like a dangerous version of Jenga, with piles and piles of chairs, cauldrons, and rickety furniture.
It was a truly ideal place to hide. Also an ideal place to die under a ton of crap and never being found again.
Anyway, I walked away from the door, navigating between the towers of objects. Everything was dusty, broken, and forgotten. Broken tables, cracked goblets, rolls of parchment, books bound in scales.
It was disgusting, but it was also oddly comforting. Just like Trelawney’s classroom brought me back to fond memories of Papa, this room reminded me of my grandmother from Before. It looked exactly like her cellar, her garage, and her attic. Full of stuff one who lived through WW2 wouldn’t want to part with, just in case it could come in handy. Realistically, this room looked like the embodiment of Diogenes' syndrome. Magical style.
It was perfect.
I stumbled forward, nearly tripping over a footstool with tiny legs that skittered away from me.
“I love magic.”
The room was vast, with high, impossible windows. Dust motes hovered like frozen fireflies, caught in slanted rays of light. The air was still, with a musty smell, just like my grandma’s house. No matter the grime and filth, it felt almost like home from Before. Heaps of hats, shoes, and cloaks, each more flea-eaten than the last.
I passed in another alleyway bordered by walls made of stolen and damaged books. I kept sneezing, but wouldn’t stop cranking my neck to read the titles of the dusty tomes. Most of the letters were faded and impossible to read. I didn’t dare wipe the spines, fearing an avalanche of books might take me out.
I already had enough problems.
The thought brought back tears.
Why did the boggart show that? Why Snape of all people?
Sure, his death had a massive effect on me, and I cried harder for him than I had for any other character, but surely, if my worst fear was to doom the wizarding world by changing things around, then why show me Snape, rather than Voldemort or a dead Harry? Really, why Snape? I wasn’t close to him. He wasn’t my friend, he wasn’t family. He was just my teacher. Basically a stranger.
I didn’t know him. Yes, I knew of him, of his life story, of his role in the wars. But that was a character in a book. Not only that, but I spent years adoring him because I read everything other than the source material. I liked a version of him that didn’t exist in real life.
Sure, I liked his snark and his style. But that was it. I appreciated someone with style and charisma. Surely I wasn’t the only one to feel this way. Loads of people had a healthy dose of respect for Snape. However, it didn’t change the fact that he was a bitter man who enjoyed bullying children. He was an ex-terrorist who had caused my best friend to become an orphan.
He was cold. He was harsh. Cruel, to some. But not to me. He saved my life last year, and he protected me. From Quirrell, from Tom Riddle, from Lockhart. It was inevitable that I would develop strong feelings toward him. Not love, just gratitude for everything he had done for me.
That wasn’t some remnant from Before. Because I wasn’t there Before. All he did for me was real, concrete, like his acts of bravery during the Second Wizarding War were not. He wasn’t a hero yet.
Only… He was to me. And maybe… I had started to admire him for my own reasons rather than for what he could potentially do in the future. Maybe… Perhaps I craved respect from him. He was my head of House and a strict, no-nonsense man. Perhaps I felt proud when he visibly approved of me. That wasn’t love or a crush. Just… When someone as stingy with compliments as Snape approves of you, it’s unavoidable to feel proud of yourself.
I was just a people pleaser.
That was it.
I wanted the people around me to be proud of me. Or at least, I wished for them to accept me. Or at the very least, for them to not think that I was a waste of space.
That was it.
When Snape approved of me being one of his Slytherins, it meant that maybe I had my place exactly where I was. That it was worth it to be the wrong Weasley. The snake in the den.
“Damn.”
What if my siblings heard about this? What if they thought I’ve gone mental? Years ago, Fred said he thought I was a Changeling, exchanged after birth. He said it in jest, or at least, that's what he told me after we reconciled. But what if this came back to mind? What if they told Mum and Dad? What if they got disappointed? What if they thought I was too much trouble, that I was too different from them?
I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to blend in.
To belong.
That was out of reach now. Not with Malfoy making sure that everyone in our House knew of my difference.
And when he reached his goal…
What if the professors hear the rumours?
What if Snape did?
The last thought made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t endure his reaction. Whether he would mock me, pity me, or worse: publicly renounce me and never speak to me again.
I liked our dynamics, our relationship based on shared secrets and mutual respect. I didn’t want it to end.
Unfortunately, the ball wasn’t in my court.
I could do nothing but take what came my way. Which was why I hid away somewhere no one could find me. Because I was a coward —always had been— and I had no nerve whatsoever. I wasn’t about to boldly come out to the whole school in a flamboyant style. Quite the contrary. For now, I felt much safer in my snug little closet.
*CRIIIIIC*
I jumped in the air with a scream.
The small stool from before rolled up in my direction.
I screamed again and backpedalled from the haunted object. Before I could climb to safety, the little stool stopped at my feet. On it sat a moth-eaten beige tablecloth, and on it was a short pile of books.
Heart pounding, I bent over and poked the first book. Nothing happened. I took it and blew the dust away from the cover.
“What the hell…”
I took the second book, and then the third. I read the titles.
Then burst out in incredulous laughter. My hysterics ended in a fit of coughing. I looked at the covers again, unable to contain my disbelieving snorts. Here I was, holding Maurice , To Want a Boy, and When Someone You Know is Gay .
The Room was so very subtle. As much as I, apparently.
I let out another laugh. Tiny and bitterer, but still uncontrollable.
“Thank you,” I said, unsure about my sanity.
The stool didn’t move again. I shrugged, found a place to sit comfortably, and began reading.
Time passed quickly while I read; therefore, I didn’t realise I missed lunch before my stomach began to growl at me. I left my books on an unsteady desk near the door, ready to be retrieved when I came next.
Nervous about leaving my hiding place, I stepped into the hallway with trepidation. As soon as I closed the door behind me, it vanished with a whisper, like it had never been there. My robes were disgusting, and I patted them for a while, trying and failing to dust them adequately. Finally, I gave up on them and left the empty corridor.
As I was passing near Filch’s office, two blurs rounded the corner at full speed.
“RON!”
Fred and George barreled into me, nearly knocking me to the ground. Fred grabbed my shoulders; George seized my arms.
I felt a raging panic swell inside of me.
“Bloody hell, there you are!” Fred exclaimed, voice half-laugh, half-yell.
“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you? We thought you’d been cursed. Or expelled. Or murdered.”
“Or worse,” Fred said darkly. “ Expelled and cursed and murdered. ”
I blinked at them, too startled to answer. Their faces were flushed, not from anger, but panic.
“We used the Map—” George stopped himself, before speaking again. “You weren’t anywhere. Nowhere. Not in the dungeons, not in the library, not at lunch–”
“You never miss meals!” Fred added helpfully, shaking my shoulders a little.
“You disappeared,” Georges said, softer this time. “Proper vanished.”
They stopped their alarmed talking and stared at me. I felt a warm surge of affection for my brothers. They visibly worried a lot, going so far as to use their “secret” Map to search the entire castle.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Fred repeated. “That’s it?”
“I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I just needed to… avoid people. I was fine.”
“ You were not fine,” George nearly growled, jaw tight. “You don’t go ‘fine’ and then vanish for half a day. You were nowhere. We looked everywhere .”
“Where were you?” Fred asked. “We know the castle better than anyone, and we couldn’t find you. How did you— How did you vanish? Did you leave the grounds?”
I scoffed.
“With Dementors patrolling all around? No thanks.”
“Then where ?” George yelled, exasperated.
“Why does it matter so much to you anyway? You can see I’m perfectly fine!”
“Just like Ginny was ‘ fine’ last year,” Fred retorted darkly. “She said she was fine, and we left it at that. All the while, she was being possessed by You-Know-Who. And we only learned about it months after it was over.”
“We’re supposed to look after Ginny and you, and we completely failed her. We’re not going to repeat the same mistake.”
I remained speechless, eyes moist and nose tickling.
“Please, Ron.”
“I swear I was safe,” I promised earnestly. “Voldemort wasn’t possessing me—”
They gasped in fright.
“ —I was just hiding. Just… I was safe. I swear.”
They exchanged a glance. Then, they finally let go of my arms and shoulders.
“Look,” George said carefully. “If you don’t want to tell us where you were, fine. We'll leave that alone. We know the value of a good hiding place.”
“But don’t expect us to drop everything else,” Fred continued. “Because while you were off being a ghost, rumours were going around.”
My stomach dropped like a stone. I looked at the wall next to me and folded my arms. I hoped to look nonchalant rather than defensive.
My brothers stared at me, and for once, neither of them had anything clever to say. The silence stretched until George couldn’t take it anymore.
“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” George asked, his voice softer now, careful.
“Nothing is going on,” I muttered. “It’s just Malfoy being a git. Again.”
Fred stepped around to face me.
“Ron. People are talking. They think—”
For once, Fred hesitated before talking.
“They think you… fancy Snape.”
My face burned in humiliation. If only I could Apparate away. But I couldn’t, and the twins wouldn’t let me leave until I gave them an explanation. I decided to use my to-go method when in trouble: spin it around and divert their attention to somebody else.
“Bloody Malfoy is an ass and he finds it fun to… to twist things around because he’s got nothing better to do with his crappy life.”
“Then why did your boggart—” George started, then faltered.
I groaned miserably.
“You heard about that too?”
“We’re your brothers, Ron,” George said. “People tell us things. And people talk louder when you’re not around to defend yourself.”
“Especially that coward Malfoy. He opened his cake-hole again at lunch. Everyone heard. At least, you’ll be pleased to hear that he got detention, too.”
I blanched. If Malfoy got detention for saying things, that meant that a professor had heard. Which meant…
“What happened? What did Malfoy say? Was… was Snape there? ”
They grimaced.
“Err… You sure you want to hear?”
“I’ll hear it anyway,” I snapped back. “Just tell me before someone else does in front of other people. Please.”
Fred heaved a big sigh.
“Malfoy decided lunch was the perfect moment to… show off his ‘wit’. He was loud enough that even the first years heard him… He— He made some crack about how you probably spent your morning… ‘off under Snape’s desk. Doing him favours.”
I closed my eyes. Then I hid my face in my hands.
“It was stupid of him,” George added. “Saying that in the Great Hall. Even McGonagall looked ready to hex him— and Snape—”
“ He heard ?” I wailed in disbelief.
“Yeah… Snape looked like he swallowed a live toad. Gave him detention on the spot.”
If only the floor could swallow me whole.
“Harry looked right about to punch Malfoy, though. I would’ve loved to see it.”
The mention of Harry made me grimace further.
“Did something happen with Harry and Hermione?” George asked delicately. “Because usually, you three are joined at the hip and today…”
“They just—” I trailed off, then squared my shoulders. “They believed it. The rumours. They were supportive. Like it was a done deal. Like I’d already come out or something.”
I didn’t dare look at their reaction. There was a long pause.
“You didn’t,” George said slowly.
“No.”
“Do you want to?” Fred asked, tone gentler than I had ever heard.
I blushed madly.
“ No. There’s nothing to— To— I mean, just leave it alone .”
I glared at them despite wanting anything but to meet their gaze.
“Alright,” Fred stated simply.
George nodded.
“Then that’s the truth. And anyone who says different can answer to us.”
“And we’ll shut Malfoy up for good,” Fred added, already cracking his knuckles.
“... Don’t get caught.”
They cackled. I shook my head. I feared what they were planning.
“Anyway,” George declared, clapping his hands. “Maybe tell us next time before you vanish into your mysterious hidden lair. Alright?”
“Because we were scared, Ronnie. Like… really scared.”
“Sorry.”
They nodded. Then George slung an arm around my shoulders.
“Come on. You need food. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
That was the best thing I had heard since I woke up this morning. They shepherded me to the dungeons, bracketing me like they were afraid that I would disappear again. Guilt gnawed at me for worrying them so much.
Fortunately, they didn’t speak about it again. Instead, they commandeered a table in the corner and motivated half a dozen house-elves into piling it high with blueberry tarts, roast beef sandwiches, hot cocoa, and a suspiciously pink pudding.
“Isn’t that a little much?”
“Emergency measures,” Fred said solemnly.
I snorted, and that made the twins grin like they’d just won a Quidditch final.
The afternoon passed in a haze of warmth, food, and half-baked jokes. They didn’t talk about Malfoy. They didn’t say the word Snape. They didn’t even talk about my hiding place, and in exchange, I didn’t talk about George’s mention of the Map whose existence I wasn’t supposed to know about.
It was good.
For a little while, I could breathe again.
All was good.
When it was time for dinner, the twins flanked me again like bodyguards as we made our way up from the kitchen and into the Great Hall.
I stiffened at the entrance.
Heads didn’t exactly turn, but I could feel the weight of unspoken questions in the air. Like whispers waiting to pounce.
But Fred and George didn’t slow down, and I followed their lead to the Gryffindor table and sat, spine straight. Within moments, Ginny appeared from farther down the table, eyes searching and then softening with relief as she saw me. As for Hermione, she was already halfway up from her seat, hugging a book to her chest as she approached.
Neither of them said anything right away. They just sat down across from us. I shifted uncomfortably. Fred caught George’s eye in what was probably supposed to be a subtle manner. A silent message passed between them, and George looked meaningfully at Hermione. She blinked, then nodded with a small sigh. Ginny followed the glance and shrugged.
The message was clear:
Don’t push him.
So no one did.
Then, Harry arrived, just like a hair in the soup.
I frowned, not sure if this was an English expression.
“Hey,” Harry said, sitting next to Hermione. “Where have you been? We were ready to warn the teachers.”
Everyone turned to glare at Harry, who blinked owlishly back at us. Hermione whispered furiously in his ear. He looked at me, unimpressed, before shrugging.
After that, things went back to normal. Or some semblance of it. Hermione launched into a conversation about Hagrid’s class of Care for Magical Creatures. Ginny was looking forward to it. At one moment, Fred stole a roll from George’s plate, and George retaliated by swapping Fred’s pumpkin juice with vinegar.
And I looked. And listened. Laughed, even, when Fred made a dramatic choking sound and called George a traitor.
It was nice.
They didn’t ignore what had happened, but they respected my need for a break and my silence.
And in that silence, surrounded by people who mattered most, I started to feel like myself again.
Like maybe what would come next wouldn’t be so hard.
Between the conversations, the clinks of cutlery, and the soft hum of chatter, Ginny suddenly cleared her throat, clearly preparing for something. I immediately feared the worst and braced myself for it.
“I’ve decided,” she declared, cutting through the conversation like a well-aimed Bludger, “I’m going to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”
Fred blinked, a roll halfway to his mouth. George choked on juice.
“You’re what ?” they said in unison.
Ginny folded her arms.
“You heard me.”
Fred started to laugh.
“Nice one, Gin. You almost had me for a second—”
“I’m not joking,” she snapped.
Harry and Hermione visibly wanted to take a step back from the escalating conversation, but couldn’t move without attracting the potential wrath from Ginny.
“Wait— you’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she replied with a raised eyebrow.
“Gin, come on,” said George with a frown. “It’s rough out there. Bludgers flying, people crashing—”
“Exactly,” Fred stated with authority. “It’s dangerous. You’re still small, and—well—You’re—”
“A girl?” Ginny said sharply, her voice ice-cold.
Hermione’s fork clattered a little too loudly against her plate. She and I wore matching expressions of deep disapproval.
“Dudes,” I rebuked them. “You can’t be serious.”
George held up his hands.
“Whoa— that’s not what we meant. It’s not about that—”
“Oh, please,” Ginny barked back, her face flushed. “You don’t think I can handle it because I’m a second-year and a girl. Never mind that I’ve been flying since I was six—”
“On our brooms,” muttered Fred.
“–-and playing against you two in the backyard since I could stand.”
“We just— look, we worry, alright?” George said. “We know how brutal tryouts can be. We just don’t want to see you get flattened.”
“Why do you even want to do this so badly?” Fred asked.
Both Ginny and I rolled our eyes.
“Because I love Quidditch.”
Ginny turned to me, clearly expecting me to pile on with our brothers.
“You agree with them?”
“Of course not. Honestly, it was obvious to me that you would join the team one day. I mean, I didn’t expect you to do it this early,” I admitted. “But you've been obsessed with Quidditch since Charlie first taught you about it. That and you’ve been flying circles around us at home. Yeah. This tracks.”
Ginny’s expression shifted, cautious at first, then softening into something almost bashful. Hermione smiled at me, but said nothing. In fact, no one said anything for some time.
Then, Harry, chewing thoughtfully on a treacle tart, looked up.
“So, which position are you going for?”
She brightened immediately.
“Seeker.”
I blinked.
“I would see more as a Chaser,” I commented.
Ginny and Harry spoke at the same time:
“The Chaser spots are full.”
They looked at each other. Ginny, blushing a bright red, looked away. Harry just looked bemused by her reaction. Between them, Hermione looked amused and was trying to hide it.
“I’d rather be Chaser,” Ginny admitted after clearing her throat. “But the only spot available is Seeker. So… Seeker it is.”
“Bit of a challenge,” Fred said carefully.
“Good,” Ginny replied. “I like a challenge.”
George gave her a look that mixed pride and dread.
“Mum’s going to go spare.”
“She doesn’t have to know… Until I make the team.”
I snorted. Fred whistled.
“Merlin, help us all.”
And just like that, the tension eased, replaced by bickering, teasing, and a subtle current of respect that hadn’t been there before.
The greenish glow of the underwater lamps cast shifting shadows across the stone walls, turning the Slytherin common room into a dim, watchful space. It usually felt safe to me. Quiet, secretive, secluded.
Tonight, it felt like walking into a den of snakes.
Some conversations dulled the moment Harry and I stepped through the entrance. A few people tried to act like they hadn’t been talking about today’s drama. Others didn’t bother.
I kept my gaze forward, shoulders tight. I felt the weight of their stares crawling over my skin like vines. Whispering eyes. Half-curled smirks. Thinly veiled curiosity.
Malfoy was there. He sat in his usual chair by the fire, arms crossed, his expression thunderous. He didn’t say a word when we passed by him, but his glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
He wasn’t smirking.
That, somehow, was worse.
I swallowed hard and kept walking. Harry stayed close by my side, silent but steady. I was infinitely grateful for his presence in my life. Neither of us said a word until we reached the dormitory stairwell. No one stopped us. No one spoke to us.
But the silence spoke volumes.
Once the door to our dormitory was closed, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I got ready in the same continuous silence until I could finally settle into bed. The heavy green curtains around me felt more like a shield tonight than they ever had before.
I lay on my back, arms folded, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the canopy overhead.
With the silence came the doubts and anxiety.
Would I be called into Snape’s office? McGonagall’s? Dumbledore’s? What would I even say?
I winced, recalling Fred’s words earlier, “ under Snape’s desk ”, imagining Malfoy’s leering tone, and picturing Snape’s irate face.
Think of something good, I thought, eyes tightly shut. Anything good.
I tried to picture Ginny’s face during dinner. Her shy joy at my support. I pictured Hermione’s small smile over her pumpkin juice. Harry’s voice —simple and solid— “ Hey”.
I wasn’t alone.
It helped. A little.
Still, as the low, watery hum of the lake pressed in from the walls, I lay awake for a long time, tense, bracing for whatever came next. When I fell asleep, I only ended up in a nightmare.
Snape dying, over and over again, and Malfoy laughing, over and over again.
What came next was an uneventful Sunday. Last year’s tradition resumed, with Luna and me spending the day together. Harry didn’t join, like usual, as Slytherin’s motto of ambition meant that the Quidditch team was already back to training. However, Hermione didn’t have a plan to tutor Neville yet, so she joined us.
As the weather was atrocious, we mostly stayed in the library and bookwormed our day away, exchanging anecdotes about our respective readings. Luna even lent me the Quibbler’s new issue, as she knew of my love for crosswords.
It was nice and familiar.
Like usual, we had lunch at Ravenclaw’s table, where Harry joined us briefly before going back to his team. From my peripheral vision, I could see some glances being sent my way, but no one came to disturb us.
I still waited for the other shoe to drop.
It dropped on Monday.
Chapter 18: BOOK THREE - INVOLUNTARY POET
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
INVOLUNTARY POET
The chill of the dungeon felt sharper than usual that morning, like the stones themselves were soaked in dread. Still, I was sweating bullets, fingers clammy and heart pounding in my throat as I descended the stairs with Harry and Hermione beside me.
This was the first time I would have class with Snape since the beginning of the boggart drama —and everything that followed—, including Malfoy’s disgusting outburst in the Great Hall. Taking it all into account, I wasn’t sure if today was going to be humiliating, terrifying, or both.
Harry gave me a sidelong glance as we were about to step into the classroom.
“You okay?”
“No. Kill me.”
“Boys,” Hermione sighed before pulling us inside.
The room was already half full. Hermione dragged us to our usual shared table, next to Neville. He smiled shyly at us, like he always did. I couldn’t find it in me to return it convincingly.
Malfoy was already there, too, perched at his station like a bitter gargoyle, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He didn’t say a word. Just glared.
Good. Hoped it would continue in the same vein, with him barely even breathing in my direction.
But… no matter how nice it was to have Malfoy finally shut up, his silence was somewhat worse, as he never shut up. His silence felt… loaded. Threatening.
And then—
Snape swept into the room.
His robes flared behind him as always, but he didn’t launch into one of his cutting welcomes or sarcastic jabs about the essays we turned in last lesson. Instead, he flicked his wand at the blackboard and snapped:
“Instructions. Begin.”
His voice was low, clipped, venomous.
The room scrambled into motion.
I assembled my ingredients, organising them properly next to my cutting board. My hands were trembling as I lit my burner. My fingers slipped when I reached for my knife. It clattered noisily to the floor.
I heard Neville gasp quietly.
Snape didn’t say anything.
Not even a sneer.
My panic swelled.
I retrieved my knife, cleaned it meticulously, and then returned to work. I could barely read the board, the letters swimming. I nearly crushed the fairy wings. I split the doxy eggs. Hermione gave me a worried look from across the aisle, but I shook my head slightly.
Please, don’t draw attention. Don’t make it worse.
I almost forgot to add the flying seahorse. I remembered at the last possible second. I sighed in relief and went to add the toasted dragonfly thoraxes, Harry violently grabbed my wrist.
I froze.
“Heat the potion. Now,” He whispered, leaning in without loosening his death grip.
I didn’t question it, I just obeyed. The potion turned turquoise, like it was supposed to.
Crisis averted, Harry leaned back into his seat like nothing had happened. And that’s when I saw.
Snape was looking our way. He had seen Harry help me, just like he had seen Hermione help Neville last week, resulting in a considerable loss of points.
I braced for the explosion.
But it didn’t come.
Snape’s black eyes swept over us, impassible, and moved on.
He said nothing.
By the end of the brewing process, my potion was a disappointing dark lime instead of the same bright green as Harry’s or Hermione’s. At least, it was way better than Neville’s hissing orange.
While Snape was passing between rows to watch our results, he didn’t comment on anyone’s success or failure. He didn’t sneer at Harry’s potion in search of any critique to make, he didn’t jibe at me about my barely passable potion, he didn’t even insult Neville’s mess, though the boy was visibly sweating.
On the other side of the classroom, he didn’t praise Malfoy’s potion either, though it simmered the perfect shade of green.
Instead, he stalked the room like a spectre, silent and radiating hostility.
By the end of class, everyone was wound tight as a bowstring.
“Twelve inches on the principles of restorative flux,” Snape barked, scribbling it onto the board with a furious flick of his wand. “Due Thursday. If I see one misuse of terminology, I will fail the entire lot of you. Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped hurriedly.
“Stay behind.”
I flinched.
Then I realised it wasn’t me Snape was addressing, but Malfoy.
I didn’t wait around, didn’t look back. I grabbed my things, barely hearing Hermione’s whispered 'see you later' and practically bolted for the door.
The gross relief carried me through the rest of the morning and didn’t abate during Transfiguration, as McGonagall didn’t act differently than usual. I easily let myself be swept up in the fascinating lesson about Animagi, and more importantly, her incredible demonstration.
I loved magic so freaking much.
Sharing this class with Ravenclaws was a true blessing, as they kept asking questions about the topic, some of which I hadn’t even figured out before. In the end, when Terry Boot asked if we would learn how to become Animagi, McGonagall told us that thirteen was too young for this process, but that anyone over seventeen, talented and determined enough, may acquire the skill during their school years, if they followed Ministry rules and found an appropriate mentor.
I nearly jumped out of my chair.
Harry and I exchanged an excited glance.
Everyone left the Transfiguration classroom wide-eyed and buzzing. Harry, Theodore, Blaise, and I spent the whole way to lunch talking excitedly about it. When we sat at the Slytherin table, we barely tucked in, as we were too busy wildly speculating.
“What do you reckon I’d turn into?” Harry asked, poking at a roast chicken leg.
“Some kind of bird,” Blaise suggested immediately. “You’ve got that twitchy Seeker thing going on.”
“Maybe a hawk,” Theodore added. “Or something fast. Definitely not a pigeon.”
We all laughed.
“And you, Blaise?” Harry asked, still grinning.
“A panther, of course. Sleek, quiet, dangerous, and good-looking.”
“Modest, too,” Theodore deadpanned.
I snorted.
“What about you, Ron?”
I hummed pensively.
“Dunno. Fox? Squirrel? Orangutan?”
“As long as it’s ginger, then,” remarked Theodore, unimpressed again.
“As long as it’s not a fish, I’d be happy,” I replied with a shrug. “Knowing myself, it would probably be something ridiculous and inconvenient.”
Before anyone could reply, Malfoy’s voice rang out from down the table.
“Ridiculous and inconvenient. Right. That sounds—”
He paused mid-sentence, brow furrowing slightly as the words caught in his throat.
“Not like you at all .”
He stopped suddenly, blinking in horror.
There was a beat of silence. I blinked back at him, mouth agape.
“What?” Harry asked, frowning.
Malfoy looked like he’d just swallowed soap.
“I mean— You’d be more like a big oafish badger, obviously,” He snapped, turning pink. “Lumbering and slow and— surprisingly loyal and dependable, I suppose!”
Blaise choked on his drink. Theodore dropped his spoon.
“Are you complimenting me?” I wheezed, confused.
Malfoy visibly panicked.
“Of course not! I meant— you’re like a— weasel! Filthy and— the cutest creature around and— oh Merlin, what is happening?!”
By now, several people at the table were staring.
I was beginning to suspect that my brothers had already reached Malfoy.
“You slimy mole! Blind and useless and— gifted at digging deep and staying focused under adversity! ” he gasped, clapping both hands over his mouth in horror.
Harry and Blaise burst out laughing.
“Oh, this is brilliant," Harry said.
“This is art,” Theodore commented, grinning widely.
I leaned back in my seat, an uncontrollable smile spreading across my face.
“Well, thanks, Malfoy. It’s nice to hear pleasant things coming out of your mouth for once.”
Malfoy glared at me with the fury of a cornered cat.
“Just you wait, Weasley,” he hissed. “I’ll get you for— being remarkably brave and generous! ”
He stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped over. I watched him storm off with a snort.
“Definitely cursed,” Harry said, smugly. “It’s too perfect. I almost want to spend more time with him.”
“Don’t go too far, dude,” I huffed. “I would rather not hear Malfoy call me cute again.”
“But you are the cutest crea—”
I threw my roll-up napkin at my friend’s stupid face. He just laughed.
When Defence Against the Dark Arts took place after lunch, I didn’t have to wonder long whether Lupin had heard Malfoy’s outburst on Saturday.
He stood at the front of the classroom, his hands folded neatly in front of him, as the students filed in and took their seats. His expression was mild as ever, but there was a stillness in him that caught attention.
Like the pause between thunder and lightning.
Once the last chair scraped into place, Lupin looked over the room and said, in that quiet, steady voice of his:
“Before we begin, I’d like to speak briefly about last week's lesson.”
The room stilled. I shifted uncomfortably, hoping Lupin wouldn’t go into too much detail.
“As you all experienced, the boggart lesson was not just about magical technique. It was about facing fear —your fear— in a controlled, safe environment.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “I want to remind you that what someone sees in front of the class is not something they choose. It is deeply personal and often vulnerable. I expect each of you to treat your classmates’ fears with the same respect you would hope to receive for your own.”
He let that hang there. No raised voice. No accusations. Just gravity.
“I will not tolerate cruelty masquerading as humour, nor weaponising of someone’s worst fear for your amusement or gossip.”
He glanced briefly across the room, enough to suggest he knew exactly who had crossed the line.
Then, his tone lightened just slightly, and he gave a slight nod.
“That said, today, we’ll be studying Red Caps. Unpleasant little creatures that lurk in places where blood has been shed, waiting for the unwary. Brutish rather than clever, but not to be underestimated.”
A few students straightened, relieved at the return to a more standard kind of danger.
And just like that, the lesson moved forward. But the message had landed. Clearly. Quietly.
I wondered what would happen to Malfoy if he crossed the line again.
I almost wanted him to try, just to watch the mild-mannered professor get angry.
Only if it didn’t happen during a full moon, though.
The Astronomy Tower was quiet but for the soft rustling of parchment and the low hum of Professor Sinistra’s voice, echoing gently under the domed ceiling as she spoke about stellar classifications.
I was scribbling half-hearted notes, more focused on staying awake than on remembering the life cycle of a star, when Malfoy slid into the seat beside him with an exaggerated air of nonchalance.
“Enjoying your moment in the spotlight, Weasley?” He muttered under his breath, voice sharp and low.
I didn’t look up.
“What do you want?”
He leaned in slightly, tone dropping into something threatening.
“You’re going to lift that curse, Weasley. Or I swear I’ll— I’ll— tell everyone how your eyes sparkle like twin moons over the Black Lake. ”
The fuck did the twins give to him?
Malfoy growled under his breath and tried again:
“I mean— you think you’re clever, but you’re just… just a radiant supernova of cunning brilliance. ”
I choked. He looked like he wanted to die on the spot.
“Thanks,” I replied lightly. “I appreciate it.”
He bared his teeth.
“Lift it, or I’ll make your life— a breathtaking celestial experience, full of star-kissed wonder and cosmic charm. ”
I couldn’t help it: I snorted right in his face.
“I’m warning you, Weasley. You and your little— galactic freckled face, like a constellation hand-drawn by the gods– Hell!”
Across from us, someone stifled a laugh. I glanced over. Harry was trying desperately not to make noise, grinning like a lunatic behind his notes.
“Mr Malfoy. Mr Weasley.”
Professor Sinistra’s voice cut clean through the air like a blade. We both jerked upright.
“Unless the two of you are conducting a private study of binary stars, I suggest you return your attention to the actual lesson.”
Malfoy stiffened and sent one last wounded glare my way before storming off to join Crabbe and Goyle at the far end of the tower.
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head with an amused huff. I didn’t even need to look; I could feel Harry still grinning in smug delight.
This was turning into a bizarre week.
And it was still only Monday.
Malfoy’s true curse wasn’t the involuntary poetry.
No, his real curse was to have gone too far with the baby brother of two lunatics.
The twins didn’t stop their campaign there. No, instead, they escalated it. They had decided to target every aspect of Malfoy. First, they turned his insults into compliments. Then, they turned the boggarts’ wild rumours around, so that Malfoy’s would be targeted instead of mine.
And while Malfoy had done his best to spread rumours to Slytherin and our year-mates, the twins had a lot more friends and acquaintances, and could truly make the story into a school-wide event.
By midweek, the tides of gossip at Hogwarts had shifted. Subtly at first, then with a swell as dramatic as a Weasley prank deserved. The story of my boggart had begun to fade, not because people lost interest in the crazy idea that someone could care about Snape, but because something juicier had taken its place.
Rumours about Malfoy’s boggart spread like wildfire, whispered behind hands in corridors. More people than I expected were weary of hearing Malfoy always threatening them with his father each time something didn’t go his way. Meaning: People jumped at the opportunity to get back at Malfoy.
By Thursday, the matter-of-fact story about his boggart taking on the form of his father had mutated. The whispers took on a twist that had the gossip and revenge-hungry population leaning in close and giggling behind books. The new version claimed that Malfoy didn’t just fear his father, but that he secretly longed for a different one. A better one. That he wanted Arthur Weasley, kind and warm and so very un-Malfoy-like, to be his real dad.
But the rumour didn’t stop there.
By Saturday, the embellished story had mutated again.
Someone, a particularly imaginative person —who was most likely one of my lunatic brothers— theorised that maybe Malfoy didn’t just want a new father figure.
Maybe he wanted to join the family.
Perhaps all the bullying, sneering, and sabotage were classic pigtail-pulling tactics.
Maybe, just maybe, Malfoy had a crush on me.
The theory spread with terrifying speed, helped along by the fact that each time Malfoy tried to insult me, he was still cursed to say something bizarrely sweet.
And if Malfoy’s sudden, furious silence wasn’t confirmation, what was?
Some students even said that Malfoy’s infamous outburst at lunch wasn’t about my supposed feelings for Snape at all. It was instead jealousy. Classic, heartbroken, love-triangle jealousy.
Girls in upper-years cooed over the idea: “ He’s mean because he doesn’t know how to express his feelings!”, “It’s just like a romance novel!”, “Tragic, really. Forbidden love.”
My roommates joined in, snickering whenever Malfoy passed too close to me while in the dormitory, dramatically shrieking about protecting my virtue from him.
I hated this new development.
Of course, Malfoy had it coming. It was only cosmic justice after years of bullying. He deserved to stew in the discomfort of rumours, of people reading far too much into a single moment, of classmates assigning secret meanings to every glance and word. He deserved to feel exactly what it was like to be misunderstood and the subject of speculation.
However, the second-hand embarrassment was becoming increasingly difficult to manage. I had always hated being the centre of attention or being spoken of behind my back.
For this reason, Luna and I decided to spend our Sunday on the grounds, far from the drama. Our first stop was the kitchen, where we collected slimy pieces of meat, carefully wrapped by the helpful house elves. Then we went off in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.
The shadows under the trees shifted as I followed Luna through the edge of the forest, boots crunching on soft moss. The air smelled damp and earthy, tinged with the coppery scent of meat from the bucket I carried.
The forest was hushed, as it always was near the edge. Not quite silent, but muffled, like the trees were listening. Birdsong faded the deeper we went, replaced by the hush of trees swaying above and the soft, odd rustle of unseen movement nearby.
When we entered the paddock, I put the bucket of raw meat at our feet. Curious, I looked around. I knew I wouldn’t see them, but I still had this sort of uncontrollable expectation to see the mysterious creatures appear before my eyes. I could easily picture them, as I knew what they were supposed to look like.
“They’re curious,” Luna said, a little ahead of me. “One of them is standing right by you.”
It was literal torture to know that a petable creature was close to me and that I couldn’t pet them freely.
“Really? Right here ?” I asked, buzzing with eagerness.
“Would you like to pet him?”
“Duh.”
Luna stepped beside me and gently took my hand, guiding it slowly forward through empty air. Then… contact. I hold my breath, not wanting to spook the creature with a squeal of joy.
I brushed my fingers against the Thestral’s flank. It was warm and leathery. Unmistakably alive. My face lit up. I lightly stroked the soft skin, each contact with my digits sending happy shivers through my hand. Curious about the creature’s size, I went further up. And up. Until the enormous shoulder muscles gave way to a massive neck.
“He likes you,” Luna said.
I smiled in delight.
“Well, I like him too,” I admitted in a low voice. “I wish I could see him. I bet he’s gorgeous.”
“Very elegant,” Luna agreed, handing me a strip of raw meat. “Here. Hold it out in your palm. A little higher.”
I grimaced at the feeling of slimy meat in my hand. My discomfort didn’t last long, as a second later, I felt the sudden snap of jaws and the tug of meat vanishing from my hand.
“Good boy,” I cooed, patting the Thestrals’ neck.
For a while, we worked in a peaceful and quiet rhythm, Luna guiding and I feeding. There was something oddly comforting about it.
Then Luna spoke, voice calm as always.
“You’ve been the centre of a lot of attention this week.”
Trust Luna to always put her foot in her mouth. I made a face.
“Don’t remind me.”
“It’s not bad,” she said. “Just loud. You’ve been echoing through the corridors. All the talk and whispering makes a sound, you know.”
Bemused, I raised a brow, not sure to understand what she was trying to communicate.
“So I’ve been… echoing?”
She nodded daintily.
“Like someone dropped a Ron-shaped stone into the middle of school.”
Luna’s imagery always had a certain charm to it. Not that I would be happy about being compared to a stone in any other context. But coming from Luna, it sounded fond.
“Well, thanks. I guess?”
She crouched beside the bucket before taking the last strip of meat.
“I think people are drawn to mystery. Your boggart made them curious. Malfoy’s curse made them fascinated. And now they’re guessing at all the things they don’t know about you.”
“I’m not that interesting. I would rather they stopped talking about Malfoy plotting to marry into the family.”
“Hm hm. I did hear the father-in-law theory,” Luna replied as if commenting on the weather. “Some say he wants your freckles to be in the wedding photos.”
I choked on a laugh.
“What the hell!”
“They say they look like constellations,” she added dreamily. “Especially the ones on your nose. Like stars.”
Self-conscious, I touched the said nose. Then I immediately regretted it, as my face now smelled like meat. I tried to wipe away the meat juice on my face. It didn’t go away. Disgusting.
“Thanks.”
She blinked at me, entirely unbothered.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it as a compliment. Just a fact.”
I snorted. How I loved this girl.
“I’m getting too used to getting compliments, then. What with Malfoy walking around complimenting me like some lovesick poetry book.”
A Thestral snorted behind us, almost like it was laughing. Luna ran a hand gently along its spine.
“You don’t like it?” she asked, not teasing, just curious.
“It’s awkward enough to receive compliments usually. It’s worse when I’m only receiving them because he’s cursed.”
“You want him to compliment you without the curse?”
I groaned in horror.
“No. He’s a git. I just want him to leave me alone. And other people, too. Someone asked if I was going to invite him home for Christmas! Don’t they have anything else to worry about? I get it: loads of people dislike Malfoy and want to embarrass him. Sure, I understand. But can’t they just leave me out of it? Even with all this mess, people are still treating me like I’m weird because of my boggart.”
“I don’t think people care that your boggart looks like Professor Snape dying. They just don’t understand it, so they tried to make it into a joke.”
Feeling defeated, I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want people to make my literal worst fear into the butt of their jokes.
“It’s a very tasteless joke, then.”
“It is,” Luna agreed gently. “They don’t understand.”
For a brief moment, I thought about the memory the Dementors had brought back from the depths of my mind. That day. That image.
We sat in silence for a while, each lost in faraway thoughts.
Then, as it was time for us to pack and leave, Luna spoke again.
“And if Malfoy did have a crush on you, I suppose it would be understandable.”
“The Hell, Luna!”
We quickly left after one last pat to each Thestral.
Just as we’d reached the Great Hall, Ginny appeared, a bit out of breath from running to catch up.
“Hey,” she said, brushing wind-blown hair from her eyes. “Luna, do you mind if I talk to Ron for a bit?”
“It’s alright. I’ll take the bucket back. Thanks for today,” she added, and, with a dreamy smile, she took the empty bucket from my hand and ambled away.
I watched her go with trepidation. This ambush didn’t bode well. I glanced at Ginny warily, then I sighed ostensibly and went back outside. We sat on the stairs to the castle, and I refused to break the silence and ask what she wanted. She took the hint and launched into her obviously prepared speech.
“I just wanted you to know I’ve noticed how you’ve been struggling to carry all this drama. And I want you to know that you don’t have to do it alone.”
I stayed quiet, simply listening.
“You were there for me last year, even when I was too stubborn to ask for help. You never once made me feel like a freak about the Diary. And over the summer… well… You looked after me when I needed it. You didn’t laugh at me, or make me feel more embarrassed than I already was.”
I looked over at her then, brows knitting and guilt rising for being an ass about the heart to heart Ginny wanted right now.
“So,” she continued. “I’m not saying you need to spill your soul to me. But if you ever do want to talk… you’ve got me. No judging. No teasing. I’ll hex the twins if they so much as smirk at you.”
That got a genuine snort out of me.
“They do a lot of smirking at me. But they don’t deserve a hex. Not yet anyway.”
“Not yet,” she repeated. “I’ll keep an eye on them. But actually, I think they’re going to… slow down from now on. Percy talked to them.”
“What?”
That was news to me. I was under the impression that I didn’t exist anymore in Percy’s eyes.
“Yeah. He’s been acting extra weird anytime someone brings up the rumours. Not mad-weird like usual. Like— stiff, uncomfortable. And then he went to the twins and told them to stop making things worse for you.”
My jaw dropped slightly.
“Percy did that?”
“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “They didn’t take him seriously at first, but I think it’s the first time I’ve seen Percy try to help without writing an essay about why he’s better than the rest of us. See? Even the high-and-mighty Perce can get his head out of his butt when it matters. So you don’t have to keep carrying all of this alone, yeah?”
I looked at her, heart too big and eyes beginning to prickle at the corners.
“Thanks, Gin,” I said quietly in a hoarse voice. “That means a lot.”
She smiled, full and honest.
“Anytime, Ronnie. Now, come on, it’s freezing out here.”
Chapter 19: BOOK THREE - BAITS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BAITS
Ginny was right. After Percy’s intervention, the twins calmed down and stopped stoking the drama’s fire. They even let Malfoy’s curse run its course. By the next fortnight, life was back to normal, with little to no rumours to be heard. Some particularly scorned individuals still made fun of Malfoy when the occasion presented itself, but apart from them, people didn’t find the drama juicy enough anymore.
I was relieved to fade back to my relative anonymity.
On the other hand, Ginny was the exact opposite and thoroughly enjoyed her newfound popularity. She completely blew away the competition at the Quidditch tryouts, and Oliver Wood was losing his mind at the idea that his new incredible Seeker would be the key to Gryffindor winning the Cup for the first time in years.
Hope was a good thing in life, even if I believed that nothing could stop Slytherin from winning again. We had a solid team and the best Seeker in school. Anyway, I avoided Quidditch talk with my siblings, as I didn’t want to vex them. The only conversation I had on the subject was after Ginny wrote a letter home to announce the good news.
Just like we all expected, Mum’s first reaction was to worry, but it quickly turned to pride and support. Dad, on the other hand, responded immediately with great enthusiasm. According to Mum’s last letter, he kept telling everyone and their cousins about his daughter making the team. I found it incredibly cute. I was careful not to use that word in front of Ginny, though.
There was another word I loved to use —in front of Harry— for the last couple of days.
“Hey Sunshine, wait up!”
Harry stopped in the middle of the Entrance Hall and glared at me. Then he rolled his eyes so bad I feared they would pop out of his head. Hermione huffed something between a laugh and an exasperated sigh.
“I hate Runes,” Harry muttered under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Hermione told him while we went on our way to our DADA class. “He’ll get bored with it eventually.”
That wasn’t very likely, as each time I saw Harry’s face, I couldn’t help but think about Professor Babbling explaining the meaning of the rune that looked so much like Harry’s infamous scar. My humour may seem unappreciated to my friends, but I've found myself quite amusing.
“Like he bores of calling you Nini,” Harry retorted.
“He hasn’t called me that in a long time!”
“Only within your earshot.”
I slapped Harry on the back.
“Traitor!”
“ Ronald! ”
I groaned in despair.
Before Hermione could scold me about my choice of nicknames, we made it to the classroom. We sat at our usual table and waited with the rest of our classmates. The room filled quickly, and soon, we were all waiting for our uncharacteristically late professor.
After more than ten minutes of restless waiting, the door slammed open. However, it was not Lupin who stalked into the room with his usual unassuming presence. It was Snape, sweeping in with his robes billowing like smoke, his expression a pinched, sour thing.
Ah. It must have been the full moon last night. I completely forgot to check.
There were a few murmurs as students shifted uneasily. Snape’s gaze swept the room, landing on Malfoy with a sneer, on Hermione with open disdain, and finally passing right over me like I didn’t exist in the same plane of existence as him.
It hurt. But in the end, it was better than the alternative.
“Professor Lupin is… indisposed,” Snape said, enunciating the word with deliberate weight. “Therefore, today, you will have the privilege of learning something useful. ”
I knew what Snape was trying to do. On one side, I could see how mean it was, but on the other side… I knew how wrong things could go if Lupin were careless with his Wolfsbane intake. The situation was complicated, and I was torn between finding Snape petty and understanding that he was right to fear a werewolf who nearly killed him when he was a teenager.
Snape scrawled WEREWOLVES across the board in sharp, angry letters, then turned, arms folded.
“Who can tell me the difference between a werewolf and a common wolf?”
The room was dead silent. We barely finished the chapter on Hinkypunks last Monday, and no one was prepared for a lesson on werewolves so soon in the semester. No one but two people, of course. For different reasons altogether.
Hermione—obviously the second person—raised her hand immediately. Like always, Snape didn’t even glance her way.
I hesitated, pulse quickening. I could feel Malfoy a few rows back, and the possibility of igniting the rumours of my crush. But then, I decided that I wasn’t going to mute myself for the rest of my school years.
I raised my hand.
Snape’s jaw twitched. For a moment, I thought that he would ignore me like Hermione, but after some inner deliberation, he called my name.
I sat up straighter.
“Appearance-wise, there isn’t a big difference. The real difference is in how they behave. Common wolves are not very aggressive, and they very rarely attack humans. As for werewolves… The full moon can make them aggressive, and when it’s the case… They tend to target humans. But not other animals.”
I heard murmurs and snickers from some people behind me. My face took on a mad red colour.
“Correct. Five points to Slytherin.”
I realised there and then that those points were probably the reason Snape chose me rather than Hermione. If I could count on something in life, it was Snape’s chauvinism.
Harry nudged my knee under the table and gave me the tiniest, proudest smile. The knot of tension in my chest loosened immediately. I could do it!
Snape turned back to the board.
“And what, then, is the difference between a werewolf and an Animagus?”
Silence fell again. For all that Malfoy and his cronies made fun of me for being a teacher’s pet, they sure as hell didn’t seem to have anything intelligent to contribute.
Hermione raised her hand. Snape ignored her again.
I raised my hand again. More confidently this time.
Snape looked like he regretted ever calling on me once, but again: points were points.
“Mr Weasley?”
“An Animagus chooses when to transform and can change at will. They keep their human mind while they’re transformed. Werewolves don’t have control over the change, and they lose themselves completely when they turn… Unless they take Wolfsbane potion.”
In a fit of daring unknown to me, I looked Snape in the eyes when saying the last part. Then I deflated and looked back down at my folded hands.
“Another five points to Slytherin. Miracles never cease.”
I bit back a grin. I missed Snape’s snark. It was nice to hear it again, and targeting me, too. Freaky masochist.
Snape turned from the board once more and began his lesson about lycanthropy and its origin. During the lecture, the atmosphere in the room started to change. Quieter. Calmer. Snape sounded different. It was more relaxed, less snappish, and dare I say, quite pleasant to listen to.
By the end of the hour-long lesson, Snape turned to the board once more.
“For your assignment, you will each write a fifteen-inch essay on how to recognise and kill a werewolf.”
“ Fifteen inches?” Harry whispered in quiet despair.
A murmur rippled through the class. Snape raised his voice to slice through it:
“You will hand in your essays to Professor Lupin next lesson. Dismissed.”
Well shit.
I packed up my things with a tense motion, heart thudding. Kill a werewolf? Was that necessary? More than that, was it necessary to make poor Lupin read and grade dozens of essays on how to kill him and his kind?
As the class filed out, I cast a final glance back at the board, the harsh white chalk letters still looming.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Snape watching me. I bent my head and left.
Harry and I said our goodbyes to Hermione before hurrying to Divination. On our way there, I heard someone call me a teacher’s pet. Harry glared behind us. I grabbed his arm and pulled him along.
The Divination classroom was thick with incense. I immediately felt more at ease. Harry and I settled down at our favourite table: the closest to the teapot. Soon, the room was filled with low murmured voices as students hunched over their teacups, swirling the dregs, and squinting into the leaves.
The tea did me some good, but my mind was far away. I kept thinking about the essay Snape had assigned. It left a sour taste in my mouth. I didn’t want to write something that would feel like a personal attack on Lupin. Maybe I could focus on signs of transformation or full moon precautions rather than the more… lethal approaches.
Harry nudged me.
“C’mon, you’re up. Read my leaves.”
I shook my head to come back to the present moment, then I leaned over Harry’s teacup, squinting at the clumps at the bottom. I was looking forward to closing this chapter and learning about a different divination method. Tessomancy wasn’t my… cup of tea.
“That looks like a balloon.”
Harry frowned.
“Is that good or bad?”
I consulted the chart in Unfogging the Future .
“Says here a balloon represents expectations, sometimes inflated ones. So maybe you’re getting your hopes up about something?”
Harry snorted.
“Sounds like my whole life.”
I let out a bark of laughter. Thankfully, Trelawney was busy chatting with Parkinson and Greengrass.
“There’s also a broom shape— And no, it doesn’t mean Quidditch, you addicted madman— It could mean travel, change, or swift action. Maybe you’ll be doing some running around soon.”
“Like running from Snape’s fifteen-inch-long essay?”
“You’re such a clown, Potter,” I replied before giving him my cup.
Harry put up his glasses and carefully studied my soggy leaves.
“Alright. I see a candle. That’s illumination… Maybe you’re going to have a breakthrough with something.”
I nodded absently, thinking about my werewolf dilemma. Across from me, Harry squinted harder, head tilted on the side like a cute puppy.
“There’s also a… Heart. Clear as anything.”
“ Dude .”
“I’m just reading the leaves, mate,” Harry said with mock innocence. “A heart means love. Affection. Passion. Romance. Looks like someone has a crush on you.”
I groaned and dropped my forehead onto the table with a thud. I muttered an insult into the tablecloth, but the corners of my mouth twitched. I could only blame myself for turning Harry into a snarkier version of himself. And Merlin knows he was already a snarky brat of his own right.
The Entrance Hall buzzed with excitement, students wrapped in scarves and cloaks bouncing on their heels, eager to step into the crisp autumn air and head toward Hogsmeade. Outside, the sky was a perfect shade of grey-blue, the clouds drifting lazily, a promise of a brisk but pleasant Halloween day.
Filch, Flitwick, and Snape stood by the doors, cross-checking names with sharp quills and sharper eyes. The line of third-years inched forward, clusters of friends chattering as they were cleared one by one.
When Harry, Hermione, and I approached, Snape raised a hand, stopping us. His black eyes swept over us, impassive as ever.
“You three, step aside for a moment.”
Harry looked half anxious, half defeated in advance. Exchanging uneasy glances, we followed Snape a short distance from the crowd.
“Potter. You are permitted to visit Hogsmeade despite the circumstances, provided you remember the conditions of that privilege. Any ‘creative’ interpretations of the village boundary, Potter, and I will personally escort you back to the castle and see to it that you spend the remainder of the term scrubbing cauldrons until your hands dissolve.”
Harry nodded, swallowing noisily.
“Yes, sir.”
Snape turned to Hermione, giving her a measured look, but he didn’t seem concerned. Finally, he let his gaze fall on me. I straightened my back unconsciously.
“I am counting on you, Weasley. You have consistently demonstrated a respectful attitude towards authority. Do not disappoint me.”
Mouth agape, I had to force myself to click my jaw closed to avoid looking like an imbecile in front of Snape. Wide-eyed and honoured, I nodded quickly.
“Yes, sir. I promise. I’ll keep Harry safe. No funny business.”
Snape gave a curt nod, then turned sharply, obviously dismissing us.
As we headed toward the carriage line, Hermione and Harry both turned to look at me, identical incredulous expressions on their faces. I slowed down to look back at them, perplexed.
Harry eventually squinted at me.
“Mate. You do realise that saying you’ll keep me safe and sounding like you’re pledging your life to him, really doesn’t help with the rumours.”
My face burned.
“Shut up,” I mumbled. “I was being serious.”
“That’s exactly the point,” Hermione added, trying to hide her smirk behind her hand.
“I just respect authority! That’s it !”
“You looked at him like he invented treacle tart,” Harry replied with a grin, bumping my shoulder as we climbed into a free carriage.
I simply whined and pulled my scarf higher over my face.
“Let’s just get to Hogsmeade before I say something else that’ll end up in the next issue of The Hogwarts Witch Snitch. ”
“That’s not a very marketable name, even for a school tabloid,” Hermione commented.
“Pishoff, you witch .”
Harry and Hermione just laughed in my face.
Those damn gremlins.
The October wind nipped at our cheeks as we made our way down the main street of Hogsmeade. We had decided to embrace our first visit like true tourists, ticking off every essential stop.
First was the post office, with its army of colour-coded owls swooping to and fro. Then came a stop outside the Wizarding Wireless Network headquarters, where we craned our necks to glimpse enchanted microphones through the fogged-up window. The community garden was next. It was a modest but peaceful patch of green carefully charmed for year-round growth.
Our feet naturally led us from sightseeing to window shopping. I lingered at Dervish & Banges, face nearly pressed against the glass at the display of self-stirring cauldrons and protective amulets.
Harry, on the other hand, was undoubtedly drawn straight to Spintwitches Sporting Needs, where gleaming new models of brooms were displayed. He gawked for a long time in front of the store, explaining to us in great detail how promising the model at the front was. Hermione and I indulged him like fond parents.
Of course, Hermione and I made a beeline for Tomes and Scrolls, and Harry indulged us with only mild grumbling.
We eventually ended up at Honeydukes, each grabbing something different after long deliberation —chocolate frogs for Harry, sour acid pops for me, and a bag of peppermint toads for Hermione. We promised to never snitch on her to her parents. She swatted at us like annoying flies, which just made us laugh harder.
Zonko’s was next, as per the enthusiastic recommendations from the twins and even Percy (which had surprised everyone). We spent nearly half an hour there, discovering the odd curiosities like Nose-Biting Teacups and Self-Inking Quills.
By the time we were done with our program, my feet were killing me, and Hermione was shaking, chilled to the bone, so we headed to the Three Broomsticks.
The warm glow of the hearth and the rich scent of butterbeer greeted us like a hug. The pub was welcoming and bustling, filled with students and locals alike, golden light flickering across wooden beams and misted windows.
We found a small round table near the hearth and quickly claimed it. Hermione peeled off her gloves with a sigh of relief, I flopped into my chair dramatically, and Harry leaned forward to breathe in the steam rising from his mug as Madam Rosmerta brought over three warm butterbeers.
We sat there a moment in contented silence, sipping from our mugs and letting the heat seep back into our bones. The sweets we’d bought at Honeydukes were spread across the table.
“That was brilliant,” Harry said, sinking further into his chair. “I didn’t think it’d be this fun.”
I raised my mug in agreement.
“Totally worth the permanent loss of my toes.”
“I kinda wish we could’ve gone up to the Shrieking Shack,” Harry added.
“It’s outside the boundary,” Hermione said immediately.
“Quickest way to have Snape drag us all the way back to the castle by our ears,” I agreed with a half shrug.
“I know, I know. I’m just saying… It’s supposed to be the most haunted place in Britain, right? I just wanted to see it. Maybe not go in , but at least have a look up close.”
Hermione shook her head.
“You really want Snape to assign you detention until New Year’s?”
“Not really.”
“Then no haunted shack,” She decided in a no-nonsense tone.
“Whoa, you just gave off massive Mum’s vibes.”
Harry laughed at my words and Hermione’s expression. She mock-glared at me until I held up my hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright. I take it back.”
She nodded in satisfaction, then turned to Harry, expectant.
“I promise I won’t go to the Shack until I’m not being hunted by a mass murderer.”
“Good thinking,” Hermione said primly, though visibly amused by our antics.
Harry popped his third chocolate frog into his mouth. I ignored that.
“Still, I get it,” I admitted. “It’s got the whole ‘forbidden mystery’ vibe. Bet Fred and George snuck up there half a dozen times already.”
The intrigued humming from Harry didn’t bode well for what he was going to say next.
“Reckon Snape would actually chase us all the way there?”
Hermione huffed, while I almost snorted butterbeer.
“Dude, he’s been shadowing us all day.”
Harry blinked and stopped mid-sip.
“What? No, he hasn’t.”
“Yes, he has,” I insisted. “I saw him behind the fountain near the post office, and then again lurking by the alley next to Zonko’s. Pretending to read a noticeboard.”
Hermione frowned.
“I didn’t see him at all.”
“Exactly!” I said, leaning back with a satisfied look. “He’s good at it. He’s definitely doing the lurky spy thing.”
Both of my friends looked unconvinced, visibly trying to replay our day in their heads.
“You’re sure you’re not imagining it?”
“Positive. It’s just like first year again, after that thing with the stairs. Remember how he kept hovering everywhere? He’s doing the same thing now.”
Hermione gave me a sceptical look, but I just shrugged and took another swig of butterbeer.
“It’s kind of reassuring, honestly. A little creepy, but… sweet.”
Somehow, Hermione choked on a peppermint. Harry didn’t seem to fare much better. Once the near-death experience was over, Hermione and Harry both burst into grins.
“Did you just say it’s sweet that Snape is following us around?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow.
I went red.
“Shut up.”
The motherfuckers laughed at me.
“You’re not helping your case, you know. If people hear you—”
“ Dude. ”
Harry stopped speaking, but it didn’t stop him from exchanging a grin with Hermione. Thankfully, they changed the subject after this. As the evening drew on and their mugs emptied, Hermione mentioned offhandedly that she’d be staying at Hogwarts over the holidays this year.
“That’s brilliant!” Harry said, face bright.
“First Christmas for the three of us,” I added. “We’ve got to make it a good one.”
We clinked our mugs together in celebration. The rest of our time was spent heads close together, already plotting out raids to the kitchens for extra Christmas pudding.
By the time we left the pub, rosy-cheeked and warm, I cast a quick glance behind us. Sure enough, a tall shadow loitered across the street near the owl post, pretending to be deeply interested in a flier about winter broom maintenance.
I huffed a laugh.
Very sweet.
The Halloween feast had been brilliant. The Hogwarts ghosts had put on a full display; Sir Nicholas’ reenactment of his beheading had been especially gruesome, and the rest of Slytherin was still laughing and dramatising it as we returned to our common room, arms full of sweets from the feast.
Still high on sugar and celebration, the vast majority of the House stayed up rather than go to bed. And it was fortunate, as not twenty minutes had gone by before the common room doors swung open. Snape entered with a billowing presence and a cold look in his eyes.
“Everyone. Get up. Come with me,” he said shortly.
The room fell into uneasy silence. No one dared argue. Friends fetched those who had gone to bed, and we then followed our Head of House out into the corridors, confused murmurs following us down the hall.
When we reached the Great Hall, we found the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws arriving in similar states of bewilderment. Then came the Gryffindors, who looked visibly spooked, their faces pale and uncertain.
“What’s going on?” Harry whispered, more to himself than to me.
“Dunno,” I lied.
Dumbledore stepped forward, raising his hands for quiet.
“The staff will be conducting a full search of the castle,” he announced, his voice grave. “Until then, you will remain here. Prefects will guard the doors. Nobody is to leave this hall.”
With a sweep of his wand, the four long tables flew to the edges of the hall. With another wave, hundreds of cushy purple sleeping bags appeared across the floor. That was the most impressive bout of wordless magic I had ever seen, and yet no one else seemed impressed.
Huh. Maybe because they were scared, tho.
I nudged Harry with a crooked grin.
“Slumber party?”
“Obviously.”
On our way to the opposite side of the room where my siblings were gathering, we collected Luna, who appeared completely unbothered by the chaos and was gently humming to herself.
Hermione was already helping Ginny sort out sleeping bags to form an adequate cluster for our group.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Harry asked the group at large.
“The Fat Lady’s portrait was attacked,” Hermione explained, her eyes wide and wild. “Slashed. She’s gone. Ran off to another painting. Peeves says Sirius Black tried to force his way in.”
The three of us exchanged a look. Hermione appeared more perturbed than Harry.
“He thought Harry was in there,” She whispered, horrified. “He must’ve been planning to—”
She faltered, the rest of the sentence too awful to finish. My siblings stared at us in confusion. Right. Not many people knew that Harry was a potential target of the escaped convict. Ginny, who had been cross-legged on her sleeping bag, froze. Her face went even paler than before.
“He… he came to kill Harry?” she whispered, eyes flicking from Hermione to Harry like she couldn’t quite believe it. “Why would he want to hurt him?”
Harry gave a half-hearted shrug, trying to act casual.
“It’s a long story.”
Fred and George had stopped chewing the Honeydukes sweets they’d smuggled in.
“You’re serious?”
It was hard to stop myself from blurting out a pun with that choice of words.
“You don’t look surprised at all,” George said, staring straight at me now.
“Dad told us before the term started. The ministry doesn’t want him to tell anyone, though, so keep it to yourself.”
Fred swore under his breath.
“And they just sent you back to school with some nutter running around trying to murder you?”
For some reason, Harry gave a dry, unimpressed snort. Then he said:
“It’s not like he’s a brilliant assassin, that one. Didn’t even check which House I was sorted into before trying to break in. And during the feast? What kind of murderer tries to sneak in when the whole castle is downstairs having pudding?”
Apparently, my past work to protect Harry from threats had some backlash. I didn’t like the fact that Harry was so unbothered and not taking the situation seriously enough. Harry didn’t know that Sirius wasn’t after him. I would have preferred my friend to take the danger more seriously, but I couldn’t exactly tell him why.
Still, his reasoning about Sirius’ skills was a sound one, given the information he had. If Sirius was supposed to be clever, he might’ve at least realised not every Weasley got sorted into Gryffindor. Sirius should know better: after all, he had defied family expectations himself. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
“And you still went to Hogsmeade?” Ginny murmured, incredulous, looking between the three of us.
“It’s not like they didn’t take precautions,” I said. “Snape knew. He gave us a whole set of rules before the trip. Followed them to the letter.”
I didn’t like the sly grin growing suddenly on Harry’s face.
“And according to Ron, Snape was tailing us the entire time… Like some grumpy overgrown bat.”
I gasped in outrage.
“He isn’t— ”
Hermione actually giggled .
“He said it was sweet,” she added happily.
My siblings wore matching expressions of light horror.
“You think Snape stalking you is sweet ?” Fred asked in open, fascinated worry. “Merlin, Ron. You’ve gotta stop helping the rumours. We barely managed to kill those off.”
“ Pischoff. ”
“But seriously,” George intervened, nudging me with a rare lack of humour. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? If Black’s after Harry, we should’ve known.”
I didn’t have an adequate response to give my brother. Ginny, on the other hand, did.
“Because then you’d have tried to do something insane, like build traps or follow him around with Dungbombs.”
Fred and George both opened their mouths to argue, then closed them.
“Fair,” they said in unison.
Percy’s voice suddenly rang out in the entire hall, firm and officious:
“Everyone into your sleeping bags! Lights out in ten minutes!”
Reluctantly, the students began to settle down. I slid into my sleeping bag, nestled comfortably between Luna and Harry. Luna was on a level of unbothered that frankly made me envious. The news of Harry being the target of a potential murder attempt didn’t even visibly faze her. I wish to, one day, be that unworried about life. She had the right idea.
Catching me staring, Luna simply smiled at me. Cute little pumpkin. She leaned in.
“I agree with you.”
“Huh? What about?”
“I think it’s sweet that Professor Snape is this protective.”
I ignored her comments to the best of my abilities by focusing on Fred mumbling in frustration about how Sirius Black got into the castle. Hermione was the one to answer him with excerpts from Hogwarts: A History.
“... that’s why it should be secure,” she ended up saying. “Unless someone let him in… Or he found a way in from the outside…”
The twins were already exchanging silent looks again, clearly trying to piece together how Sirius had gotten into the castle. They were likely thinking of the secret passages. They still didn’t know I was aware of the Marauder's Map.
I said nothing, didn’t participate at all. Just lay on my back, hands neatly folded over my stomach, pretending to doze while my mind worked furiously.
Time to plan, scheme, and get ahead of the madness coming around.
Again.
Chapter 20: BOOK THREE - BUDDING SPY
Notes:
TW: Mention of death, past-trauma
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BUDDING SPY
For days after Halloween, Sirius Black was all anyone at Hogwarts could talk about. Theories about him grew wilder by the hour. Right now, the most popular one was that he could control Dementors like puppets, and that it was both how he got out of Azkaban and inside Hogwarts.
The rumour mill churned relentlessly, feeding the students’ fears and imagination alike.
Meanwhile, Harry found himself under a new kind of scrutiny. Teachers suddenly discovered countless reasons to cross paths with him in corridors, always lingering just a little too close. Percy and the twins took turns tailing him everywhere. Percy like an overly pompous guard dog, and the twins like unruly puppies.
Overprotectiveness became the norm. Even Snape, usually distant and aloof, grew noticeably more hands-on. He issued a vague but pointed warning to the Quidditch team: “ Be alert. No wandering off after practice, ” and he pressed Madam Hooch into overseeing every training session personally.
Snape also pulled Harry aside one afternoon to caution him about sticking to curfew and never wandering alone.
Suspicion and caution now hovered over Harry like a heavy cloak. And still, Harry seemed to be taking it all like a great inconvenience.
It was frustrating to everyone.
I did my best to remind myself regularly that Harry wasn’t actually in danger.
Still. I wished he would take it more seriously.
The air in the dungeons always felt denser after a double Potions period, but I didn’t mind much. The familiar scent of damp stone, chalk dust and something vaguely acrid clung to my robes as I padded to the heavy black door at the end of the corridor. Said corridor was empty save for me, as everyone was at lunch, even Harry and Hermione, who left without me when I told them I had something to do.
Tucked inside my pocket was the note Snape had passed to me at the end of class, folded precisely once:
“My office. Immediately.”
No further explanation. No signature needed.
I didn’t know what I had done to be summoned to my Head of House’s office in such a discreet manner. It sounded somewhat suspicious, and my first reaction at reading the note was to blush madly. I forced myself to get my mind out of the gutter.
I knocked once. The door opened on its own with a whisper.
Snape sat at his desk, carefully reviewing a thick stack of essays. Candlelight flickered in the glass jars behind him, casting long shadows across the room. Snape waved his wand, shutting the door firmly behind me.
“Sit.”
I obeyed without hesitation, most of my anxiousness flying away. I knew this tone—not anger, not even suspicion, and certainly not the stuck-up tone of an eventual heart-to-heart. This was business .
I took the chair across from the desk and straightened my posture. My palms were still slightly clammy, but there was a strange flutter of calm in my chest. This felt normal again. Like the last two years. Quiet instructions. Unspoken trust. Secret conspiracies.
Snape let the silence breathe between us for a short beat before speaking.
“I assume you are aware of the latest… incident. On Halloween.”
I nodded once.
“Sirius Black tried to break into Gryffindor’s tower. Yes, sir.”
His eyes flicked up at me, dark and unreadable.
“And yet, despite that, Potter gallivants about as though nothing has changed.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. That wasn’t a question, and I agreed with the observation.
“Black may be foolish, but he isn’t aimless. And now more than ever, Potter is vulnerable. Not only in skill, but also in judgment. ”
He leaned forward slightly, never taking his stare away from my face.
“And you… You are in a rare position, Mr Weasley. Trusted. Overlooked. Closer than anyone.”
My ears burned at the word again: trusted . Not only by Harry, but by Snape . And while I could readily admit that it meant a lot to me, I refused to admit to myself that it also meant almost more to me. But that was an awful thing to think about my best friend.
“You’ve taken hits for him before,” Snape continued, oblivious to my inner thoughts or choosing to ignore them. “Twice at the Quidditch pitch. Once more with Quirrell. You’ve nearly died for him.”
That… wasn’t how I was seeing those past incidents. It sounded dramatic and like purposeful bravery, but in reality, all I did was tackle—or try to tackle—two teachers. And dealing with the dire consequences of my thoughtless actions.
“That’s not sentiment. It’s instinct. Protectiveness,” Snape said, before his tone shifted, quieter now. “And I imagine that instinct hasn’t changed.”
That kind of serious conversation surely called for some bold eye contact, but I categorically refused to meet the eyes of a Legilimens. So I stared between his brows and assured him honestly that my protectiveness was intact.
Snape stood, moved to the cabinet behind him, and selected a vial from a neatly arranged shelf. He didn’t look back as he spoke:
“I require someone who sees and understands . A jinxed broom. A botched spell. A suspicious diary. Conversations out of place. I need someone who understands what should —and shouldn’t— be happening.”
He turned then, expression sharp as the glass in his hand.
“Not surveillance. Not betrayal. Insurance .”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Snape observed me.
“You’ve proven you can act with courage and control —qualities rarely paired. Do this properly, and you’ll find I can be… useful to those who are useful to me. Perhaps a recommendation. Perhaps some freedom others aren’t given.”
Was that an attempt at bribing me? There was no need, but I wasn’t about to refuse payment, even if it was very far from being my goal.
Without further ado, Snape placed the mysterious vial down in front of me. It was thin, filled with something faintly iridescent, like ground pearl in honey.
“A mixture of powdered silver and dittany,” Snape said coolly, offering no further explanation. “Keep it on you. Always.”
I inhaled sharply. I knew what that was for. Cautiously, I stared at the vial and took it carefully. The weight of it, light as it was, felt significant.
Snape’s gaze on me felt loaded, sharp and searching.
“I’d also advise reviewing chapter twenty-nine of your Defence textbook,” he added almost offhandedly. “Thoroughly.”
I didn’t blink. I knew exactly what that chapter covered, as I’d read it twice when writing that essay Snape had set last month.
“I got an O on that essay,” I said quietly, not looking away from Snape’s face, but still not meeting his eyes properly.
Snape’s mouth curled. Not into a smile, not quite, but into something close to approval.
“So you did,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as though measuring my restraint while in such a loaded conversation. “Good.”
A charged pause. Then:
“I trust you understand the value of discretion.”
“You know I do, sir,” I replied, tucking the vial away inside my robes.
Be it Quirrell or the Diary, I had kept the secrets Snape asked me to hold. In reality, I was keeping far greater secrets than Snape could ever imagine. Secrets no one would ever know, secrets I would always carry alone.
Snape studied me a moment longer. Whatever test this had been, I had passed.
“Then we are clear,” he said, stepping back behind his desk. “Keep Potter safe. Keep me informed. And should the situation demand it—act.”
I rose.
“I will, sir.”
Snape didn’t look up from the essays on his desk as he spoke his final words:
“And, Mr Weasley, if anyone asks, you’re just a concerned friend. Over-eager, perhaps. Predictably loyal. Nothing more.”
Harry’s loyal sidekick, just as I preferred.
“Wouldn’t dream of being anything else,” I said with a faint grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Snape gave a single, crisp nod. The conversation was over. I left, the faint clink of the vial in my pocket like a quiet promise: I was trusted , backed and watching. I had everything I could ask for to protect Harry.
Only one thing was still missing.
It would take some persuasion.
And maybe a tiny bit of emotional blackmail.
Nothing my previous life hadn’t prepared me for.
A couple of days later, the first Saturday of November arrived in a torrent of wind and rain, the kind of weather that promised a miserable Quidditch match. Over breakfast in the Great Hall, Marcus Flint had gathered the Slytherin team around him, hunched over mugs of hot tea and rapidly cooling toast.
His voice was low and gruff, barely audible over the storm lashing at the windows.
“We’re not here to put on a show,” Flint growled, glancing pointedly toward the Gryffindor table, where their team was assembling. “That little Weasley girl might be fast, but she’s no match for our Seeker. Catch the Snitch quick, Potter. Let’s end this before the pitch turns into a lake.”
Harry nodded, jaw tight, clearly taking it like a soldier receiving orders from his commandant. It barely managed to bring a light smirk to my face. I wasn’t just worried about Harry, who would be up in the air dodging Bludgers and Dementors. This was Ginny’s first match, too.
There was a tight knot in my chest.
The team suddenly stood up, ready to leave for the Quidditch pitch. I caught Harry before he could go too far.
“Oi, Harry! Wait up.”
He turned, brows furrowed. I reached out and yanked his glasses off his face.
“Hey—!”
“Hold still,” I muttered, already raising my wand. “ Impervius .”
I handed them back, ignoring Harry’s glare.
“You’ll thank me when you can see through the rain. Good luck.”
He hurried after his teammates after thanking me, and I made my way to the Gryffindor table. Hermione joined me in wishing Ginny a good first match, then we made our way to the pitch with the rest of the spectators. I insisted on finding a spot on a bench near the staircase and the staff stand. Dumbledore and Snape were in attendance. It took the edge off my anxiety.
The pitch below was a muddy blur, the players almost indistinguishable through the haze of rain.
The match began with Madam Hooch’s whistle.
I squinted, trying to keep my eyes on both Harry and Ginny as they zipped across the field, dodging and diving through the gale. The visibility was so crappy that both teams only managed to score once each in the span of half an hour.
The first flash of lightning cracked the sky just as Madam Hooch blew her whistle for a timeout. Wood and Flint were both shouting instructions to their respective teams, soaked to the bone and huddled miserably at the pitch’s edge.
The match resumed with even fiercer determination. The score remained tight, each goal a hard-earned effort against the relentless weather.
Soon, I saw it: two small figures streaking toward the same point in the air. Harry and Ginny, both in pursuit of the Snitch, trailing rain in their wake.
The wind nearly drowned out the commentator’s voice, but he shouted excitedly:
“ –and it’s Potter and Weasley neck and neck! Incredible flying from—”
Then, everything changed.
Screams erupted from the stands. The sky darkened unnaturally. Shadows spilt across the pitch like ink, and cold—not just wind-chill, but bone-deep, soul-sapping cold—rushed over the stadium.
Before anyone could react, Dementors reached Harry. His broom jerked violently.
And he was falling.
From fifty feet up.
I was already scrambling to my feet as Dumbledore burst onto the field, wand raised. With a great, sweeping motion and a deep bellow, he slowed Harry’s fall, robes billowing in the wind.
Snape wasn’t far behind him. His Patronus surged out of his wand, barreling into the dark figures with blinding force. Dumbledore’s silvery phoenix joined Snape’s doe. The Dementors fled.
Chaos erupted in the stands as students were ordered back to the castle. Madam Hooch barked for the teams to land. Meanwhile, Dumbledore gently levitated Harry’s unconscious form onto a conjured stretcher.
Breathless and soaked, I nearly slammed into Snape when I tripped in the mud.
Snape walked beside Harry’s unconscious body, expression hard, wand still in hand. The silver glow of his Patronus lingered, circling protectively around the group before vanishing into mist. Hermione and I stayed close, flanking the stretcher with the rest of the Slytherin team. Malfoy was notably absent. Ginny and the twins arrived a moment later, catching up to our procession, faces pale and stricken.
Madam Pomfrey bustled in as soon as we arrived in the hospital wing, wand glowing.
“Nothing broken,” she confirmed after examining Harry. “Thank Merlin. That fall could’ve—”
She stopped herself, tightening her grip on her wand. Dumbledore and Snape exchanged a few low, tense words before striding out of the infirmary. Just as they stepped through the open doors, Flitwick arrived, cradling a shattered bundle in his arms.
“The Whomping Willow got to it after the fall.”
Flint took the destroyed Nimbus 2001, and he almost looked more stricken by the loss of the broom than by his Seeker’s close-call. He left with the remains of the broom, and the rest of the Slytherin team trickled away after him. Ginny and the twins stayed.
I pulled Ginny into a bone-crushing hug.
“You alright?”
“Bit shaken,” she admitted with a nod. “But I wasn’t close to the dementors. Harry was way ahead.”
I fished in my pockets until I found a slightly squashed Chocolate Frog.
“Eat it.”
For once, Ginny didn’t bristle at my command and nibbled on the treat without argument, hands trembling slightly.
“That,” Fred muttered, “was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Harry stirred. I leaned in just as his eyes opened. I put his glasses back on his nose. He was lucky they didn’t break during his fall.
“What—? What happened?”
“You fell,” Hermione said gently. “Dementors came. Dumbledore slowed you, thank Merlin.”
Harry sat up slightly, eyes darting around.
“The match— did we get a replay?”
Ginny let out a weak laugh. The twins exchanged amused glances.
“Typical,” George said.
“You nearly died, and all you care about is Quidditch,” Fred added, shaking his head.
I, however, looked as unimpressed as I felt.
“Your spine could’ve cracked into a hundred pieces, mate. And you’re asking about the match? You seriously need to put your priorities straight.”
He ostensibly cared not one wit about what I said, as the next question he uttered what about his damn broom.
“It’s wrecked,” Hermione said.
Harry’s face fell. He closed his eyes briefly and heaved a deep sigh.
“Well, at least Snape’s old broom is still available. Still, it’s not as good as the Nimbus 2001…”
“It was just a stupid broom,” I mumbled darkly. “Not worth dying over.”
The twins gasped theatrically.
“Blasphemy.”
“Don’t insult the broom.”
“It’s your face that’s stupid.”
They kept ping-ponging insults until Madam Pomfrey came over, her tone brisk but not unkind. She told us to leave, as Harry needed rest.
Harry sank back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded and ready to go to sleep.
We reluctantly rose, gathering whatever mess we had managed to make in our short visit. My siblings went ahead, dragging their weary feet to the exit. Hermione and I followed suit after she gave Harry a heartfelt hug.
“I told Neville I’d help him with his Wigginweld Potion. I can cancel if you want me to stay...”
“No, it’s fine,” Harry interrupted Hermione with a shake of his head. “He needs it. And I’m not exactly dying here.”
He even managed a crooked smile. Hermione seemed a little less guilty about leaving us on Sunday afternoon. After she was gone, the silence stretched between us, mostly comfortable.
The air was thick with the soft rustling of bedsheets and the muted clinks of Madam Pomfrey’s potions cabinet in the distance. Rain tapped against the windows in slow, steady rhythms, peaceful instead of violent like the previous day.
Harry lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. I sat in the chair beside him, legs stretched out, a half-finished game of Exploding Snap forgotten between us. I wasn’t watching the cards. I was watching Harry. The way his jaw clenched and unclenched, the slight crease between his brows that hadn’t gone away all weekend.
I shifted in my chair before finding the nerve to speak:
“You’ve been chewing on something since Saturday. And it’s not the broom.”
Harry didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on a point above them, his face unreadable.
I waited.
Eventually, Harry exhaled.
“It’s stupid,” he muttered.
“Y’know you’re allowed to say things that feel stupid. Especially to me. I won’t judge.”
Harry briefly glanced over at me. I forced myself to uncross my arms to look more open, rather than like a reluctant teenager. After a moment of consideration, Harry looked away.
“It’s dementors,” he said in a low voice. “Everyone saw me fall. Everyone saw me… pass out . Last time, no one saw me apart from you and Hermione. And Lupin. Now, everyone knows… No one else did that. Just me .”
Harry’s despondent tone shifted to frustration. Then it went back to downhearted when he continued in an even lower voice:
“And it’s not just the falling. It’s… what I hear.”
He stopped talking. I didn’t rush, waiting, and giving Harry the silence he needed to compose himself and keep going.
“I know whose scream I hear. It’s my mum .”
Harry’s voice cracked on the word. My heart broke with it. He pushed through.
“She was trying to stop him, y’know. Begging him not to kill me. Then he laughs , and… then nothing. But it’s always there. Like… the worst part of my life, on repeat, whenever they’re near.”
My heart ached, and my eyes prickled. I didn’t try to hide it, but I did my best to keep my voice steady.
“Harry, that’s not weakness. That’s… having something worth haunting.”
“Everyone else stayed on their broom,” he insisted. “ I blacked out.”
“You think Ginny didn’t nearly fall? You think half the team didn’t panic mindless when those things showed up? Yes, the dementors hit you hardest, but you were also closest .”
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what Harry had shared settling in the space between us. Then, Harry turned to me, tentative.
“What about you?” He asked haltingly, like he doubted he was allowed even to utter the question into existence. “What do you hear?”
I breathed in deeply. The past pressed against the edge of my thoughts.
The cold living room.
The unnatural position.
My sister’s face when I told her…
“... Je crois qu’il est mort.”
Her trembling hands searching for a pulse.
Her shaky voice whispering that his body was freezing.
The memory lodged like ice behind my ribs. Like always, I felt tears gathering in the corner of my eyes. I breathed in deeply and let my head fall back, blinking hard, hoping not to burst into tears.
“There was… someone… I looked up to. A man who… raised me. Sort of,” I added quickly, aware of how close I was skirting the edge. “But… he was that kind of figure.”
Despite my best efforts, tears slipped past my guard. I ignored them, hoping that Harry wouldn’t notice them if I didn’t move.
“I found him. At his home. I knew something was wrong from the moment I walked in. But I ignored it. Until I couldn’t ignore it anymore. He was… dead.”
I exhaled wetly.
“Dementors sure know how to find that exact second and drag it back like it never left. They just tear through whatever armour you’ve got. Doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means… It means you’ve lived through something .”
For a long moment, neither of us said anything.
“Do you still dream about it?” Harry asked, voice thick.
“Not as much as when it happened, and less every year. But it still happens. Catches me off guard every time.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
The words hung between us, quiet, heavy and unashamed.
And slowly, some of the tightness in Harry’s shoulders eased. Not gone, but no longer alone. On the other hand, I felt tension flood my body.
“Harry? Just… don’t tell anyone. Especially not my family. They don’t know it happened. No need to make Mum freak out that I found a dead person.”
“I wasn’t planning on telling anyone anyway.”
That was that. No vow, no dramatic promise. Just quiet trust sealed between us, like a thread knotted in the dark.
The Ancient Runes classroom hummed with quiet conversations, each desk a small island of activity. Students were arranged in clusters of two or three, murmuring over their translation exercises, the scratch of quills punctuated by the occasional frustrated sigh or whispered debate over a rune's meaning. Professor Babbling moved between the groups with a calm attentiveness, occasionally leaning in to offer a hint or a nudge in the right direction.
Our group—the usual suspects—had mostly fallen into a comfortable rhythm. Hermione did most of the deciphering, I did most of the reformulating, and Harry… was present.
We’d hit a quiet moment, quills still, while we reread our worksheet for spelling mistakes, when Harry took the opportunity to lean forward slightly, his voice low.
“Lupin asked me to stay back after class earlier.”
“We know, mate. We were there.” I replied, eyes staying on my revision.
“What did he want?” Hermione asked, curious.
Harry summarised his conversation with the professor. Lupin had brought up the dementors, and one thing leading to another, Harry ended up asking Lupin to teach him how to defend himself against the creatures. Lupin had agreed, but said it would have to wait until next term. Harry was both eager about the future tutoring and frustrated that he had to wait this long to begin.
“Well,” I chimed in. “No harm in getting a head start on the theory. Library trip after dinner?”
Harry’s face lit up. Needless to say, Hermione was more than eager too.
“Also,” I added nonchalantly. “If Lupin ends up too busy, there are other professors, y’know. Both Dumbledore and Snape cast the spell to repel the dementors during the match.”
Hermione made a suspicious humming noise at the back of her throat when I mentioned Snape, but Harry looked like he was genuinely considering it: desperate times, and all that.
Speaking of desperate times, that evening after dinner, we made the conscious choice to ask Madam Pince for help. Once we had finished explaining what we were searching for, she gave us a look that hovered between suspicion and dismissiveness.
“Those are highly advanced subjects,” she said, her already thin mouth pursed tighter. “You won’t find instructional material lying about where any second-year can tamper with it.”
Hermione straightened, hands folded behind her back in her best respectful-student pose. I took great care not to make my usual innocent face.
“We’re not looking to practice. Just to learn the theory.”
Pince sniffed.
“Still. Most texts on dementors or patronus casting are kept in the Restricted Section. To gain access, you’ll need a signed permission slip from your Head of House or the relevant professor. In your case, I suppose that would be Professor Lupin.”
We deflated a bit.
“You may check the Advanced Care of Magical Creatures shelves. Toward the back. Academic , not instructional. Some of it should be above your level. Which means you might learn something.”
She turned on her heels and stalked away before any of us could thank her. I glanced at my friends.
“Borderline compliment?” I said under my breath.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Hermione retorted with a shrug.
We headed to the back shelves, past rows of spined tomes and floating dust motes. The advanced section looked like no one had touched it in years. Still, we combed through it carefully, I checking titles on the upper shelves while Hermione and Harry worked the lower ones.
About fifteen minutes in, Hermione let out a quiet “Aha!” and pulled out a thick, dark-bound book with silver-gilt lettering on the spine: Creatures of Fear and Shadow: An Academic Guide to Dark Beings .
I set down the book I’d been skimming and leaned in as Hermione flipped to the index. Her finger trailed down until she found: “Section Five – Dementors”.
We pulled three chairs together around a small study table. The passage we found was relatively short and dense, written in dry academic prose, but valuable all the same:
Section 5: The Dementor Species and Defensive Protocols
“The only known spell that effectively repels a Dementor is the Patronus Charm, categorised as advanced Light Magic. Few adult witches or wizards can produce a corporeal Patronus, often due to the mental discipline and emotional clarity required.
The form of a corporeal Patronus often reflects elements of the caster’s subconscious: loyalty, identity, or repressed longing. While not conscious Animagus forms, the parallels are notable. Young wizards are rarely encouraged to attempt this charm due to the psychic backlash experienced during training.”
“Psychic backlash,” I repeated out loud. “Sounds fun.”
We searched for more, but none of the other books had much more than a footnote or a vague mention. No theory, no spell breakdown, no helpful diagrams. Just ominous warnings and academic observations.
When we regrouped near the library exit, it was already edging toward curfew. Hermione, ever practical, pulled out her timetable.
“If we’re going to try to get access to the Restricted Section, we’ll need a professor’s signature. Who has class with a Head of House first? I only have electives tomorrow.”
“Harry and I have Transfiguration in the afternoon.”
“McGonagall, then. You’ll ask her after class.”
“Yes, boss,” I said with a halfhearted salute.
“Do you think she’ll accept?” Harry asked, completely ignoring my antics.
“Oh, mate. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. Nothing says ‘fun Tuesday’ like having students asking to research soul-sucking creatures and dangerous light magic.”
Chapter 21: BOOK THREE - MANIPULATING THE ODDS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MANIPULATING THE ODDS
After Tuesday’s Transfiguration class, Harry and I lingered behind while everyone else packed up and shuffled out. McGonagall noticed us as she wiped chalk off her hands.
“Yes, Mr Potter? Mr Weasley?”
Harry stepped forward.
“Professor, we wanted to ask if you’d sign a permission slip to let us into the Restricted Section.”
Her eyebrows rose a fraction, and she looked at us from head to toes.
“What precisely are you planning to read, Mr Potter? I daresay it’s not bedtime stories.”
“No, Professor. We’re researching dementors. I asked Professor Lupin about learning the Patronus Charm. He said he’d teach me next term… But I thought it might help if we got a head start on the theory.”
Her sharp gaze flicked between us.
“The Patronus Charm is not a casual incantation. It’s advanced magic. Difficult magic. And dementors are not to be taken lightly.”
“That’s exactly why we want to be able to defend ourselves against them,” I jumped in. “So that a situation like Saturday won't happen again. With terrible consequences.”
“We’re not trying to cast it on our own. Just to learn what we can before lessons start.”
McGonagall pressed her lips together in a line that could’ve gone either way. She looked thoughtful, maybe even a little uncertain.
Then I couldn’t help but open my big gob.
“And, well, if Harry’s focused on dementor theory instead of Quidditch strategy… Maybe Gryffindor will finally have a chance to beat Slytherin.”
Her eyes snapped to my face in disbelief, before she made a strange sound, like she’d swallowed a laugh and wasn’t entirely pleased with herself about it. I loved it.
“Mr Weasley,” she said, reaching into her desk drawer. “That may be the most self-serving yet bizarrely effective argument I’ve heard all month.”
She handed over the signed slip with a crisp flourish.
“Don’t make me regret this. And if you so much as whisper about practising the charm unsupervised, I’ll have Madam Pince banish you from the library until graduation.”
“Yes, Professor,” we said in unison, both of us grinning.
As we left the classroom, Harry whispered in my ear:
“Good save.”
“I do what I can,” I said proudly, twirling the permission slip like a victory banner.
Tuesday evening, the teachers made it official: the match between Gryffindor and Slytherin was rescheduled for this Saturday.
After that, the week dissolved into full-out war preparation.
Harry was back in full training mode, and I barely saw him except for meals or when he dragged himself back to the dorm, muddy and exhausted. The same could be said for the twins and Ginny. All of them were buried in practices, strategy meetings or running drills in the cold.
Therefore, my plan to sweet-talk the twins into parting with the Marauder’s Map had to be shelved: it would have to wait until after the game. No one was going to hand over a magical secret weapon while their brains were knotted up with thoughts of Bludger dodges and flying formations.
Speaking of knotted up brains, Malfoy decided to put an end to his self-imposed exile and reared his smug head again. The prat had clearly been saving up all his most un-clever ideas. He took to doing dramatic reenactments of Harry falling off his broom, complete with a gasp and a thud, whenever Harry walked by. He even suggested, loudly and often, that Harry should step down and give the Seeker position to someone “with actual spine”.
That nonsense didn’t last long. Flint cornered Malfoy outside the Great Hall to tell him with no room for debate: “ You’re not the captain, Malfoy. I am. And Potter’s your Seeker. End of discussion. ”
Unfortunately, being told off only redirected his energies. He resumed doing those stupid dementor impressions instead. It wasn’t clever or funny, just cruel.
I hated it.
I’d started to forget how exhausting Malfoy’s voice could be, how every word that came out of his mouth felt like a poke in a bruise. The break we’d had from him after the twins’ curse had been such a blessed silence. I missed it more with every fake swoop and exaggerated ghostly noises.
Harry pretended not to care, but I could tell it got to him. Of course it did. Malfoy had a knack for finding the cracks and digging in. Ironically enough, just like a freaking dementor.
I did my best to ignore it, too, but if he pushed Harry further, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep walking away.
On Friday, I lost my cool in History of Magic.
The classroom was its usual dull, grey, dim self, dusty and musty, like a long forgotten sock in a laundry basket. Professor Binns hadn't floated in yet, and the room buzzed with low conversation as students shuffled parchment and quills.
Harry sat beside me near the back of the Slytherin side, leaning over to check if he’d brought the right chapter notes. That’s when Malfoy’s voice cut through the room:
“Let’s bet about tomorrow’s game! Two Galleons on Potter ending out cold again.”
Crabbe and Goyle were the only ones to dare laugh. All the students on the Ravenclaw side of the room just completely stopped their conversations and turned to stare at Malfoy, some in disbelief and some in open contempt for Malfoy’s appealing taunt.
“Maybe next time a Dementor shows up, you can try bribing it with your fucking Galleons.”
Heads turned in my direction. I heard a ‘oof’ somewhere.
“Funny, isn’t it? The people who’ve never been near real danger are always the loudest about how brave they would’ve been. Or how much braver someone else should’ve been. Real easy to talk big about being braver than Harry, when you’ve never seen a Dementor up close and the scariest thing you’ve ever faced is a house-elf ironing your socks wrong.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then the classroom erupted in snickering. Blaise and Corner were the most vocal in their amusement at Malfoy’s expense. He looked like he’d swallowed something sour, his mouth opening and closing, no comeback in sight.
Just then, Binns drifted through the blackboard without a greeting, or even the slightest acknowledgement of our very existence, and began droning on today’s theme.
I could still feel Malfoy’s glare burning in my direction.
Worth it.
The day of the rematch arrived crisp and clear, with no dementors in sight. From the moment the game started, the air was charged with cautious excitement and apprehension. Slytherin played fiercely, but Gryffindor held their own. Ginny put up an impressive fight that kept everyone on their toes. I was awfully proud of her and told her so later.
In the end, Harry caught the snitch, as I expected, sealing the victory for Slytherin by a solid margin.
Quidditch businesses being over until February, Hermione and I pulled Harry back to other interests, namely our research on the Patronus. We updated him on everything we’d found and compiled neatly on a sheet of parchment.
“Now we just need to wait for Professor Lupin to be ready next term,” Hermione concluded.
“That’s months away,” he sighed, frustrated. “I want to be ready before the next drama.”
I sucked distractedly around my acid pop before talking.
“Which means we need to find someone who would agree to teach us now… We should just—”
“ ‘Ask Snape’ ”, Hermione interrupted me to say.
There was a pause. Hermione’s mouth twitched. Harry was suddenly taken by a cough. They didn’t say anything, but the way they were trying—and failing—to keep their expressions neutral said enough.
“ Oh for frick’s sake ,” I groaned, ears burning and face blushing. “All I’m saying is— We know three people who can cast the spell: Lupin, Snape, and Dumbledore. Lupin wants to wait months, and we’re not about to go to the school's Headmaster for tutoring sessions. Snape knows the charm, alright? There’s nothing more to it.”
“You’re right,” Harry replied. “He’d be better than waiting around.”
“We can ask after Potions tomorrow.”
Hermione, biting back a smile, went back to her notes.
I refused to meet her eyes the rest of the day.
After the clatter of cauldrons and the hiss of extinguished flames signalled the end of Potions, the classroom progressively emptied. Students filed out with the usual mix of relief and urgency, some even going as far as honest-to-God bolting before Snape could remember a last-minute homework assignment.
Hermione lingered for half a second, clearly wanting to stay for the conversation that would follow, but she glanced at the ticking wall clock and sighed.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” she whispered, then vanished into the corridor with her bag bouncing at her side.
Harry and I approached the front of the room, where Snape was scribbling notes on a syllabus. He didn’t look up.
“What.”
Whoa. Such sheer warmth .
“We wanted to ask you something, sir,” Harry said. “About… learning the Patronus Charm.”
Snape didn’t even pause in his note-taking.
“And why, exactly, would I volunteer to waste my time attempting to teach two thirteen-year-olds a spell most adult wizards cannot master?”
“Maybe they can’t because they don’t have the proper incentive,” I ventured hesitantly, thrown off by the blunt, direct dismissal.
“I saw a dementor up close twice already,” Harry added firmly. “I want to be prepared. We both do.”
Snape slowly lifted his eyes from the parchment in front of him and fixed us with a gaze so pointed it could probably write its own detention slips.
“We’re serious about this,” I told him, trying to keep my voice reasonable. “We’ve already got all the theory down pat. We only need supervision for the practising part.”
Snape raised one deliberate brow, as if unimpressed. For some reason, I got the distinct feeling he was just objecting on principle.
Two could play games.
I heaved a small sigh and shook my head lightly, as if admitting defeat.
“Then, we’ll have to wait until next term, I guess.”
Heh.
He squinted lightly at me, vaguely suspicious.
“And how, pray tell, will the situation be any different then?”
“Well, Professor Lupin said he’d start sessions with Harry at the start of next term,” I answered innocently.
Snape’s expression didn’t exactly change . But there was some sort of flicker I was probably imagining and hoping for. I decided to push just a little further.
“ One-on-one. ”
Completely oblivious, Harry nodded.
“He said I could come by after winter break.”
Snape finally moved, tucking his quill away with deliberate care.
“Fine.”
“Wait— really?” Harry said, surprise obvious in his tone.
“I will agree to instruct you both, provided you approach the lessons with full commitment, discipline, and the minimal amount of idiocy.”
We gave our words.
“Every Tuesday evening, after dinner. My office. Do not be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
Unrolling two new scrolls of parchment, Snape wrote something on each of them, signed them sharply and then held them out.
“Pending our first session, you will revise these sections. Thoroughly.”
Harry took one scroll, read it, then said:
“We’ve already read those! It’s the same material we found in the Restricted Section.”
“I am aware,” Snape said smoothly with a disapproving side-eye in Harry’s direction. “If you already know it by heart, then I expect you to impress me with your vast knowledge at our first lesson.”
He turned back to his desk, clearly finished with the conversation. We took the cue and turned to go, Harry still reading over the scroll of references with a thoughtful frown.
As we left the classroom and the door clicked shut behind us, I smiled smugly.
With the tutoring lessons secured, I was once again free enough to think about my secret mission to become the new master of the Marauder’s Map.
I didn’t have a proper plan, only some direction and I was prepared to play the long game. I couldn’t come at them like a bulldozer. I needed… subtlety. Which I sorely lacked. So, I did what I usually do when in doubt.
Bribes.
On Sunday morning, I had no one of my usual crew to keep me company, as Harry was slaving away on the schoolwork he had neglected during his Quidditch frenzy, Luna was nowhere to be found, and Hermione was completely snubbing Harry and I because she didn’t get included in Snape’s invitation for the tutoring sessions.
In short, I was bored and aimless until I decided that it was the perfect occasion to act on this year’s schemes.
I spent more than an hour and a half searching the castle for my brothers. I finally found them in an empty stairwell alcove near the second floor, tucked away behind a statue of Gregory the Snarmy. I wondered if this place was one of the castle's secret passages.
Heads bent over a scrap of parchment, the twins were arguing quietly about something I didn’t catch. I walked up to them casually, holding two warm pasties and a bag of liquorice bats. The smell or the sound of my footsteps must have alerted them, because Fred looked up and grinned when he saw my offerings.
“Early bribes. Merlin, help us.”
“I’m efficient like that,” I said, tossing George the sweets. “That, or desperate.”
George caught the bag and arched an eyebrow.
“Desperate for what?”
I hesitated just a moment, just long enough to make it seem reluctant. Then:
“Shortcuts. Passages. Just one or two.”
The twins blinked.
“You’ve been listening to Percy too much,” George said, suspicious now.
I shook my head, lowering my voice.
“It’s not for me. It’s for Harry.”
That got their attention. Fred leaned in and asked me to explain. I exhaled like I didn’t want to talk about it, but would, because someone had to.
“Black’s gotten into the castle once already. Without setting off the alarms. No one knows how. But he knows the castle. Better than most students, probably. That’s what bothers me.”
“Because he was a student here,” George muttered.
“Exactly.” I nodded. “If he came back— if something happened when we were split up, if Harry needed to run… I’d rather know the fastest way out. Or the safest places to hide.”
Fred and George were quiet, glancing at each other.
“I’m not saying give me your secrets,” I added quickly. “Just... basics. Something that could actually help if things go wrong.”
“You think he’ll come back again?” George asked slowly.
“I think he didn’t get what he wanted last time,” I said grimly. “So why wouldn’t he?”
Fred folded his arms.
“You’re not usually this doom-and-gloom.”
“Yeah, well. I don't usually worry about murderers sneaking around after bedtime… Look, I’m not good at duelling. But I can at least learn how to move smart through the castle. Just... think about it.”
I turned to go, my shoulders squared, neither pushing nor begging.
Behind me, Fred called:
“Maybe we will show you something.”
“Yeah,” George said. “Basic stuff. Beginner level.”
I looked over my shoulder, face carefully neutral.
“Thanks.”
No grin. No scheming. Just a brother, trying to protect someone who mattered.
Or so it would seem.
Now I needed to wait and see if they took my bait or not.
I hoped they would.
On our first tutoring lesson, Snape led us to an empty classroom in a part of the dungeons we’d never been to before. While there weren’t the usual bubbling cauldrons and disgusting jars of pickled animals, it reassembled very much the Potion classroom, with low ceilings, dark stone and cold drafts.
Harry and I sat in the front row, watching Snape prowl in front of us, his arms folded behind his back.
“We begin by testing whether either of you has actually read what I assigned.” He said before whirling on Harry. “Mr Potter. Define the three-tiered classification system used to categorise dark creatures, as outlined in Creatures of Fear and Shadow .”
Taken aback by the abruptness of the lesson’s introduction, Harry blinked twice, then dutifully recited:
“Class One: Entities of physical danger. Class two: Emotional predators. Class three: Magical disruptors or drainers.”
“Which class do Dementors fall under?”
“Class Two. Because of their psychological feeding and their effect on emotional… Hum… Incapacitation.”
Snape gave a single nod before swivelling his gaze to me.
“Mr Weasley. In Warding the Mind , what is described as the key distinction between a Patronus and a basic shield charm?”
“A Patronus doesn’t block force, it repels it. It’s not a barrier spell but a projection of internal emotional and psychological resistance. So it’s proactive, not reactive.”
Snape didn’t slow. The questions kept coming back and forth between us: magical theory, memory discipline, spell architecture, intent weaving. Harry fumbled once when asked to define an emotional anchor, but recovered quickly. I personally had to pause before explaining the concept of intent harmonisation, but Snape let it pass with a quiet “ Acceptable ”.
Only when he was satisfied with our knowledge did he cease his relentless questioning.
“Now, we will discuss why most of the wizarding world is useless against Dementors.”
His voice shifted into something clipped and with an edge of controlled disdain.
“Fools,” he said with a faint sneer, “believe the Patronus is about happiness. As though a moment of cheer could stand against a being that devours hope. Idiocy. The Patronus is not a smile in the dark. It is defiance . It is a refusal . The charm does not function unless you mean it. Unless you believe, without question , that your mind is not available for feasting.”
My breath caught a little. I found myself sitting straighter, eyes never leaving Snape’s silhouette. I’d never heard Snape teach like this before. This wasn’t the sneering and exasperated man behind the Potions bench; this was someone with purpose. Clarity. Power.
If Snape ever taught Defence for real, he’d be brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant.
“Magical structure,” he said, and drew a complex spiral in the air with his wand, silvery light trailing behind like thread. “The incantation alone means nothing. It is the intent channel, the decision to resist violation, that ignites the casting. Emotion fuels it. But discipline contains it.”
He pointed the tip of his wand at Harry.
“A Patronus without discipline flares and dies. A Patronus without emotion fizzles in the wand. Either without the other is failure.”
I was spellbound. I didn’t even notice that my hands were clenched on the edge of my chair.
Snape stopped walking.
“We begin.”
I grabbed my wand immediately in my clammy hand.
“No wands yet,” Snape called with narrowed eyes. “Enunciate the incantation. Once. Clearly. No slurring. No theatrics.”
We obeyed; both of our voices steady in the quiet, syllables slicing clean through the air. Snape gave a curt nod and stepped back, arms folding. Now the practical portion of the lesson could truly begin.
Harry and I moved toward the open space at the front of the room. The cold stones felt firm beneath my feet as I stood still, wand in hand, eyes closed. I took in a long, steadying breath.
Snape’s words rang through my mind.
Not a shield, but a refusal.
The will to resist a violation. To defend your soul. To stay your own.
I wanted that.
I wanted it deeply.
I brought up the memory I’d picked for this: the moment when I was just a baby, fresh into this life, and had realised I was someone else, someone who had been given a second chance. Reborn, not just anywhere, but here . As Ron Weasley . A wizard. With a loving family. A future.
In my past life… I hadn’t wanted to live. Not really.
But here? I wanted it with everything in me. My family, my friends, even the chaos that came with Harry’s life. I didn’t care. I wanted to live. And I wanted Harry to live too. To be safe, even when he didn’t know from what. If that meant protecting him from the things that ate away at your soul, so be it.
I lifted my wand and whispered the words, “ Expecto Patronum. ”
I opened my eyes, just in time. A rush of silver mist surged from the tip. Not nothing, but not quite formed. Like fog, bright and cold and empty of shape.
Across from me, Harry had managed a wisp of silvery gas.
We both glanced toward Snape.
“Potter,” he said, turning to Harry, all business-like. “Emotion, you have in excess. But no control. A cloud of feeling is not a Patronus. Focus.”
He turned to me.
“Weasley. You’ve memorised the theory. Disciplined your will. But you spent too little time feeling the memory. Magic without emotion is an empty vessel. Again.”
We obeyed, both closing our eyes and focusing hard.
This time, I sank deeper.
I remembered the shadows above my cot. The red-haired silhouettes. Many of them. I remembered someone calling me Ron, and I thinking it had to be a coincidence.
Then someone said Athur. Molly. Percy. Familiar names.
My pulse had thundered. My heart had pounded. I had hoped .
Then… Mum knitted a little hat right there in front of me. With no hands. Just a flick of a wand. I knew .
I had cried, properly cried, for the first time since being born again. And Bill, little Bill, scooped me up and held me like I mattered.
My throat clenched, and my chest tightened. Warmth and need and the wild, sharp urge to protect that kind of life.
I opened my eyes, lifted my wand, and cast.
Something silver-white burst forth, brighter this time, bigger. Not just mist, but shape. A shifting silhouette, indistinct but undeniably there. Four legs? Wings? I couldn’t tell for sure yet. But it was something.
Harry cast again. His mist was thicker now, heavier. Still cloud-like, but no longer flimsy.
“Improvement,” Snape said to Harry. “But still too uncontained.”
Then he looked at me. My eyes stung a bit. Suddenly, I realised I’d teared up. I rubbed my cheeks quickly, pretending to scratch.
“Weasley,” He said, voice quieter. “You’re close. What you need is a fusion. Balance the emotional force of your second attempts with the clarity and control you demonstrated in your first. Again. Once more each. Then we stop. The spell is magically costly for your age.”
I nodded in understanding. One last time.
Eyes closed, I reached for that memory, but this time I didn’t just sink into it. I shaped it. Held it steady while feeling it fully. The knowledge, the emotion, the will.
I will not be broken.
I will protect what matters.
I choose to live .
“Expecto Patronum.”
A blinding rush of silver erupted from my wand. It shot forward, gleaming, then landed on the stones with a weight I hadn’t expected. Legs. Feathers. A long neck. It turned. It waddled.
A goose.
I couldn’t help it. I snorted in delight.
I’d always found geese terrifying. Mean, loud, stubborn. You cross one, and it would be chasing you halfway across the country.
And now, one was my protector.
I was still grinning when I met Snape’s eyes. For a moment, something like approval passed over his face. I stood a little straighter.
“Satisfactory. You may enjoy your triumph quietly.”
I didn’t stop smiling.
“Producing a Patronus in a warm, well-lit room without threat is one thing,” Snape added, voice dropping to that dangerously soft tone he used when he wanted to bring you back down to earth. “Facing a Dementor is another.”
He hadn’t even finished speaking when Harry suddenly tried again. Light burst from his wand. It was… Small?
What? No, it couldn’t. It was supposed to be huge . It was supposed to have hooves and antlers . It was supposed to be Prongs.
But while it wasn’t complete or even recognisable, it was unmistakably not a stag.
It was small. Thin. Furry.
What the hell.
It disappeared before taking on its final form.
Harry turned to stare at Snape.
“I’m almost there—”
“That is quite enough for tonight. You will not attempt it again without supervision, Potter, unless you’d like to spend the rest of the term in detention.”
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it.
Snape glanced at me again.
“You needn’t attend the next lesson, Weasley. You’ve done what was required.”
“Huh?” I said stupidly with a blink. “Aren’t we going to test it in a real setting? You said earlier that casting it in a classroom isn’t much use…”
Both Snape and Harry looked at me like I’d grown another head.
“You’d like me to summon a Dementor ?”
I huffed a laugh. Then stopped when I saw Snape’s murderous expression.
“No, just— Harry’s boggart is a Dementor. So maybe… we could try that. It’s safer than the real thing.”
Snape tilted his head. Considering. Which, from Snape, might as well have been a mouth wide open in surprise.
“I will think about it.”
Then he flicked his hand toward the door.
“That will be all. It’s nearly curfew. ”
Harry and I gathered our things. As we reached the door, I paused.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Harry chimed in hastily.
Snape inclined his head just a fraction.
“Go. Do not dawdle.”
We went. We didn’t dawdle.
Chapter 22: BOOK THREE - THE MEASURE OF A MAN
Notes:
TW: Gender dysphoria
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE MEASURE OF A MAN
The incense in the tower room curled lazily through the air, its scent a blend of overripe lavender and burnt cinnamon. It didn’t smell as comforting as usual, but that may simply be a reflection of my current mood.
Around the circular classroom, students hunched over the same delicate china cups as for the rest of the term, swirling the dregs of tea again and again, and murmuring predictions in voices that grew more bored with each lesson.
After finally deciding that what he saw wasn’t a chicken after all, but more of a camel, Harry leaned back from my cup and glanced over his shoulder. Trelawney was drifting slowly between tables before pausing at Parkinson’s and Greengrass’ table with a dramatic prediction.
“She’s still two tables away,” Harry muttered. “So…”
“So”, I repeated with a growing grimace.
There was a pause.
“You really messed up with Hermione.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, dropping my face into my hand with a low groan. “Spectacularly.”
“She’s still mad.”
“Oh really?” I snarked back. “I guessed that her calling me a traitor and a misogynist was just proof of affection.”
Harry gave me a sideways look. Unimpressed by my sarcasm, but not arguing either.
“How does any of this mess make me a misogynist exactly? Snape told us that Hermione had to ask McGonagall. We told Hermione so. She asked. McGonagall said no. How is that my fault?”
“It’s not,” Harry agreed, “But we still got the tutoring, and she didn’t. Two professors denied her. And Snape didn’t even give a reason. I can understand why she thinks that Snape is out to get her.”
“But she thinks it’s because she’s Muggle-born. And that’s utter rubbish.”
Harry didn’t seem convinced that it was complete rubbish.
“Well, do you really think that the real reason is… well… what you said… I still can’t believe you said that thing right to her face.”
“Can’t believe it either,” I mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. Or at least, I could have said it differently. With more tact?”
“I doubt there is a tactful way to say to her that Snape hates her because she’s a know-it-all.”
I winced.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said quickly. “I meant Snape thinks that. Not that she is one. I mean, yeah, okay, sometimes, but not in a bad way—”
“Is there a good way?”
“ Pishoff. I said a stupid thing, that’s all. She didn’t have to call me a ‘ provincial idiot with no emotional literacy ’. That’s uncalled for!”
“I’m not even sure what that means,” Harry admitted.
“Then it seems that I’m not the only provincial idiot.”
Harry protested my statement before coming back to the problem at hand.
“So… you going to apologise?”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling, which was covered in floating dreamcatchers and fake stars.
“If she’d stop avoiding me long enough to breathe in the same corridor, sure.”
Harry chuckled quietly.
“Well, at least you’re not pretending it wasn’t your fault.”
There was a lull in the conversation after that. I idly flipped my textbook open just to give my hands something to do, and my eyes landed on the chapter called Animal Symbolism in Dreams and Omens. It seemed silly, but I suddenly had the urge to check on Geese.
I traced down the page until I found it.
“Goose: A symbol of vigilance, loyalty, teamwork, and protection. Geese are known to form strong social bonds, often mate for life, and will defend their flock with surprising ferocity. Associated with seasonal migration, they also symbolise intuition, direction, and the ability to navigate transitions. Seeing a goose may suggest you're a guardian figure or someone others rely on in moments of crisis.”
I blinked at it. Never had I ever heard someone even suggest that I might have been reliable in moments of crisis. I usually folded like a castle of cards.
I closed the book with a thoughtful hum.
“Wonder if there’s a book that explains the symbolism for Patronuses.”
Harry hummed pensively and tilted his head.
“Would it even be different?”
“Dunno. Would make sense, though, wouldn’t it? A dream goose probably doesn’t mean the same as a magical guardian goose. Anyway, someone ought to write that book.”
I was curious now. I would ask Snape during our next tutoring session.
Apparently, I missed the signs of Harry thinking up some sassiness, as the following words coming through his mouth were:
“The Goose Patronus,” he began in his best teacher voice. “An ancient, sacred omen signifying chaotic loyalty, unpredictable aggression and an instinct to chase off evil with pure volume. Said to represent those who charge into danger without a plan, honking wildly the whole way. Known to terrify Dementors through sheer confusion and relentless honking.”
I could do nothing but laugh helplessly until Trelawney had to threaten me with expulsion. Harry, that little shit, kept waiting for me to calm down before honking at me.
The following Saturday, I tried to find Hermione to present her with my apology. As a first stop to search, I went to the library. I wandered past the rows of shelves, eyes scanning the clusters of students at scattered tables, but I didn’t see her until I turned a corner in the Arithmancy section.
There she was —or rather, there was a wall of Arithmancy textbooks, precariously stacked like a fortress. Behind the barricade, a familiar bushy head was bowed over a scroll of parchment, her quill scratching rapidly.
“Hi.”
Hermione didn’t look up. Her quill didn’t pause.
I tried again, stepping closer.
“Hermione.”
“The Know-It-All is busy and would be grateful to be left in peace,” she said crisply, eyes still on the page.
Alright. Fair.
Still, I decided to channel my inner goose and push the issue nonetheless. I eased into the seat across from her, ignoring the stiffness in her posture and the glare she finally shot my way.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t respond, but her eyes narrowed.
“I really am. What I said was… mean. Unfair. And uncalled for. And not at all what I meant to say. You’re not a know-it-all in a bad way. I mean, yeah, you know a lot more than the majority of the people I know, and that’s not a flaw.”
Still no response. I kept going, heart thudding and face flushed in embarrassment.
“It wasn’t right of me to say that Snape hates you for it. That was mean. I was frustrated that you wouldn’t drop it, and I said the first thing that came to mind. I’m sorry.”
“You knew it would hurt me,” she replied slowly. “And you said it anyway.”
“Yeah.”
She looked down again, carefully closing the book in front of her. Her fingers lingered on the cover as if arranging her thoughts before she trusted herself to speak.
“You and Harry told me about the Patronus lessons with Snape,” she said at last. “And I accepted it. Even when I was disappointed and hurt. Even though it was unfair. But then I went to Professor McGonagall…”
Her tone shifted, growing tighter, more brittle.
“She said that she doesn’t have the time. So I asked if she could maybe convince Professor Snape to tutor me with you two. She said that Professor Snape was already hesitant to offer private instruction. That his agreement to tutor you and Harry was an exception. One she didn’t want to strain. She said she worried it might become too much if he had to accommodate three students with such ‘diverse backgrounds’.”
Hermione’s jaw clenched. She didn’t elaborate, but her meaning hung thick in the air. That… that didn’t sound great. “Diverse backgrounds” could’ve meant anything: different houses, different magical ability levels, even different schedules. But Hermione, of course, had heard something else entirely. Something personal.
“And then, you told me that Snape didn’t want me because I act like a know-it-all.”
“Hermione—”
“So, what is it then?” she pressed, eyes flashing. “Am I too much because I answer questions in class? Or is it because I’m not good enough to be taught privately like the two of you?”
“I— I don’t know what goes through Snape’s head. Honestly, no one does. He treats most people like they’re beneath him, but especially unfair to Gryffindors. Maybe the ‘diverse backgrounds’ thing is just McGonagall trying to be diplomatic about Snape’s bias against other houses.”
Hermione’s frown didn’t lessen. She was still gripping her quill tightly, but she was listening.
“I genuinely don’t think it’s about being Muggle-born. Really. I mean, he’s not shy about insulting people, and still, he’s never said anything like that. I think he just… doesn’t like when Gryffindors stand out. Especially when they’re right, or better at something than his Slytherins… And you’re always right. And better than his Slytherins. So… That’s probably what gets under his skin.”
Hermione just… stared at me. Caught between fury and confusion.
“And look, Harry and I— we didn’t want to do this without you. But Snape said it had to go through your own Head of House. That wasn’t our call. If we pressed more, he would probably have cancelled the whole thing. Even though Harry really needs those lessons to protect himself.”
At that, the fight bled out of her expression. Her fingers finally relaxed around her quill.
“You should work on how you say things, Ron.”
“I know,” I admitted seriously, before adding, “After all, I’m ‘a provincial idiot with no emotional literacy ’.”
She blushed and swatted at me with her parchment.
“... Apology accepted,” she said at last, quiet but firm.
Relief crashed over me like a wave.
“Thanks.”
She stared at me a moment, then at her hands, then somewhere in the distance, behind my shoulder.
“So, how did it go?” she asked.
“What?”
“The tutoring,” she replied with rolling eyes.
“Oh. It went well. Better than I anticipated.”
I relayed what happened during the lesson. She looked like curiosity had warred with her all week, battling her wish to ignore me and the tutoring she was denied.
“And since we can’t exactly summon a dementor, I asked if we could use Harry's boggart. Just to try the charm in the presence of something close enough. Snape said he would think about it.”
Hermione’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Not disapproving, but cautious.
“That’s clever. Though potentially very stressful for Harry.”
I shrugged. Harry was way more stressed about the possibility of being powerless again in front of a real Dementor.
“You said you managed a fully formed Patronus? What form did it have?”
I looked at her, then shrugged.
“A goose.”
“A goose?”
I shrugged again. Her brows furrowed thoughtfully, brain visibly working full time to process the shape of my totem animal.
“Geese are extremely protective,” she said slowly. “They’re often used as watchdogs. Aggressive defenders of their territory. They’ll chase away wolves, you know, if it comes to that.”
I could picture that perfectly. An angry goose running after a wolf.
“It makes sense,” she added with a small, warm smile. “Loyal. Persistent. A bit loud, perhaps, but effective.”
“Loud, huh?”
She rolled her eyes, but there was amusement in it:
“Only when you’re honking about something.”
I groaned.
“Not you, too, with the honking.”
“Suits you.”
Little rascal.
I woke up with a start, tangled in my blanket like a creature caught in a net. Something was wrong. Or rather, something was far too… right. My downstairs roommates were having a mutiny.
I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would make my problem disappear. Maybe if I ignored it long enough, it’d slink back to sleep.
My brain, meanwhile, was a bloody traitor, replaying the most mortifying parts of my dream: Snape’s office, Snape’s voice, and the words good boy echoing over and over again in my unhinged skull. Panic surged. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not like this.
I peeked very carefully through the slit in the curtains around my bed. No movement. Not a shuffle, not a cough. The other Slytherin boys were blissfully still dead to the world. Thank Merlin.
I scrambled out of bed with the grace of a startled goose and tiptoed toward the bathroom, my dressing gown bunched awkwardly in front of me in a way that I hoped looked casual. This was suspicious. So much so. I had to move fast.
I hopped in the shower and blasted myself with cold water and tried desperately not to look down. I stared at the tile patterns, counted the cracks in the ceiling, hummed nonsense tunes under my breath. Anything to drown out the memory of Snape’s voice, low and rich, calling me—nope. Stop thinking about it.
The water chilled me to the bone, and the offending mutiny gradually subsided. By the time I finally turned off the tap, I was shivering, but at least… decent. I towelled off quickly, dressed, and packed my bag with the essentials I would need for the day. I briefly petted the spine of the Monstrous Book of Monsters before it consented to being put inside my bag.
I then left, heading for the common room.
I found a nice spot near one of the tall windows and slumped into an armchair. Through the glass, shadows of the lake’s life swam and darted. I stared out, half-watching the sinuous shapes, half-wrestling with my thoughts. My mind felt tangled.
This wasn’t new, not exactly. Since the very first day I woke up in my new life and discovered I was born a boy, my body had never quite felt right. Puberty, arriving last year, had only made it worse. Everything was changing, and nothing felt like it belonged to me anymore.
I hated it.
I hated that I hated it.
I hated that I had no idea what to do to reconcile with my body. That needed to change. And fast. I had to find a way to come to terms with this part of myself. Or at least not actively hating my own body.
Determined to change the status quo, I tried to think. Ideas came to mind, half-formed and clumsy.
First, I could have continued as I was doing and ignored it. Pretend my ‘downstairs roommates’ and my body were just a temporary nuisance for this life, a phase I could power through by sheer stubbornness, until I died again and hopefully reincarnated as a woman again.
Pros: I wouldn’t have to think about it.
Cons: I already was doing this, and it didn’t work. This wasn’t working. It just made me feel disconnected and miserable. And that wasn’t a healthy way to spend my life.
Second possibility, I could dive headfirst into the boy role, overcompensate and become as boyish as possible.
Pros: Maybe it could convince my brain to stop fighting itself.
Cons: That wasn’t me, and I would still be lying to myself, but in a different way. Also, what the hell did it mean to be “boyish”? Right. Not a good solution.
As a last possibility, I could channel my inner Hermione and study it like it were a school project. I could dig into books —like those found in the Room of Requirement— about gender, identity, and body-mind connections. Perhaps I could understand it by dissecting it into manageable pieces.
Pros: Intensive and deep research was kind of my thing, and knowledge was power and all that. I might find something that made sense.
Cons: Finding the needed material without alerting anyone to the subject of my research. I was sure as hell not ready for anyone to discover my inner psyche.
Sighing deeply, I stared at the rippling shadows outside, feeling a tight ache in my chest. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about this. Not even Harry. Maybe especially not Harry.
The light outside shifted as time passed, the common room gradually filling with upper-years chatting sleepily and heading off to breakfast. Eventually, my roommates trickled in, yawning and stretching.
Harry arrived, hair sticking up in every direction like a hedgehog caught in a storm. He looked ridiculous, and I couldn’t help a crooked smile.
“Morning,” he said, flopping into the chair beside me.
I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder and grabbing Harry to pull him back to standing.
“C’mon, let’s go to breakfast.”
We left the common room together, blending into the flow of students heading to the Great Hall. Harry shuffled beside me, a bleary-eyed ghost of himself, his feet barely lifting off the stone floor. I gave him a gentle nudge now and then, steering him around obstacles like I was herding a particularly dozy Flobberworm.
We sat near Theodore, Harry still half-asleep, while I was uncharacteristically quiet. Halfway through his second slice, Harry’s eyes blinked open fully, and his face scrunched in sudden horror.
“We’ve got that Charms test first thing,” he whispered, voice thick with dread.
I shook my head in fond amusement before digging into my bag.
“Alright. Quiz time, Sunshine.”
Despite the name-calling, Harry looked at me in gratitude. I spent the rest of breakfast rattling off questions between bites of eggs and toast. By the time we reached the Charms classroom, Harry looked marginally more confident. My head was pleasantly buzzing with revision notes.
Ultimately, the test proved manageable. When we left Charms, Harry even said so with relief. For a little while, the satisfaction of having aced the test gave me a moment of peace, a rare stillness in this morning’s hurricane of thoughts. But as we settled for lunch, the crisis I’d shoved into the corner of my mind crept back, filling the empty spaces left by academic stress.
Harry and Blaise were trading the answers they gave to questions four and six, visibly more relaxed knowing that their answers coincided.
After finishing lunch, we made our way over to the Gryffindor table, where Hermione was just finishing up. She looked up as we greeted her and gave us both a bright smile.
“Hi! Are you ready for Care? What do you think Hagrid’s surprise subject will be? I hope it’s… less rude than Jarveys this time.”
Harry hummed pensively.
“Something big, I bet,” he suggested. “Maybe he’s finally got a dragon.”
I schooled my features as well as I could. To this day, I still was in the dark about the fate of Norberta, who burned Hagrid’s wooden hut back in first year.
“I just hope that whatever it is, that it’s pettable,” I settled on with a shrug.
Both huffed a quiet laugh, one whispering “ Typical ” and the other commenting on my predictability. During the journey to Hagrid’s hut, Hermione took a closer look at me.
“You’re looking a bit… off today, Ron. Is everything alright?”
For a second, my breath caught in my throat. My stomach twisted uneasily. I quickly responded that I was fine. Maybe too quickly. My voice sounded a little higher than usual, but I forced my face into an awkward half-smile.
Hermione glanced at Harry, who frowned while staring at me suspiciously. Their exchanged looks made my heart beat louder, but thankfully, they let it drop.
The air was crisp and cool when we reached Hagrid’s place. The other Slytherin and Gryffindor third years converged there too, murmuring amongst themselves, trying to guess what lesson subject could have made Hagrid that enthusiastic at the end of his last class.
Before the betting and debating could become class-wide, Hagrid appeared, beaming as always, his beard wild and his jovial face flushed with excitement.
“Alright’ then, everyone! Got a real treat for yeh today— yer in for a rare sight!”
He beckoned us forward. We followed him along a narrow path at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, past what I knew to be the Thestral paddock. Most of the students completely ignored the “empty” enclosure, but my gaze snagged on Theodore, whose eyes tracked something in the paddock with solemn understanding. Neville, next to Finnagan and Thomas, was walking stiffly, also staring into the seemingly empty space.
My heart tightened in sympathy, but I didn’t mention anything and kept walking.
At the far end of the paddock, near a tall ash tree, a slender, silver-white unicorn stood tethered to a low branch. Its hind leg was wrapped in a thick orange bandage. It shifted uneasily as the students gathered nearby. The sight stole my breath.
“Ohh, it’s beautiful!” Brown whispered, her voice reverent. “How did you get it, Hagrid? They’re supposed to be really hard to catch!”
Hagrid puffed out his chest. Cute.
“Found her limpin’ in the woods while visitin’ a friend. Not easy to get her out, but I wasn’t about to leave her like tha’. Now, usually, I wouldn’t show yeh a unicorn up close, but this one’s hurt an’ needs help. This is a real privilege, alright? Unicorns are shy creatures. Gentle and noble. They don’t trust easily.”
The class leaned in, captivated, but Hagrid lifted a hand.
“Now listen up,” he said uncharacteristically firm. “I know what yer thinkin’. Unicorns don’t usually like men, but this one’s scared an’ hurt, so it’s trustin’ me fer now. I need all of yeh to be real quiet and calm. Everyone gets to stay, but no sudden movements. Yeh don’t want ter frighten her.”
He led us in a wide semi-circle, keeping a respectful distance from the unicorn. Then he crouched down, pulling back the oozing bandage gently to reveal a long gash on the unicorn’s hind leg.
“See here? This gash’s from… well, could be a thorn or maybe somethin’ nastier. Unicorns are strong, but they’re delicate too. Magic creatures, yeh see. Their blood’s got special properties. It can heal an’ keep yeh alive, but it comes with a curse. It’s forbidden to hurt one.”
We all watched in awed silence as Hagrid demonstrated applying a thick, golden-brown balm to the wound. The air filled with a nauseous scent of wildflowers and honey.
“This here’s made from calendula, moonflower essence, and a bit of dittany,” Hagrid explained, dabbing carefully. “Straight from Professor Sprout and Snape’s reserves. Helps with healin’ and keepin’ the skin soft. Unicorns need gentle care. Talk to ‘em soft, show ‘em patience.”
He spoke softly to the unicorn as he worked, his giant hands surprisingly delicate. I hung on every word and demonstration. The worry and confusion I had been feeling all day drained away. The unicorn’s quiet presence, its deep, dark eyes, and the gentle droning of Hagrid's kind words of encouragement. It all wrapped around me like a comforting blanket.
When the lesson ended, the students trailed back toward the castle in a dreamy daze, buzzing with excitement and wonder.
“That was incredible,” Hermione said, her cheeks flushed.
“I never thought I would ever see a unicorn up close before”, Harry added with an awe-filled voice.
I nodded, feeling lighter than I had all day.
“Yeah. It was brilliant. Even though we weren’t allowed to pet her.”
My friends huffed in fond amusement. As we reached the steps of the castle, Hermione suddenly broke our silent journey.
“So, how did your Patronus tutoring go last night?” she asked, her tone kept light and curious, with no trace of bitterness.
Harry beamed with excitement.
“Actually, I managed a corporeal Patronus!”
“You did? That’s amazing, Harry! What form does it take?”
Harry hesitated for just a beat, then mumbled.
“A weasel.”
Hermione actually stopped dead in her tracks, her expression melting from pride into something vaguely mischievous, a knowing sparkle lighting her gaze.
“A weasel, you say,” she repeated, giving me a meaningful side-eye. “That’s… adorable, Harry. Really adorable.”
“That’s not the point of it!” Harry protested, his voice strangled by embarrassment.
Hermione’s grin only widened.
“I find it very sweet. You two make the cutest pair. My little goose and weasel.”
Harry and I both spluttered in outrage.
“Stop it, you witch! ”
“Yeah, cut it out!”
But Hermione only cooed in a mockingly sweet tone, clasping her hands together.
“Awww, my brave little goose and his loyal weasel. It’s like something out of a storybook.”
We both groaned in unison. Hermione burst into laughter, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Alright, alright,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ll stop. For now.”
Our footsteps continued up the stairs, lighter than before, the weight of earlier worries eased by shared laughter and a little teasing. At least, she didn’t seem angry anymore about being pushed aside from the tutoring.
It was nice.
Chapter 23: BOOK THREE - FAILURES AND VICTORIES
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FAILURES AND VICTORIES
“Expecto Patronum!”
Harry’s wand trembled, but his voice had rung out firmly. A silvery mist burst forth from the tip of his wand, swirling into a dense, protective cloud. The boggart, still wearing its borrowed cloak of a dementor, recoiled. However, the silvery mass was not strong enough to repel it. The spectre floated closer, and Harry staggered back, face ghostly pale.
Mentioning sharply with his wand, Snape sent the creature back into its trunk. It locked itself back and rattled a second before going still.
“You let the fear in. For your next attempt, you will take care of remembering that you can cast a corporeal Patronus effectively.”
He produced a slab of chocolate from the desk, broke off generous chunks, and handed them to us with narrowed eyes, daring us to leave even one crumb of it. We obeyed his silent order and ate it all. The rich sweetness filled my mouth and brought back a faint flush of warmth to my shivering limbs.
Snape’s dark gaze flickered between us, checking us out for some sign of weakness.
“When you face it again, remember: focus on what makes you feel safe, something stronger than the fear. Don’t let it settle . Potter, you go first.”
Harry squared his shoulders and stepped up again. Snape opened the trunk.
“Expecto Patronum!”
This time, a brilliant, full-bodied silver weasel erupted from his wand, leaping at the dementor. It hissed and shuddered, shrinking back from the harsh light. The weasel chased the spectre, cornering it, and with a final flick of Harry’s wand, the dementor-illusion crumpled and fled.
But instead of fleeing into its familiar trunk like usual, the boggart fled in the opposite direction.
My direction.
There was a terrible scream.
A spurt of blood from a mangled carotid.
Snape fell to the floor.
Blood gushed from his throat, his hands clawing at the wound, gasping in wet, choking breaths:
“Take… it… Take… it…”
My mind froze. I trembled as I croaked out the spell.
“R-Riddikulus!”
But nothing changed. The image was too sharp, too vivid, too rooted in reality. I couldn’t reshape it.
Like the last time this happened, Harry jumped in front of me. The boggart turned back into a Dementor. Harry repelled it with a powerful Patronus, and his silvery weasel drove it directly into the trunk.
There was a long, loaded silence.
“This session is over. We will continue next Tuesday.”
Harry and I exchanged an incredulous look. Snape ignored it, his expression emotionless as he pressed chocolate into our hands.
“Eat it.”
There was no warmth in his tone, but neither was there the usual bitterness. Instead, Snape was carefully blank. Without another word, he led us through the dim, desert corridors, his long stride leaving us scrambling slightly to keep up. The castle’s silence pressed in on us, every footstep echoing off the stone walls.
I felt raw. Mortified. My skin prickled with embarrassment, as if Snape could see right through me, as though the boggart had revealed something shameful. The chocolate tasted like ash in my mouth.
Harry, still pale and quiet, trudged alongside, seeming just as unsettled. Somehow, he seemed more upset now than he did the first time he witnessed my boggart.
Snape left us at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, turned and strode away without another glance back. I said nothing, mouth dry and my mind a tangled knot of dread.
Once inside the common room, I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting in the bustling room with everyone. My skin still crawled with the memory of the boggart: Not the gory transformation in itself, but the terrible repercussions it would have.
I excused myself with a mutter and climbed the dormitory stairs, hands trembling, then climbed into bed fully clothed, drawing the curtains tightly shut. But the darkness offered no comfort.
I felt so humiliated . It felt like a burning fire in my chest.
Snape had seen the boggart, seen my worst fear made real. And now… I feared that Snape would want to talk about it. Surely, he couldn’t ignore it anymore, not when it wasn’t just a wild rumour going around but a cold, hard reality.
I rolled onto my side, clutching the blankets, mind racing. What was I supposed to say when Snape confronted me? And would Snape think me weak, pathetic, twisted? How could I explain this without letting out too much information?
I felt so frustrated . It bubbled up along my guts.
I hadn’t even managed the Riddikulus spell. Couldn’t even push that damn thing away. That embarrassment was silly, compared to everything else. Didn’t stop it from stinging, though.
Hours passed in tense silence. My body was exhausted, but my thoughts refused to settle. Only much later, some time in the deep hours of the night, did I slip into restless, uneasy sleep. My dreams were a jumble of Snape’s cold eyes, gory flashes of red, and an overwhelming, suffocating fear I couldn’t shake.
In the morning, I woke up exhausted, my shoulders aching, and my eyes rimmed red from a restless night. Harry kept shooting me worried glances across the breakfast table.
“Do you need to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
The rest of the day crawled by in a haze. I couldn’t focus on my lessons. Every memory of the night before clawed at my mind, making my stomach churn. I spent the day waiting.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It dropped very shortly after dinner was over, when a prefect approached me, handing over a folded note with a bored expression. The prefect left as soon as I took the note. It read:
“My office. Directly after dinner.”
I chanced a glance at the head table. Snape had already left. Or he hadn’t even attended dinner, and I simply hadn’t noticed, as I had done my best not to look in that direction.
Terrified but resigned, I made my way down to Snape’s office. I stopped outside of his door, pulse fluttering painfully. My clammy hand hovered over the door for a moment before I finally knocked and entered.
The heavy door creaked shut behind me.
Everything was like always; Snape was seated behind his desk, a stack of papers to one side, quill poised on the other. His expression was impassible, though a faint line of tension tightened the corner of his mouth.
“Sit, Mr Weasley.”
I obeyed and perched stiffly on the edge of the chair in front of the desk. I clenched my hands in my lap, twisting and grinding my fingers, eyes staring stubbornly at the floor. I could practically feel Snape’s gaze attempting to pierce through me, as if the man might try to reach into my mind and pull out the answers himself.
The silence stretched.
“That boggart. I expect you to explain it.”
“It— it was just a boggart. Sir.”
Snape’s chair scraped faintly against the floor as he leaned forward.
“Do not insult my intelligence with evasions. A boggart reflects what one fears most. That… scene was not simply random. Why did it take that form?”
My throat worked, but no sound came. I couldn’t tell Snape the truth.
“And what did it mean?” Snape pressed, voice lowering to a dangerous softness. “That phrase: ‘Take it. Take it.’ What was the boggart offering you? What were you meant to take?”
I bit hard on my lips and the inside of my cheeks. I didn’t dare utter one word, even in defence of my privacy, or any other excuse.
Snape let out a slow breath, the silence stretching, thick with his frustration, my mounting panic and the weight of unspoken things. His voice, when it came again, was taut with controlled irritation.
“Very well. If you will not tell me, we will approach this differently.”
I had a bad feeling about this.
“I will tutor you.”
“ What? ” I said in a disbelieving and inelegant tone. “What d’you mean?”
I stopped my eyes on his mouth before I could make the mistake of crossing his eyes.
“Clearly, your inability to handle that boggart is unacceptable. We will address it. I will tutor you specifically in the Riddikulus charm.”
What the actual fuck .
The mean bastard wanted to put me through this again ?
“Unless, of course, you would prefer this to be considered a formal detention. Your choice, Weasley. Voluntary tutoring, or detention. Either way, you will be tutored.”
Fuck.
Detention would go on my record. It was bad enough that I had been given a month of detention last year; I didn’t want to add to that blemish. In a world as small as the magical community of Britain, there was no room for a bad record. Especially as my family name was already going to close many doors in my face.
My heart sank. There really was no choice.
“Fine. Voluntary tutoring,” I mumbled.
“Good,” Snape said crisply. “This time. Tomorrow. Same room as the Patronus lessons. You will be punctual . Any tardiness will be considered as defection and will be faced with the proper consequences. Dismissed.”
I woke up feeling like a herd of hippogriffs had run over me. My shoulders ached again, my head throbbed, and my eyes prickled like a bitch.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the tutoring session Snape had unilaterally arranged. I’d have to learn the Riddikulus charm. And fast. Because I wasn’t about to let Snape drag this out for days or weeks. One night. One session. Then it’s over .
However, the problem was, every time I thought about facing that damn boggart again, the same suffocating dread closed in. How could I possibly turn that image into something funny? What was funny about a man bleeding out, gasping his last?
I was so caught up in my inner drama that I barely registered the start of Double Potions with Gryffindors. I shuffled into the classroom with the last stragglers and sank into my usual seat, sneaking anxious glances at Snape. He was his usual cold self, stalking between the tables with a sneer and an icy glare.
I was so fucked.
I couldn’t see any way out of this.
As Snape launched into a lecture on the properties of belladonna, I sat rigidly, my mind a whirlwind of fear and frantic planning.
What if I got the spell wrong?
What if he made me do it over and over again?
What if he used Legilimency?
I gritted my teeth, fighting back the spiral of panic, and focused on the lesson. It felt like an eternity, but it still came to an end, and I packed my things as quickly as possible, eager to get out of the dungeon.
When Harry, Hermione and I reached the stairs to the Great Hall, I had had enough of feeling their worried stares drilling into me.
“Ron, what happened yesterday?” Hermione asked, clearly agitated. “Harry said there was an accident with the boggart and that Snape called you to his office last night.”
“Just drop it. There’s nothing to say.”
I went to the Slytherin table in a rush to escape Hermione’s questioning. I was tired of people doing that. Harry joined me, and the rest of lunch passed tensely and mostly silently. I rapidly felt guilty for snapping at Hermione. Then lunch was over far too quickly, which meant that we joined Hermione again to go to Defence together.
“Ron?”
I sighed. She only wanted to help. And I needed all the help I could get.
“Snape’s making me do a special tutoring session starting tonight,” I explained in a rush. “To practice Riddikulus.”
Harry’s and Hermione’s eyes widened in shock.
“What? That’s— Ron, that’s awful! You can’t— he can’t make you face that boggart again. That’s just cruel.“
“She’s right, mate. That’s rough.”
I shrugged miserably.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got to do it. If I don’t, it’s detention.”
“You should tell another professor. McGonagall, or even Dumbledore. This isn’t right, Ron. He’s going too far.”
“No. I’m not involving anyone else. I just need to learn this damn charm. That’s it.”
Harry got a peculiar expression before speaking in a quiet voice.
“Then maybe after class we could ask Lupin for help. He’s the one supposed to teach the spell anyway. And he’s nice about it. Maybe he can show you a way to make it work faster. You don’t have to tell him everything, just that you want to be able to cast the charm.”
A flicker of hope pierced the overwhelming dread.
That was a neat idea.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson dragged on way longer than I could bear. Lupin’s gentle, engaging tone floated through the classroom as he demonstrated the proper way to deal with a hinkypunk, its misty form casting eerie shadows in the tank.
He made it sound easy, but I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes kept flicking toward the clock on the wall, counting the minutes down one by one. My wand felt heavier than usual, and my spells fizzled out more often than not. I barely register Hermione’s exasperated glances or Harry’s murmured encouragements. My thoughts were entirely consumed by the dread of having to face the boggart again, under Snape’s cold, prying gaze.
Finally, the bell rang. Students packed up and shuffled out, but I lingered at Lupin’s desk. Hermione and Harry stayed behind with me.
“Professor?” I called quietly as Lupin packed away his notes.
He looked up, expression warm and attentive.
“Yes, Ron?”
“I… uh, I need help with the Riddikulus charm,” I muttered, face flushing.
“Of course. It’s always wise to review. Though—” he tilted his head curiously. “–I’m surprised you’re coming back to this now. It’s been weeks since our last boggart lesson. What prompted this sudden interest?”
Before I had the opportunity to muster a convincing lie, Hermione blurted out the truth:
“Professor Snape is forcing Ron to do extra tutoring in the Riddikulus charm.”
My jaw unhinged in outrage.
“And he’s making Ron face a boggart again,” Harry added unhelpfully.
Lupin’s brows furrowed. I glared at my so-called friends. Fucking little tattle-tales.
“That’s… odd,” Lupin eventually said, face openly surprised. “What’s his reasoning for this?”
“I don’t know,” I replied immediately, before someone else could answer in my stead.
“Do you want me to speak with him? I can—”
“No!” My voice cracked on my sharp refusal. “Don’t get involved, please. It’ll only make it worse. Snape wouldn’t want to talk to you. You’re probably the last person on earth he’d want to see.”
Hermione and Harry stared, startled by my vehemence. Hermione opened her mouth as if to ask what I meant, but Lupin beat her to it, expression subtly surprised:
“I see,” he said lightly, though there was an undertone of thoughtful understanding. He nodded once. “Alright. I won’t interfere. Now let me just say that if you want the tutoring to stop, you could always make Snape not want to do it anymore.”
I blinked.
“ How ?”
Lupin’s lips quivered ever so slightly, his voice low and tinged with mischief as he leaned in slightly, his words trailing into a knowing murmur.
“Well, one possibility might be to…”
The sentence ended in a whisper, leaving Hermione and Harry exchanging confused, intrigued glances.
My eyes widened with a mix of apprehension and morbid curiosity.
I stared at the trembling trunk lying in the middle of the floor, ominous and waiting. Snape stood near it, his face inscrutable, arms folded tightly over his chest. He gestured curtly for me to approach.
He didn’t use any pleasantries, just went straight to business.
“The Riddikulus charm forces a boggart into a form that is laughable. It is powered by concentration and mental clarity. Two things you clearly lack.”
He marked a pause, eyes narrowing.
“Today, we will change that.”
Aw. I was so fucked.
“Face the trunk. Wand ready.”
Snape motioned me forward.
“Can I have just a few seconds, sir? To get into the right mindset?”
“Real life doesn’t wait for the right mindset,” he retorted with a sneer.
Before I could react, he flicked his wand sharply, and the trunk burst open.
The boggart exploded from its confinement with the same sickeningly familiar scene of blood and dreadful gurgle.
“Riddikulus!”
The boggard remained as it was, gore slicking its phantom skin.
My concentration cracked under the weight of my anger. Anger at Snape, at myself, at the entire mess.
Soon, I was furious.
My initial hesitation to use Lupin’s suggestion burned away, replaced by a stubborn, reckless resolve. If Snape wanted me to face this horror, so be it; I would make him face another kind of horror.
I tightened my grip on my wand.
“Riddikulus!”
The effect was immediate. The image of Snape’s mangled body blurred, twisted. Blood rivers shrank into threadbare red yarn. The horrific gash became a garish brooch. The scene reshaped into a stuffed fox draped like a cheap scarf, a scarlet handbag dangling from his crooked elbow.
And for the centrepiece, the infamous vulture hat, perched proudly atop his head, its glass eyes gleaming.
Neville’s grandmother’s complete ensemble covered Snape’s form.
Utterly absurd .
I checked the real Snape’s face.
Uh oh.
With a furious flick of his wand, Snape forced the boggart back into the trunk, slamming it shut with a resounding crack.
“That,” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “Was not the goal.”
“It was the goal. You wanted me to learn the Riddikulus charm, and I did.
Before the repercussions of what I said could truly sink in my mind, I pressed on, my voice getting less steady by the word.
“You wanted me to change the boggart into something ridiculous, and I did that. It might not be what you expected, but I learned it. I even went to Professor Lupin this afternoon for advice, because I wanted to get it right.”
“So this was Lupin’s idea, was it?” Snape snapped, his voice rising in fury. “You couldn’t face it alone, so you scurried to him for help?”
Shit. That was getting out of hand fast.
“He— he just gave me advice for the tutoring.”
“Advice,” he echoed coldly, almost spitting the word. “This farce is over. Both Patronus and Boggart sessions are cancelled. You will not return. Next time you need guidance, you can run straight to precious Lupin.”
I flinched.
Without another word, Snape turned on his heels and left the room. The door slammed. I was alone.
All my remaining anger drained away. The rush of rebellion I’d felt —the fleeting satisfaction— faded into a heavy knot of guilt and regret.
I had just humiliated Snape, crossed a line, and perhaps…
Perhaps I just ruined the fragile, reluctant connection we’d begun to forge.
And the worst part was, now that the heat of the moment had passed, I wasn’t even sure it had been worth it.
While the rest of the castle crowded around the Quidditch pitch to watch Ravenclaw probably flattening Hufflepuff, I slipped away. I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in the stands, surrounded by cheering and laughter while all I wanted to do was to brood like some edgy, dark Sasuke.
Harry had valiantly tried all week to cheer me up, but nothing worked. I just… shut down.
Now, I wandered aimlessly in the Room of Requirement. It was exactly like I left it last time: cluttered shelves, haphazard stacks of books, curious magical artefacts that hummed softly with forgotten spells. It reminded me achingly of Dad’s garage, where every broken Muggle trinket was precious, every piece of junk had a story.
I let myself drift through the piles, brushing dust off old books with fading titles, tilting my head at strange bits of jewellery, fingering the edge of pieces of clothing that didn’t look too frayed.
Time slipped by. I didn’t even think anymore, just letting my hands wander and my mind blank out. Eventually, my fingers closed on a slim volume tucked between two fat encyclopedias of magical theory. The title had piqued my curiosity: The Polyjuice Paradox: A Wizard’s Journey Through Identity .
The back cover immediately caught my attention. It read:
“ The Polyjuice Paradox: A Wizard’s Journey Through Identity follows the astonishing and heartbreaking journey of Alaric J. Greaves, a wizard whose obsession with perfecting Polyjuice Potion led to a misstep that forever altered his identity. One careless mistake, one untested variation of a formula, and he was no longer Alaric, but Alina.
This biopic chronicles the struggle, resilience, and ultimate self-discovery of a person trapped by their own magic, navigating a world of scepticism and scorn.
Told with biting wit and raw honesty, this story is both a cautionary tale and an unexpectedly tender exploration of gender, self-acceptance and the limits of magic. Through personal letters, Diary entries and bitterly funny anecdotes, Alina Greaves invites readers into her extraordinary life – one that challenged the wizarding world’s deepest prejudices and her own long-held beliefs.
A spellbinding read for anyone who’s ever wondered what it means to be seen. ”
This. This was it.
Something that resonated, something that might help with the gnawing ache that had been twisting tighter inside me for years.
I sank into an old, sagging armchair nearby, giving it a quick dusting with a housekeeping charm Mum taught me. I tucked my legs up, curled into the corner of the rickety piece of furniture, and read.
The world outside blurred and faded.
Hours passed. Tears slid down my cheeks. Not silent ones, but fat, cathartic tears. The kind of tears that left me gasping and raw, but also lighter. When I finally closed the book, I felt hollowed out. Calm as though the tangled knots inside me had been loosened, if only a little.
I stood, smoothing down my clothes and wiping my face before leaving the Room of Requirement. My stomach growled. I’d missed most of the day, and dinner was already well underway when I reached the entrance Hall.
However, before I could slip in, Fred and George appeared out of nowhere, grabbing me by the arms and pulling me out of the doorway and back to the entrance Hall.
“Where the hell have you been?! We’ve been worried sick!”
“Yeah, you just disappeared again! Not even a word. You promised, last time!”
“We couldn’t find you anywhere! You weren’t bloody there !”
I tried to pull free, but they held firm.
“I was . You just don’t know the castle as well as you believe. It’s not as if you can track me through the whole castle.”
That was a wild shot in the dark, but like people said: Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Before I could think twice, they hauled me even further away from the Great Hall, deeper into a quiet corner where fewer ears could overhear.
Without flourish, Fred took something from his inner pocket.
He unfolded the Marauder’s Map.
Well shit.
“Surprise,” George deadpanned. “We know exactly where everyone is. And you’ve been missing all day. So stop lying now.”
“Huh?” I tried to sound convincing in my confusion. “And how is this blank piece a parchment proving anything?”
Twin smirks grew on their faces.
“It’s not blank, Ronnie. You just need to know the right words.”
“I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”
Suddenly, ink appeared on the parchment, revealing hundreds of little footprints in the room next to us. And there was my dot, flanked by two others. I wanted to smile in triumph.
“So, guys,” I said nonchalantly. “Here’s my deal. I’ll tell you exactly where I was, but only if you hand over the Map.”
Fred and George exchanged looks, their eyes sparkling with calculation.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ronnie.”
“I’m serious. No Map, no story.”
They gazed at each other again, tilting their heads and raising their eyebrows in patterns I couldn’t hope to understand. Finally, Fred nodded slowly.
“Alright. You’ve got yourself a bargain. We meet here after dinner.”
“No. I’m knackered and my bed is calling me. We meet tomorrow after breakfast.”
They accepted my stipulation. We shook on it. They finally let me go inside the Great Hall, where I joined Harry. He wore a worried expression.
“Where were you, Ron?” he asked quietly.
“Just reading in a quiet spot.”
Harry leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Is that really why you look like you’ve been crying?”
Oops.
Caught off guard, I nodded honestly.
“Yeah, it was a pretty sad book.”
Harry’s eyes searched mine, and I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I was almost sure Hermione would hear about this conversation by Monday anyway. They both had a habit of enjoying good chats about me behind my back.
I didn’t take offence, though, as my mood was too bright for that, because of my new ownership of the Map.
My schemes were coming to fruition.
Chapter 24: INTERLUDE II
Summary:
Second interlude. Mostly Snape’s POV about the tutoring. One little bit of Harry’s, too.
Notes:
This interlude is mostly about Snape, to lay some foundations for the rest of the story. The next interlude will be more about Ron's family.
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE II
Chapter Eighteen
4 November 1993
The door clicked shut behind Weasley.
Snape remained still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the heavy oak, as though Ron’s presence still lingered in the room.
Weasley had not asked a single question about the vial. No dramatics. No need for grand speeches. He had accepted the instructions—understood them—without Snape needing to spell it out.
Chapter twenty-nine.
That was it.
It was enough. The boy was sharp. Not just clever, but discerning, with a brand of practical intelligence that most Gryffindors—and, admittedly, many Slytherins—sorely lacked. He’d made the connection. The essay had done its job.
Snape’s eyes narrowed in thought.
The boy knew what Lupin was. Had worked it out and chosen silence over spectacle.
Just as Snape hoped he would.
That response—“I got an O”—had not been boastful. It was code. Confirmation. And more importantly, restraint.
A flash of something—approaching pride, though he’d never name it—passed through Snape. Not for the first time, he was glad the hat had placed the youngest male Weasley in Slytherin. The traits were there. Latent, maybe, in his loud-mouthed, bleeding-heart brothers. But Ronald was different. More careful. More cunning. More his own person.
Capable of loyalty without noise. Of obedience without blind trust. Of sacrifice without needing a stage.
Snape returned to his desk, one long finger tapping once on the surface of the wood beside the remaining vial. He’d made two. Always prepare redundancies.
The boy had taken risks for Potter before. Not the kind anyone praised: no Gryffindor bravado, no Quidditch match glory. No, Weasley had thrown himself into danger with purpose. When Quirrell tried to kill them. When Lockhart nearly shattered Potter’s arm. Both times, Weasley had stepped in decisively and almost paid the price.
And he never once asked for recognition.
That kind of loyalty was rare. And potentially powerful.
Snape’s expression hardened slightly, though his thoughts did not. Black was still out there. Dangerous. Desperate. And Lupin—no matter how contained—was still a variable Snape would not ignore. But if Ron kept that vial close, if he kept his wits sharper than his emotions, then perhaps—
No. Not perhaps. He would. The boy had already proven himself more useful than most Aurors.
And unlike Potter, Weasley observed. Chose his moment. And held his tongue. He could be reckless, yes, but he was also calculating, and more than that, willing.
Willing to lie to his family.
Willing to lie to Potter’s face if it meant keeping him safe.
Willing to carry things no child should carry, and not flinch under the weight.
Just like last year. Just like his first.
Snape folded his hands, fingers steepled at his chin. He remembered the way Weasley had chosen to tackle Quirrell then. How he had decided to tackle Lockhart. Throwing himself between danger and Potter like it was instinct, not choice.
No hesitation. No demand for glory. It was devotion. Fierce, unrelenting. Sometimes inconveniently Gryffindor.
The vial was a precaution. Nothing more. Silver and Dittany would gain Weasley some time in the case of a wound made by a werewolf. Not much time, but long enough to wait for him and survive and escape Lupin.
Snape knew better than to trust Lupin to follow his potion regimen rigorously.
He would never say aloud, but there were days he trusted Weasley’s instincts and sense of duty over any prefect or even colleague in this god-forsaken school where everyone was okay with sharing space with a werewolf who already proved in the past how dangerous he could be.
But the boy had taken the vial without blinking.
Knowing it was better to be safe than sorry.
He was ready.
Snape exhaled, then swept his cloak behind him as he crossed to the shelf once more. There were other preparations to make. Dumbledore was too trusting. The others were too blind.
But Snape had his eyes open, and one Weasley was quietly on watch.
And that, for now, would be enough.
6 November 1993
Harry sat on the windowsill of the common room long after most people had gone to bed. The fire behind him had burned down to glowing embers, and rain tapped softly against the tall panes of glass. In the dim, amber light, he watched droplets slide down the glass and disappear into the dark.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Ron.
The conversation from earlier—so raw, so unexpected—kept circling in his head. Harry had gone to bed, closed his eyes, and even pretended to drift off when Zabini climbed into bed across the room. But sleep hadn’t come.
He had never imagined Ron carrying something like that.
All this time, Ron had been the one cracking jokes, lightening the mood, throwing out puns even in the worst situations. He was the one who complained dramatically about essays, grumbled about homework, whined about Percy’s prefect lectures—and yet, behind all of it, he’d been carrying that memory. Alone.
That image—Ron finding someone dead. Knowing they were gone the second he walked into the room. Harry didn’t even know who the man had been. Ron hadn’t said. But the grief in his voice had made it obvious: someone who mattered. Someone who left a hole when they were gone.
And no one knew.
Not Mrs Weasley. Not Mr Weasley. Not even the twins, who seemed to know everything.
Ron had hidden that for years.
Harry pressed his forehead to the cold glass and closed his eyes. He remembered how Ron had looked when they’d found the Mirror of Erised. How he’d gone quiet, quieter than Harry had ever seen him. How he had stared at his reflection like it might vanish. The way he’d started crying, openly, shoulders shaking—and how Harry had had to pull him away physically, Ron was too lost in his own head even to hear his name.
He hadn’t understood it back then. Not really. Maybe part of him had assumed it was about his family, or being overlooked. But now…
Harry wondered if that grief had been there, even then. A fresh wound under the surface. One that Ron never talked about. One no one ever noticed because Ron hid it beneath laughter and noise and stories about things that didn’t matter.
How many other things was Ron hiding?
That thought unsettled Harry more than he liked to admit.
He thought he knew Ron. Knew him like a brother. But this… this changed something. Not in a bad way, exactly. Just deeper. Ron had always been solid in Harry’s mind, but this gave him weight. Shadow. History.
Harry didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. He was grateful Ron had told him—he was—but he also felt… worried. Unsettled. Shocked. That someone could carry something like that and still get up every day, and joke, and bicker with Hermione, and drag Harry down to meals when he forgot to eat.
It was brave in a way Harry didn’t know how to name.
He hoped Ron would talk to someone. Not just him. Maybe Hermione. Or one of his brothers, someday. Anyone. Someone who could help him carry it properly. Because no one should have to shoulder that kind of pain alone. Not for years. Not silently.
Harry looked out the window again, watching as the rain blurred the world beyond.
He didn’t know how to bring it up. Didn’t know if he should. Maybe it wasn’t his place.
But he knew one thing.
If Ron ever did feel ready—if he ever needed to talk again—Harry would be there. Just like Ron had been for him.
Quiet. Steady. Without judgment.
Waiting, with the door open.
Chapter Nineteen
15 November 1993
Students filed out of his classroom with the usual mix of relief and urgency, one even knocking over a bench in their rush to escape. As if escaping from Azkaban itself rather than a simple period under his supervision.
Snape didn’t bat an eye. The sight of students scrambling to flee his presence had long since become background noise, one of the few constants he found even mildly satisfying.
He continued scribbling notes on the third-year’s miserable syllabus, already bracing himself for the incompetence these dunderheads would unleash in the next lesson.
Some feet shuffling attracted his attention. He didn’t glance up. He didn’t need to. He knew who remained. Potter and Weasley approached the front of the room with the careful air of students trying not to spook a Hippogriff.
He waited for them to reach his desk.
“What.”
He didn’t intend to make it easy for them. He rarely did. If they couldn’t state their purpose under pressure, they had no business asking favours.
“We wanted to ask you something, sir,” Potter said. “About… learning the Patronus Charm.”
Ah.
He’d been waiting for this—since Minerva’s exasperated-yet-amused account in the staff room about how two third-years had wheedled a Restricted Section slip out of her, and with what argument? Something about Potter focusing less on Quidditch if properly occupied with dementors. And naturally, Weasley had delivered that with a straight face and just enough earnestness to disarm her.
Snape had given her a withering look and returned to his tea, but the exchange had stayed with him. Especially the fact that it had worked.
Now here they were, and he’d bet a week’s worth of cauldron polishing that Weasley was about to try again.
He kept his quill moving.
“And why, exactly, would I volunteer to waste my time attempting to teach two thirteen-year-olds a spell most adult wizards cannot master?”
There. That should send them packing.
“Maybe they can’t because they don’t have the proper incentive,” Weasley said.
Snape’s jaw twitched. Not exactly subtle, that one—but direct. Manipulative in a bumbling, earnest way. It shouldn’t have worked, and yet, somehow…
“I saw a dementor up close twice already,” Potter added. “I want to be prepared. We both do.”
A noble argument. Predictable. But it was Weasley he kept one eye on.
He looked up slowly, letting the silence weigh them down. Neither flinched. At least they were persistent.
“We’re serious about this,” Weasley said. “We’ve already got all the theory down pat. We only need supervision for the practising part.”
Snape arched one brow. Impressive, how calmly Weasley could lie when motivated. He didn’t believe for a second they’d grasped all the theory —not for such an advanced spell— but that wasn’t the point. The point was the game he could feel building underneath.
And then—there it was.
Weasley gave a resigned little sigh. Feigned.
“Then, we’ll have to wait until next term, I guess.”
Snape narrowed his eyes. That tone. The calculated defeat reeked of manipulation. That was bait.
“And how, pray tell, will the situation be any different then?”
He took the bait, curious despite himself. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Well, Professor Lupin said he’d start sessions with Harry at the start of next term,” Weasley said, so casually it might as well have been about the weather.
Snape didn’t move, but something in his expression went still.
Lupin. Of course. That fool Dumbledore’s beloved pet project, casually offering private lessons. Alone. With Potter out of all people.
“One-on-one,” Weasley added, just a shade too innocent.
Snape wanted to sneer. The boy was transparent. But aggravatingly effective. He knew precisely which nerve to press. And worse, he had pressed the same one that Dumbledore had always used: the quiet implication that if Snape didn’t intervene, someone less trustworthy would. The difference was that Weasley didn’t even have Dumbledore’s polish, just instinct.
Potter, oblivious as ever, nodded.
“He said I could come by after winter break.”
That cinched it.
Snape carefully tucked away his quill. No more point in pretending he hadn’t been cornered. He had no intention of letting Lupin, of all people, conduct unmonitored instruction on a spell that involved such intense emotional exposure. And now, Weasley had all but made it an open invitation.
“Fine.”
“Wait– really?” Potter said, clearly surprised.
“I will agree to instruct you both, provided you approach the lessons with full commitment, discipline, and the minimal amount of idiocy.”
He delivered the conditions flatly, but inwardly, he was still turning over the fact that Weasley had known. Known just enough. Said just enough. The boy wasn’t refined—not yet—but there was a manipulator in him, no question. Snape hated being played. Hated it more when it worked. And yet, he couldn’t help the flicker of... not quite respect. Certainly not admiration. But an acknowledgement.
Not many people could claim to have succeeded in manipulating him.
He had underestimated the Weasley boy.
They both gave their word.
“Every Tuesday evening, after dinner. My office. Do not be late.”
He unrolled two fresh scrolls of parchment and scrawled the reading list, complete with references and signed permission for continued use of the Restricted Section. If they wanted supervision, they would begin properly. And he would not make it easy.
He handed over the scrolls.
“Pending our first session, you will revise these sections. Thoroughly.”
Potter took one and frowned.
“We’ve already read those! It’s the same material we found in the Restricted Section.”
“I am aware,” Snape said smoothly, letting the side-eye linger just enough to signal how unimpressed he was with Potter’s arrogance. “If you already know it by heart, then I expect you to impress me with your vast knowledge at our first lesson.”
He turned back to his desk, done with the conversation.
Enough games for one morning. Let them stew in the reading. Let them try to impress him. And let Weasley reflect that if he were going to play mind games with a professor, he’d better start learning the long game.
Still.
For thirteen?
Not bad.
Not bad at all.
16 November 1993
The dungeon classroom was deep, isolated, and chosen deliberately. No footsteps wandered there. No students came by accident. The stone walls were thick with cold and silence —an ideal setting to strip away distraction, sentiment, or comfort. There would be no illusions today. Only truth, skill, and discipline.
Potter and Weasley were already seated when Snape arrived, quiet and alert. Good. They understood this was not a favour, nor a kindness. It was a test.
Snape quizzed them. Potter’s answers were precise, though parroted. He only faltered once. Weasley met his questions without pause. Save for one. Both recovered quickly. Both had studied, and well.
Only when he was satisfied did he stop.
Snape watched as they listened to his lecture. Weasley was especially focused and upright, as if absorbing each word into the architecture of his mind. There was intensity in him. Always had been, beneath the surface. Snape had seen it before, in their quiet conversations, in how the boy parsed Lupin’s secret without drama, without spectacle. He was not loud, but he was sharp.
Then it was time for the casting.
Their first attempts produced what he expected. Potter’s magic was unfocused—thick with feeling but no form. Weasley’s was structured but lacking weight. The balance was wrong in each.
Their second attempts showed improvement. Potter’s magic had more substance. Weasley’s conjuration nearly took shape —the silhouette of something not yet whole. More than mist. Less than form.
Snape did not comment on the emotion on the boy’s face, the sting in his eyes, the quick swipe at his cheeks. He merely marked the progress.
On their final attempts, Weasley succeeded.
The Patronus erupted in a blinding surge of silver, then landed on the stone floor with solid presence. Feathers. A long neck. Wings folded like a knight’s banner, and waddling with the arrogant ease of its kind. A goose.
A goose.
He barely managed to school his expression. Weasley, for his part, looked stunned, then delighted, then something worse: amused.
Snape was seconds from chastising him until he saw his face —not mocking, not foolish, but bright, alive. The rare smile of someone who’d done something important, and knew it. A flicker of pride rose in Snape— damnably inconvenient, but undeniable.
“Satisfactory,” he said. “You may enjoy your triumph quietly.”
A goose was a curious shape, but not an ill-fitting one. Territorial. Loud. Unyielding. Not beautiful, but unafraid. It would defend a nest with ferocity that belied its form.
Snape met the boy’s eyes. Saw the pride there —restrained, not boastful.
Potter’s next attempt drew attention, brighter than before, but not defined. Something small, furry. It didn’t form completely before vanishing.
Still, it was progress.
Snape ended the lesson there.
“You will not attempt it again without supervision, Potter.”
The boy swallowed whatever argument had risen to his lips.
Then, just as Snape prepared to dismiss them, Weasley surprised him again.
He asked about using Potter’s Boggart—a Dementor-shaped one—for further training.
Not foolish. In fact,… reasonable. It was, undeniably, a practical idea.
Snape tilted his head, considering. From anyone else, the suggestion would have bordered on arrogance. But not from this boy. It was tactical. Methodical. He was already thinking ahead, weighing risks and calculating gains.
“I will think about it,” Snape said, and meant it.
He dismissed them, flicking a hand toward the door.
As they left, Weasley paused.
“Thank you, sir.”
Potter echoed it a beat later.
Snape inclined his head — a rare gesture of acknowledgement — then turned away.
Once alone, he remained standing in the cold room, wand still in hand.
Weasley had performed beyond expectations. But then, he had come to expect more from him. The goose had not diminished that.
No — it confirmed it.
A Patronus was not about elegance. It was about refusal. Stubborn, wild, unyielding refusal.
And the boy’s Patronus, waddling across stone with its defiant gait, had all the tenacity of the mind that conjured it.
A protector indeed. Tenacious. Defensive. Loud when provoked.
Chapter Twenty-One :
November 1993
The dementor fled from Potter’s weasel-shaped Patronus. But instead of returning to the trunk as it should have, the Boggart twisted, spinning, convulsing, before hurtling toward Weasley.
There was a terrible scream.
Snape’s breath caught.
A spurt of arterial blood. His blood.
He saw himself, crumpled on the floor, gory and gasping.
A mangled carotid gushed red, staining the cold stone.
He could hear it. The rasping, choking breaths. The wet, bubbling voice rasping the last, desperate words.
Snape’s gut clenched. A visceral wave of horror surged through him, sharp and immediate, as though the Boggart had reached inside and twisted his insides. His limbs felt stiff with shock, but he forced himself to stand straight, to control the trembling threatening to betray him.
Weasley croaked out the incantation, but it was ineffective, feeble. The grotesque scene persisted, more vivid and horrific than a simple boggart illusion had any right to be.
Potter stepped forward, wand raised. The Boggart shuddered violently, shifting back into the form of a Dementor. The weasel Patronus erupted once more and chased the Boggart into the trunk with a slam.
A long, heavy silence fell over the room.
Snape swallowed hard, the coppery taste of remembered fear at the back of his throat. He forced his face to remain blank, impenetrable.
“This session is over. We will continue next Tuesday.”
He paid no mind to their reaction, simply pressing chocolate into their hands with a brisk, detached motion. He kept his face blank and his stride brisk as he led them down the dim corridors. He needed them gone. He needed to think.
He left them in front of the common room and turned away as he quickened his pace to his office.
He threw the door open and shut it behind him with a slam. He pressed his back against it, breathing shallowly, as though the phantom hands still clawed at his throat. His mind reeled with the grotesque image. The blood, the gasping, the gory reality of it.
It wasn’t a boggart’s simple manifestation of fear. It was something more profound. More personal. Too real.
Snape began to pace, mind racing. Before today, he had dismissed the rumours, the whispers about Weasley’s Boggart being something ghastly. Teenagers exaggerated, he had told himself. Lupin hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t seemed alarmed, and so, foolishly, Snape had trusted his colleague’s judgment.
But Lupin had been wrong. Or worse, Lupin hadn’t done his duty.
Snape’s fists clenched at his sides, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He couldn’t ignore this. Not now. Something was profoundly wrong, something far beyond childish imagination.
Then, the Boggart’s words echoed in his mind.
“Take it… Take it…”
He forced himself to stand still, to think. He needed answers. No one else could handle this. Tomorrow, he would summon Weasley. He would get answers. Whether the boy was willing or not.
The next day
The door creaked shut behind Weasley.
The boy obeyed without a word and sat stiffly in front of Snape, whose eyes narrowed as he watched the way Weasley’s hands clenched and twisted in his lap, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor. The boy was defensive, shutting down. Hiding something. It only made Snape more determined to uncover the truth.
Snape cut his silent observations short to demand an explanation about the Boggart. Weasley mumbled something barely audible, his eyes fixed on a point on the floor. ‘Just a boggart’, he dared to say. Did he genuinely think Snape was that gullible?
Snape pressed.
No answer.
He pushed harder.
Nothing. No words. The boy bit hard on his lips, as if he could swallow down his secrets and keep them locked away forever. Snape’s fingers twitched with the urge to seize the truth directly from his mind with Legilimency. But the boy wouldn’t meet his eyes. An accidental, unintentional refusal, and Snape felt his frustration tightening like a vice around his ribs.
This stalemate was getting him nowhere.
He needed to try a different technique.
He let out a slow breath, controlling the rising irritation. He had an idea.
“Very well. If you will not tell me, we will approach this differently.”
He saw the flicker of unease in the boy’s posture.
Time to bluff.
“I will tutor you.”
“What? What d’you mean?”
Snape’s lips curved in the barest suggestion of a sneer. Surely now the boy would talk, if the alternative was facing that Boggart again and again.
“Clearly, your inability to handle that Boggart is unacceptable. We will address it. I will tutor you specifically in the Riddikulus charm.”
Weasley’s reaction was almost gratifying. He stiffened further, visibly baulking at the idea. Snape felt a surge of grim satisfaction. Yes, this would surely break his stubborn silence.
He pushed even harder.
“Unless, of course, you would prefer this to be considered a formal detention. Your choice, Weasley. Voluntary tutoring, or detention. Either way, you will be tutored.”
There it was: the perfect out for the boy. Surely, he would break now. Speak up. Confess. Beg to avoid this ordeal. Snape almost smirked, waiting for the inevitable breakdown.
But instead, Weasley’s shoulders slumped in a mix of defeat and grim acceptance.
“Fine. Voluntary tutoring.”
Snape blinked slowly, momentarily thrown.
The boy had actually chosen tutoring. So he was willing to endure more of this torment, to relive that nightmare, rather than explain it? The boy was more stubborn than he’d thought. Very well. If Ron Weasley wished to put himself through that hell, then so be it. He deserved the pain for his pride and his secrets.
“Good,” Snape said crisply, recovering his composure.
If Weasley wanted to test his limits, so be it.
Snape gave him a time and place, then dismissed him. He watched as Weasley shuffled out, his posture hunched, but his silence intact. Snape’s eyes narrowed as the door closed.
For a moment, he sat there, his knuckles whitening as his hands tightened on the arms of his chair. Then, with a sudden breath, he reached for a fresh parchment, drawing it toward him. If Weasley were determined to subject them to this, Snape would prepare accordingly. He would design tomorrow’s session to press the boy and coach out the truth. One way or another.
Snape’s mind turned over the problem as he dipped his quill. The Boggart’s appearance and words still churned in his thoughts.
What in Merlin’s name was the boy meant to take? Why had the Boggart shown him that?
Was it guilt? Was Ron’s greatest fear rooted in some hidden knowledge or action he had taken? Snape’s frown deepened. Had he unwittingly placed too much pressure on the boy by asking him to act as his eyes and ears? But no—the timeline didn’t match. That first boggart incident had occurred long before Snape approached him with that request.
No. This was something deeper, something older. A festering secret. And now, Snape had committed himself to dragging it into the light.
No thirteen-year-old should harbour such visceral, violent fears. He refused to acknowledge what that might mean. But deep down, a faint, unwelcome worry gnawed at him.
Still, he told himself coldly, the boy was obstinate. If he truly wished to put himself through the nightmare of reliving his worst fear in front of Snape over and over, then let him. He would learn, one way or another. And Snape would watch, waiting for the moment when the truth finally slipped out.
He would not rest until he had the answers.
The day after
Snape stood motionless in his quarters, his fists still clenched, his breathing shallow and uneven. His lips twisted into a thin, bitter line as he fought the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm his usually ironclad control.
His anger clawed at him from every direction.
Fury at Lupin, for his insidious interference. For planting ideas in Weasley’s mind. For undercutting Snape’s authority. For playing mentor, where Snape should have been the mentor.
Lupin, with his soft voice and easy smile, his too-familiar rapport with the students. Dangerous man, dangerous influences, and here was Weasley — his student, the boy he had taken under his wing, who had trusted him with his fears, running to Lupin at the first sign of difficulty. Trusting Lupin with his secrets.
Then… came the self-loathing. Because he had let it happen. Because, deep down, he cared that Weasley had gone to Lupin. It stung that the boy had felt so desperate to protect whatever secret he was hiding that he had been willing to risk approaching a man Snape knew to be dangerous. That Weasley knew to be dangerous.
It gnawed at him because he knew it was partly his own doing. His harshness, his coldness, and his impatience had driven Weasley into Lupin’s arms for help. And that, more than anything, infuriated him. Because it drew a parallel from his distant past. Of him driving someone away because of shame, anger, and humiliation.
He failed Lily because of pride. Because he couldn’t admit his wrongs, couldn’t lower himself to apologise. Because he clung to his pride until it had festered into resentment and ruined everything.
Now, standing here years later, he was faced with something eerily similar. Another choice. Another chance. He could cling to his pride and drive Weasley further away. Or…
Or.
He could swallow it and attempt to make amends.
But was he capable of this? Or was it too deeply ingrained, too much a part of who he was? His bitterness, his resentment, his defensiveness… They were his armour, his weapons. They were the things that had kept him alive and intact for so long. Could he simply set them aside now, after everything, and for whom?
Just this boy?
Snape’s shoulders sagged, just slightly.
He could have handled it better. He should have handled it better.
His anger remained a tight coil in his chest, but there was something else beneath it. Something sour.
Guilt.
Guilt that he had pushed the boy too far, that his approach —deliberately calculated to provoke, to break Weasley’s stubborn silence— had backfired spectacularly. Guilt that he had made the boy feel unsafe, unwelcome, and forced him to seek refuge with a dangerous, incompetent man. Guilt that his explosion of anger had not only alienated Weasley but had also destroyed his one real chance of uncovering the truth behind the Boggart, this terrifying, inexplicable vision of his own death.
Now that the tutoring was over, so was his access to Weasley’s fear.
He had failed.
The realisation twisted in his gut like a knife. He had let his emotions, his caring —damn it, he cared too much— get in the way of his plan. His anger at Lupin, at Weasley, at himself had clouded his judgment. Instead of drawing the boy out carefully, he had pushed him deeper into secrecy, reinforcing the very barriers he’d tried to breach.
Snape paced to the window, the cold glass biting against his palms as he leaned into it. Outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to fade, casting long shadows across the grounds. The world beyond the glass was calm, indifferent. Not like him. Not like this storm inside him.
He let out a slow breath, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose.
He would have to regroup. He would have to rethink his approach if there was even a chance to salvage this. But for now, he could only stand there, wrestling with a guilt he refused to name and an anger that was far easier to feel.
And a bitter truth gnawed at him: I lost him. I might have lost him for good.
Chapter 25: BOOK THREE - CHRISTMAS CHEER
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHRISTMAS CHEER
I was halfway through my breakfast when Fred and George —ignoring the suspicious glares and snide comments from nearby Slytherins— strode right up to me, looking thoroughly impatient.
“Honestly, are you still eating?” Fred wailed with impatience, eyeing my plate as if it were an affront to his very existence.
“Yeah, c’mon, Ronnie! You’ve been poking at those for ages. Let’s move already!”
As I was a little shit, I slowed down dramatically, scooping a spoonful of baked beans and bringing it to my mouth in slow motion. I chewed as slowly and noisily as possible, drawing out the moment as though savouring the most important meal of my life.
The twins wailed in unison, earning snickers from Harry and Blaise.
“Ron!” Fred pleaded, throwing his hands in the air.
“Come on, man, we’re dying here!”
“Then die in silence.”
Cue the outrage. I laughed in their face, giving them a wide, innocent grin. Taking mercy on them, I began shovelling food in at a much quicker pace, finishing with a triumphant gulp of over-sweetened tea.
“Happy now?” I asked while standing up.
“Overjoyed,” George said dryly.
“Ecstatic,” Fred added.
Without waiting for further commentary, they each grabbed one of my arms and marched me out of the Great Hall, ignoring the bemused stares from students and teachers alike. They were probably just shocked at the twins’ energy levels on a Sunday morning. I knew I was, too, to be honest.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I replied with an exaggerated air of mystery.
I led my brothers up the grand staircase, then up and up until we reached the last staircase on the seventh floor.
“Somewhere up here?”
“You’re not taking us to the common room, are you? That’s hardly a bargaining chip, brother.”
“Pff, as if,” I said in a smug voice. “Just follow me.”
They did follow me up to the seventh floor and beyond Filch’s office, exchanging increasingly bewildered looks. As we reached the right corridor, I stopped in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
“Well?”
I turned to them, fixing them with a serious look.
“Before I show you anything, you both need to swear you won’t tell anyone about this place.”
They exchanged a glance, then placed their hands over their hearts in mock solemnity.
“On our honour as mischief-makers, we swear.”
“Cross our hearts and hope to die, stick a wand in our eye.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. Then I paced back and forth three times. A door appeared in the wall.
“Merlin’s pants,” Fred whispered.
I pushed the door open, revealing the cavernous room filled with towering stacks of books, shimmering objects, and glittering piles of hidden treasures.
The twins stepped inside, jaws dropping. While they just stared in disbelieving silence, I carefully closed the door.
“You had this at your disposal the whole time?!”
“Even with the map, we’d never have found this!”
“It’s brilliant! Better than anything we could’ve imagined. We thought you’d been sneaking off to get yourself killed or worse—studying!”
I huffed an amused breath.
“Just needed a quiet place to think,” I answered honestly. “Just like I’d told you.”
Whooping and ‘oooh’ing, Fred and George were already poking through the piles of junk, pulling out old prank items, spells components and stack of cauldrons. Fred found an ancient-looking hat and plopped it on George’s head.
“Look at me! I’m Head Boy!” George found a long, feathered quill and brandished it like a sword. “Prepare to duel, Sir Fred!”
Quite entertained by their stupidities, I watched them, laughing along. Finally, Fred turned serious again.
“A deal’s a deal.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the worn, folded parchment.
“We, the noble brothers of mischief, hereby entrust you with the sacred Marauder’s Map.”
They presented it to me with an exaggerated bow. I smiled widely as I accepted their offering with mock reverence.
“Cheers.”
Fred clapped me on the shoulder.
“Don’t get too sappy,” he replied. “You’re making it weird.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Let’s go!” George exclaimed. “Let’s investigate the valuable artefacts of this fine establishment.”
With a final fond grin, I left them to their investigation and headed back into the corridor, then to the fifth floor. Once I found the door to the Ravenclaw common room, I waited only a few moments before Luna joined me, greeting me with her usual dreamy smile and a small wave.
I linked our arms together and led the way back down to the entrance hall. From there, bundled up in scarves and heavy cloaks, we wandered down to Hagrid’s hut. The fresh morning air was filled with the crisp scent of autumn leaves and the distant cheers and screaming from a Quidditch practice in the distance.
Hagrid welcomed us warmly, his booming voice carrying across the grounds.
“Ah, there yeh are! Come in, come in— got tea ready, and biscuits too!”
We stepped into the cosy hut, where Fang was lying lazily near the fire. He immediately stood up when he recognised my voice. We shared a nice petting time while Hagrid poured steaming mugs of tea and placed rock-hard biscuits on a plate.
“So, how’s it goin’?”
“Pretty good actually,” I said, voice light with genuine happiness. “Yesterday was a great day.”
“That’s good to hear.”
After tea and chit-chatting, we headed outside to check on the injured unicorn. The graceful silver-white creature nickered softly when we approached. Luna and I helped Hagrid clean the wound and apply a fresh healing salve, Luna murmuring soft words of comfort while Hagrid gave gentle instructions.
It was nice. Peaceful. I liked being surrounded by the gentle quiet of the grounds and the friendly presence of both Luna and Hagrid. I liked how sweet they were. Luna’s dreamy commentary, Hagrid’s gruff kindness. Here with them, the world felt like a kinder place.
“I got a surprise fer yeh.”
Hagrid sure loved giving surprises. Such a sweet man.
Leaving the unicorn to rest, we followed Hagrid to another place nearer his hut, a small clearing shaded by a few tall trees. There, nestled in a makeshift wooden pen, was a litter of tiny jarveys .
“Beatrice gave birth yesterday.”
I melted like goo.
The babies' weasel-like creatures were tumbling over one another, nibbling playfully at each other’s ears.
“They are adorable!”
I knelt by the pen and started to coo at the tiny creatures. One of the smallest, still half-asleep, let out a little squeaky voice and muttered a very mild swear. I gasped in delighted disbelief.
“Did— dit it just—”
“Yeh heard right,” Hagrid chuckled. “Learned tha’ from their mum.”
Luna giggled. We stayed here for a while, both kneeling beside the wooden pen, faces glowing with affection. We cooed softly and giggled helplessly at each swear word, admiring the jarvey's antics and laughing at their sleepy mischief.
“There you are!” Hermione called, slightly breathless but smiling as she appeared at the edge of the clearing. “I just finished Neville’s potions tutoring.”
I looked up from the jarveys, cheeks flushed with cold and giddiness. I beckoned Hermione over. As she approached and knelt beside us, her expression softened into one of pure delight.
“Oh, they’re precious,” she murmured, her voice low as though afraid to disturb the tiny creatures. “Look at their little faces…”
One of the jarveys, cuddled against its sibling and close to sleeping, stirred slightly and mumbled in a high-pitched, sleepy tone:
“Butt face.”
We lost it.
Monday morning arrived far too quickly for my liking. I kept my head down and ignored Snape’s presence during Potions, focusing solely on my work and avoiding unnecessary confrontation. Transfiguration followed, with McGonagall handing out an unexpected pop quiz that made everyone groan.
After lunch, we headed to Defence, only for me to realise, as Snape stood at the front of the classroom, that Lupin was absent. Likely because of the full moon. I could better understand why it was difficult for werewolves to find jobs and keep them, as their condition was very inconvenient.
“It seems Professor Lupin has fallen ill yet again. An unfortunate pattern , wouldn’t you agree? But let’s not waste valuable time on unreliable teachers. We have real work to do.”
Harsh, but still true. Even though it wasn’t Lupin’s fault.
Without missing a beat, Snape launched into a thorough lecture on the theory of hex-deflexion before setting us to practice the spell. Determined to push aside my lingering sadness from my falling out with Snape, I concentrated hard on mastering the technique. For once, I partnered with Hermione, while Harry teamed up with Neville.
Throughout the lesson, I noticed Hermione shooting death glares at Snape whenever his back was turned.
“You should really knock it off,” I whispered in her ear when Snape was focused on another pair. “If he notices, he’ll dock points.”
To which she merely sniffed disdainfully, though she did ease up on the glares a little.
Hermione then caught me off guard with a vicious tickling hex, which I failed to deflect. I collapsed to the floor in helpless, squirming laughter. She stood over me with a smug little smirk.
Wretched little witch .
Then, to my abject horror, another person stood over me. Snape stared at me with an unimpressed brow, arched at the pitiful sight of me flopping around like a worm on the ground.
Mortified, I allowed Hermione to help me up as Snape swept away silently.
No comment, no remark, not even a sneer. Nothing at all.
My heart ached, feeling the disappointment all over again. Hermione’s scowl returned as she muttered something under her breath, too low for me to catch, but it didn’t sound complimentary.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, the thick velvet curtains drawn tight around me. The muffled sounds of my roommates getting ready for bed faded into the background and were replaced by the steady rustle of parchment beneath my hands.
Spread across my lap was the Marauder’s Map fully opened, the lines and dots shifting faintly as if breathing. My pyjamas were rumpled, and my hair stuck up at odd angles from running nervous hands through it one too many times.
My eyes focused on the tiny labelled footprint that hovered near my own name. “Peter Pettigrew”. The dot had been in the same corner since I first unfolded the map tonight, scurrying around where my pet rat’s cage sat.
Since the start of the year, I’d kept the rat carefully locked away, afraid that he might escape, especially with news of Sirius Black’s many sightings being talked about every week. I couldn’t take any risk of him escaping. Not with all the damage he could cause.
Now, with the proof of his existence quite literally at my fingertips, I was caught in a web of uncertainty about what to do next.
At first, the plan had been simple; just like Tom Riddle’s diary last year, I’d take the information straight to Snape. Hand over the truth and let the adults handle it. But now, after everything that had happened between us, that plan felt… risky. Unreliable.
Would Snape even listen? Our last encounter was a mix of flared tempers and harsh words. Snape could very well decide to refuse my proof just to be contrary. And even in the case that he took the time to listen, even if I presented the undeniable evidence of Pettigrew’s name and location… Snape’s hatred of Sirius might cloud his judgment. He might cover it up out of spite so that Sirius would have to stay on the run for the rest of his life.
So here I was, thinking hard. Weighing the possibilities. Alone with the truth, as I couldn’t tell anyone.
I leaned back against my pillows, drawing my knees closer to my chest, the map balanced carefully on my knees. I traced the little dot labelled “Severus Snape”, watching it glide past the label for Lupin’s office, where “Remus J. Lupin” was. It was probably just after the drop off of Wolfsbane potion for tonight’s full moon, I thought idly.
My finger hovered over the dot as it moved away from Lupin’s, probably heading back to the dungeons. Maybe Snape could be reasoned with. Perhaps he could be trusted even with Sirius Black’s fate in the balance.
My thoughts still spun in circles about that challenging conundrum, but in the end, I made my choice.
I would wait a little longer. Just to be sure. Just to think through every possible outcome.
I sighed heavily, deactivated the map and folded it back with care before tucking it back into its hiding place beneath my pillow. Tired of all this mess, I lay down and pulled my blankets up to my chin.
I just lay there in the dark, staring at my glow-in-the-dark stars, heart beating a little faster than usual, as the weight of responsibility settled over me like a heavy cloak.
For now, I would keep the secret.
Two weeks passed. December arrived in full frost, dusting the castle grounds with sparkling white that crunched underfoot. The buzz of Christmas filled every corridor, every common room decked out in floating candles, shimmering tinsel and enchanted fluttering fairies. Students chattered happily about their plans for the holidays, and even the professors seemed more relaxed, with one unsurprising exception.
Harry and I were especially excited; it was our first Christmas with Hermione, and we planned to make it memorable. The air around us seemed almost charged with anticipation.
On the last weekend before the end of term, a Hogsmeade trip was scheduled, and we eagerly set out, wrapped tightly in scarves and cloaks against the biting wind. Our first stop was Honeydukes, where we marvelled at the extravagant displays of chocolates, peppermints and sugar quills.
I insisted on picking up a fresh supply of Toothflossing Stringmints for Hermione’s parents, to thank them for letting their daughter spend the holidays at the castle. Hermione seemed touched by the gesture.
Next to the counter was a bustling tasting station for special Christmas fudges. Each piece, enchanted with a different holiday tune, made the eater burst into a brief carol. Of course, I insisted on sampling piece after piece, laughing helplessly as we were forced into renditions of “Deck the Halls”, “Silent Night”, and “Jingle Bells”.
Hermione barred me from taking another bite, or else she wouldn’t be liable for what she might do to make me stop butchering the songs.
We left for the streets that were lined with Ministry posters warning of dementors’ patrols at sundown. I felt a chill, not entirely due to the wind, that I tried to shake off. At least, Harry and I were ready, and we could even protect Hermione if it came to it. That thought was comforting.
A sudden blizzard drove us to dart from shop to shop, seeking warmth and cover. We stopped at Zonko’s briefly for a laugh, but the cold was so biting that we quickly retreated to the Three Broomsticks. The inn was crowded, full of Hogwarts students warming their hands on butterbeers and hot cider.
We found a free table in the corner by the fire, right next to a beautiful Christmas tree. Perfect. We thankfully shed our scarves and cloaks, faces flushed with cold and laughter.
“Best Christmas shopping trip yet,” I declared with a contented sigh.
Harry grinned in agreement and left to grab us something to drink. As he weaved through the crowd toward the bar, Hermione leaned across the table, her eyes darting subtly toward the entrance.
“You were right last time, you know.”
“Huh? Right about what?”
She inclined her head ever so slightly toward the bar.
“Snape. He just came in. He's been following us all morning. I’m sure of it.”
I turned my head a bit, careful not to make it obvious, and sure enough, Snape had just taken a seat at the far end of the bar. His dark robes were still dusted with snow.
“Oh.” I gave an exaggerated shrug, trying to sound casual. “That’s just… Snape being Snape.”
Inside, though, something warm unfurled in my chest. So he was still watching over us, after all that happened. He still cared.
Harry returned then, carrying two butterbeers and a steaming mug.
“There, butterbeer for the normal people,” he said while putting the mugs in front of Hermione and his place. “And alcohol-free mulled mead for the weird person.”
We laughed.
“Cheers, mate.”
Just as I lifted the mug to my lips, the door banged open and a swirl of cold air swept through the pub. Professor McGonagall, Flitwick, Hagrid and Fudge stepped inside. The pub quieted briefly at the sight of the Minister for Magic, before going back to full chatter.
I couldn’t help it.
“This sounds like the start of a joke: Three teachers and Fudge walk into a bar…”
“Fudge?” Harry repeated. “Who’s that?”
“That’s the Minister for Magic,” I replied. “Cornelius Fudge.”
“Really?” Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”
The four adults found a table just next to ours. We watched as McGonagall turned to the bar and waved Snape over. He paused for a moment, then rose and strode toward them. On his way, his eyes met mine, and I felt my face heat up. I quickly looked away—to safer waters, like his scarf or the knot of his cloak—before he seated himself with the others.
Their quiet conversation faded into the general murmur of the pub, and we turned back to our drinks. I offered my mug to Hermione and Harry.
“Wanna try?”
Hermione tried a sip and smiled.
“I like it. It tastes like Christmas.”
Harry was harder to convince. In the end, he took a cautious sip and immediately pulled a face.
“Blimey, that’s awful!”
We were loudly laughing at his expression when a loud exclamation made us jump.
“Well, well! If it isn’t young Harry Potter!” Fudge had stood up and was now beaming at us. He extended a hand to Harry. “Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. A pleasure, my boy!”
Harry flushed uncomfortably, but shook Fudge’s hand.
“Eh—hi.”
I snorted mulled mead up my nose.
Meanwhile, Fudge, trying a bit too hard to be casual, dropped his voice to what was probably meant to be a discreet murmur but still loud enough for us to hear.
“Now, you’ll want to be very careful, Harry. You and your friends. You know, there is a very dangerous criminal on the loose…”
Snape’s smooth, cutting voice joined in from behind Fudge.
“Mr Potter and his friends are perfectly aware of Black’s danger, Minister. In fact, they’ve known for quite some time.”
Fudge half-turned, blinking in surprise.
“Really? I—er—well, that is unexpected. Who, er, told you, Harry?”
“I just heard things, years ago.”
Fudge’s eyebrows twitched, his discomfort obvious.
“Well… well. That’s good, that’s good. Knowledge is power, as they say. But do be careful, all of you. Black is— well, very dangerous, you know.”
After that awkward interaction, Fudge said his goodbyes, still looking a bit thrown, and turned to McGonagall and the others.
“Well, I’ll leave you all to your evening. I’m expected at dinner with Dumbledore. Mustn’t be late.”
And with that, he bustled out. McGonagall gave us a small, beckoning gesture.
“Come here, you three,” she said, her tone warm but firm.
Harry, Hermione and I exchanged glances, then rose from our table and joined the teachers at theirs. Hagrid grinned broadly at us, and Flitwick gave a cheerful nod. Snape merely sat there, his arms crossed and his expression impassible, though I noticed his gaze flicked briefly to me before he looked away.
“I suppose Fudge surprised you,” McGonagall said, her lips pursing in a faint smile.
“A bit, yeah,” Harry admitted, still looking faintly uncomfortable.
“It’s typical of him to try to smooth things over with reassuring words while the Ministry is still scrambling,” Snape commented coolly. “Though one might question his judgment in being quite so open in public.”
“Do you think… he’s there because of Black?” Hermione asked, brows furrowed in concern.
“Most likely,” Flitwick chimed in, his voice light but serious. “The Ministry is very concerned about Black, and Dumbledore’s counsel is, as ever, highly valued.”
“Between the dementors and the Ministry’s paranoia, it’s a wonder anyone still got a soul left to enjoy Christmas”, I added, trying to keep a straight face.
Everyone stared at me for a second. Then, Hagrid let out a booming laugh, Flitwick gave a high-pitched chuckle, and even McGonagall gave a tiny huff of amusement. To my complete surprise, Snape’s lips twitched just barely at the corner. Harry and Hermione had stricken expressions, like parents so embarrassed about their toddler who just dropped their pants in front of the Queen.
Just as I preferred.
“Well, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, shaking her head. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
“Always has a way with words,” Hagrid added fondly.
I flushed a little, pleased that my joke had landed, even if Snape was still acting all stoic about it.
“The important thing,” McGonagall said, voice more serious. “Is to remain vigilant. But don’t let the fear of Black or the dementors ruin your Christmas. Enjoy the season and stay safe.”
“We will, Professor.”
I grinned, feeling warmth bubble up inside me. The teachers might be worried, and Snape might still be distant, but for now, with my friends and these brief shared smiles, everything felt a little bit brighter.
The next day, the castle was bustling with activity as trunks were loaded into the Thestral-driven carriages. One by one, my siblings said their goodbyes near the entrance hall. Fred tousled my hair, George gave me a hearty hug, Ginny squeezed me extra tight, and even Percy, though stiff and distant, accepted my hesitant embrace.
“Have a good holiday, Ron,” he said shortly, barely meeting my eyes.
I nodded, feeling cautiously hopeful. It wasn’t a reconciliation, but he still made an effort. It was nice.
After the farewells, Hermione, Harry and I met in the library for what was, undoubtedly, the least fun part of our holiday plans: homework. But with the castle so empty, we found ourselves laughing aloud without worrying about Madam Pince’s shushes. We spread out comfortably at a table by the window, piles of books scattered between us. Quills scratched, parchment rustled, and Hermione’s voice echoed with occasional explanations.
The days leading up to Christmas were filled with fun and excitement. We played endless rounds of wizard chess. Even when teaming up, Harry and I couldn’t beat Hermione, except when my running commentary distracted her enough.
We drank hot cocoa by the litre in the Astronomy Tower, stargazing before curfew, and trying to find constellations Hermione named. Or more accurately, Harry and I made up ridiculous stories just to see Hermione get flustered.
A few times, we bundled up to build an entire family of snowmen, complete with mismatched hats, scarves and enchanted arms that waved at passersby. We even constructed a makeshift igloo near the edge of the grounds, crawling inside and giggling like children.
We, of course, also visited Hagrid before he left the castle a couple of days before Christmas, who greeted us with roaring laughter and mugs of hot cider, showing off his latest magical creature (a tiny flobberworm he was convinced would grow into something “more interestin’ soon”).
Finally, with McGonagall’s permission (and a warning not to “turn Gryffindor Tower into a menagerie”), we had a Christmas Eve sleepover in Hermione’s common room. We bought sleeping bags given by McGonagall and stacked them in front of the roaring fireplace.
Crookshank, that little angel, prowled around, wearing a string of tinsel like a very grumpy lion, only for me to catch and cuddle him, cooing over the cross feline. Later, we roasted marshmallows I had smuggled in under McGonagall’s nose.
“Best holiday ever,” Harry sighed, sprawled half on his sleeping bag and half in an armchair, cradling his full stomach.
The next morning, Christmas dawned crisp and bright, the common room bathed in a golden glow from the low winter sun. Yawning and stretching, we padded down from our sleeping bags, eyes widening as we saw piles of presents stacked under the Christmas tree.
We dove into the pile with glee. Among the first gifts we unwrapped were the unmistakable Weasley sweaters. Mine was a deep forest green, just like Mum knew I loved, and I slipped it on immediately. Harry did the same with his. Hermione discovered hers, in Gryffindor colours, and she looked absolutely delighted.
“Oh, I love it!”
After admiring our new sweaters, we turned back to the pile. Somehow, a massive package was for me. That seemed excessive, and I had no idea who would give me such a significant gift. Before opening it, I read the note attached to it. The handwriting was familiar. It read:
“ Thanks for the tip-off about your spot. It’s handy for our projects. As proof of our gratitude, here is a collection of ‘Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ prototypes.
Merry Christmas, ickle Ronniekins! ”
Whoa.
I checked inside the package. A prank wand, a Croaker Elixir, a perpetual Confetti Charm and a little snake badge. Intrigued by the item without a visible name, I took it and the note attached to it. “Ron’s Special Shield Pin. Since you lose the use of your legs once a year.”
I snorted violently.
“Wow,” Harry suddenly exclaimed. “Look!”
I turned to him, expecting anything but a broom. Oh. Yes. The Firebolt. I completely forgot about it.
Harry’s hands trembled with excitement as he stared in open wonderment at the polished wood and shining handle. He was ecstatic, studying every curve and detail with reverent awe.
“Who is it from?” Hermione asked with an amused grin at Harry’s antics.
“There’s no card. I can’t wait to try it out!”
Hermione, however, lost her smile and was now frowning deeply.
“I don’t know… It’s a bit odd, isn’t it? I mean… this is supposed to be quite a good broom, right? So, it must have been really expensive… Who’d send you something as expensive as that, and not even tell you they’d sent it?”
“Who cares?” Harry replied with a laugh, brushing her off as he continued admiring the Firebolt.
Uh oh. She was beginning to look angry now.
“Harry, you nearly get killed at your first match every year! First year, it was the jinx on your broom, second year, it was that Bludger, and this year, it’s Dementors… You don’t have the best luck.”
Harry just waved a dismissive hand. Even though I knew that the broom was from Sirius and perfectly safe, Harry’s nonchalant reaction upset me too. Hermione was counting on that, as she turned to me, staring pleadingly at me.
“Ron, don’t you agree with me?”
“I do.”
“ What?! Ron!”
Hermione’s desperation turned to smugness.
“See? We have to give it to a teacher.”
“Are you crazy ?”
“Harry… please.”
They looked ready to fight, so I decided to intervene:
“We could just ask—”
“If the word ‘Snape’ comes out of your mouth, I swear to God—”
Harry didn’t finish his threat. He looked at each of us in suspicion, as if we would snatch the broom from his hands.
“Mate. Snape’s obsessed with getting that cup every year. If he thinks there’s the tiniest chance the broom’s cursed, he’ll have it checked inside out. And if it’s clean, he’ll probably rush to get back to you before your next match in February.”
Harry paused, anger melting away, mulling it over. Hermione looked momentarily appeased.
“That checks out,” Harry muttered to himself, glancing longingly at the Firebolt.
“Yep. Just tell him at breakfast, and you might even have it back before the break is over.”
Harry finally grinned, the weight of suspicion lifting. He agreed to it on the condition that I did all the talking.
As if that wasn’t what happened all the damn time already.
Chapter 26: BOOK THREE - TRUST EXERCISE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TRUST EXERCISE
The three of us walked into the Great Hall, with Harry carefully carrying the Firebolt as though it were made of glass. I could tell he was nervous about approaching Snape, so I nudged his shoulder and reminded him that I would handle it for him, like he asked. He gave me a relieved look as we approached the head table.
All the professors were already there; Dumbledore in the middle with his usual twinkle, McGonagall and Flitwick chatting quietly, and Professor Sprout smiling as she stirred her tea. Snape was seated at the far end, his piercing look zooming in on us as we approached.
I stopped in front of him, Harry and Hermione choosing to stay a little behind me. I wondered passingly if they were afraid of Snape.
“Hello, sir. Sorry to bother you, but we might need your help on something,” I said, voice mostly steady and extra respectful. “Harry just received this broom as a Christmas present. It’s a Firebolt. But… there was no card. We thought you might want to check it over for any… foul play.”
All the teachers immediately perked up. McGonagall’s head, in particular, snapped up from her plate, her eyes narrowing with concern. She put down her spoon, looking between us.
“Is that so?” She said, standing as though ready to take control. “I believe this is a matter for—”
I caught Snape’s eye and held it, trying to silently communicate that this was something I was trusting him with. Something just between us. His lip curled ever so slightly, but then he inclined his head and spoke before McGonagall could move.
“This is Slytherin matter,” he replied coolly. “I will examine the broom thoroughly and personally. Thank you, Mr Weasley, for your… commendable caution.”
My cheeks flushed as the other professors turned their disbelief to me, then to Snape again, as if he had never given praise freely. Which, thinking about it… was probably close to the truth of the matter.
“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled, stomach fluttering madly.
The moment felt oddly warm despite Snape’s usual icy tone. As I turned to Harry, I caught a faint smirk tugging at the corners of Snape’s mouth before he schooled his features back into neutrality.
Harry deposited his Firebolt against the head table, cradling it like his firstborn. As he seemed incapable of letting go of his precious broom, I rolled my eyes and pulled him forcefully toward the Gryffindor table,
Harry and Hermione followed me to the deserted Gryffindor table, where we sat down and began helping ourselves to breakfast.
“Well,” Harry said in a hushed voice, still watching his broom longingly from across the Hall. “That went… surprisingly well.”
“I can’t believe he said something nice. And to you, Ron.” Hermione was shaking her head, looking astonished. “Also, are we chopped liver?”
I shrugged, trying to look casual, even though my ears were still burning.
“You’re not going to have a crush on him again, right?”
“Harry!” Hermione hissed, scandalised. Her hand shot out to swat the back of his head.
I nearly choked on my toast, frantically looking around for eavesdroppers.
“I never had a crush on Snape!” I whispered-shouted in an embarrassing pitch.
Harry and Hermione exchanged one of those infuriating silent looks, eyebrows raising and lips twitching, before they turned to me again, identical innocent expressions plastered across their faces.
“Sure, of course you never did,” Hermione agreed, voice overly gentle.
“Absolutely”, Harry added, nodding solemnly. “Just like Hermione never had a crush on Lockhart.”
Hermione and I groaned in mortification. I dropped my head into my hands.
“Can we just talk about what we’re doing today instead? Pretty please.”
When lunch finally arrived hours later, we returned to the Great Hall to discover it had undergone drastic changes. All the usual tables had been moved out of the way, leaving only one long, elegantly set table for twelve. We were the last to arrive.
We hesitated a moment at the doorway, taking in the small, intimate gathering. Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, wearing a garish set of robes. McGonagall was there too, sitting beside him, her tartan scarf adding a touch of festive colour. Snape sat on his other side, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Professor Sprout and Flitwick were laughing softly at something.
Filch lingered near the foot of the table, accompanied by Mrs Norris. The three seats around him were taken by the three only other students at the castle for break. They didn’t seem very happy about Filch sitting next to them, but were probably too uncomfortable about obviously changing seats. Also, the remaining seats were close to Snape, and they probably didn’t think that he was a better alternative to Filch.
They lacked taste, if that was the case.
“Ah, Merry Christmas!” Dumbledore wished us warmly, standing as we approached. “Please, come in, come in.”
Harry, Hermione and I exchanged a glance, then they both pushed me forward, forcing me to take the seat right next to Snape in their stead.
“Crackers!” Dumbledore announced enthusiastically, lifting a large silver noisemaker and offering the end to Snape. Snape took it with visible reluctance, as he did each year, but he still took it—and gave it a sharp tug.
There was a bang like a gunshot, and the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch’s hat with a stuffed vulture. I grimaced. The sight brought back the unpleasant memory of my lone boggart lesson with Snape, and the resulting fight.
Snape’s mouth thinned, and he gave the hat a disdainful nudge toward Dumbledore, who picked it up and placed it on his head with a chuckle.
Next came a chaos of colourful fumes and big bangs. I pulled a cracker with Harry first, producing a small paper with a joke:
“Why did the weasel join the goose’s comedy club?” Harry asked out loud.
Hermione seemed to rack her brains for an answer. I, on the other hand, just shrugged.
“Because he wanted to learn how to ‘quack’ everyone up!”
Hermione groaned in disbelief:
“That was so bad!”
“Those from previous years were worse,” I retorted with a fake shiver.
I reached for a cracker with Hermione. This time, it contained a sleek red quill and a small box of enchanted parchment that would duplicate notes for studying. Hermione beamed and set it aside with care.
As we pulled the crackers, I found myself distracted. My eyes kept flicking toward Snape, who was calmly sipping his wine without participating. I hesitated, hands wringing in my lap. I’d always pulled a cracker with Snape during the Christmas feast, and it had become a well-liked tradition for me.
But this year… things were different. Our relationship wasn’t in great shape after our falling out. Would Snape even agree to pull a cracker with me? Could I bear the shame if he denied me in front of everyone?
I bit my lip, glancing at Snape again. I reminded myself of this morning and the praise he gave me. It had been quiet, maybe grudging, but real and not forced by anyone. Snape couldn’t be completely against me if he’d said that.
So I grabbed my nonexistent courage, took a deep breath, and, heart pounding, I decided to try.
“Sir?” I said, my voice more hesitant than I’d have liked. “Can we…”
Snape turned his gaze to me from the corner of his eye. For a moment, I felt a tremor of doubt, but then Snape put down his glass of wine.
“Very well, Weasley.”
I beamed. We each grabbed one end of the cracker. With a pop and a small burst of silver feathers, it slipped right in the middle, and from the centre floated a delicate silver charm, suspended midair on a thin chain. It settled into my palm.
It honked softly.
“What?”
I looked at it. It was a silver goose. I poked at it with my finger. It honked again, a musical little sound.
I laughed, taken by surprise and delighted.
“Appropriate, don’t you think?” Snape commented dryly, with a clear hint of amusement.
I saw his lips forming an almost smile.
I made a strangled sound and flushed a deep red.
“Very. Yeah. Thanks, sir. Better than a hip joke.”
The food suddenly appeared from thin air, steaming and fragrant. Dumbledore clapped his hands with a beaming smile and invited everyone to dig in. I was just reaching for a golden-brown roast potato when the doors to the Hall creaked open. I paused mid-reach as Trelawney swept into the room in a swirl of silken scarves and jingling bangles.
“Sibyll, what a pleasant surprise!” Dumbledore told her, standing.
“Ah, Headmaster, I was consulting my crystal ball. Imagine my surprise when I foresaw myself leaving my solitary meal to join this gathering. Surely it would be a folly to ignore such a vision. I rushed from my tower at once, and I do beg your forgiveness for my delay.”
“Certainly, certainly. Let me draw you up a chair—”
With a flick of his wand, he conjured a chair that materialised right between McGonagall and Flitwick. Trelawnay’s expression shifted to one of dismay.
“But— there are thirteen of us!” she gasped dramatically.
I heard Hermione and McGonagall scoff at the same time. I snorted at that.
“Do sit down, Sibyll. There’s no danger.”
“I shall not sit down among thirteen! If I do, the first to rise will be the first to die!”
Dumbledore, patient as ever, eventually managed to coax Trelawney into sitting, even if she still looked scandalised about it. McGonagall, lips pressed thin in disapproval, leaned just enough to murmur something sharp to her colleague, and Trelawney’s retort, equally barbed but wrapped in vague mysticism, floated back.
I couldn’t help myself and muttered, in a dry and low voice meant only for Harry, but that was not low enough to escape Snape’s keen hearing.
“I’m not saying Dumbledore’s stirring the cauldron, but if he adds mistletoe between them, I’m leaving.”
Harry nearly choked on his butterbeer. Hermione, who was close enough to hear also, swatted at my arm, scandalised. But the best part… Snape let out a sharp, unexpected laugh before his face composed itself back quickly.
I froze, mouth agape and heart pounding a mile a minute.
Several teachers turned in astonishment, blinking at Snape in surprise, while he looked back with a blank face. Professor Sprout gawked, her fork halfway to her mouth, Flitwick actually dropped his spoon, and McGonagall raised a questioning eyebrow.
“What’s so amusing, Severus?” Dumbledore asked, tone laced with both curiosity and cheer, eyes twinkling.
Snape merely took a nonchalant sip of wine before saying smoothly:
“Ah, merely Weasley’s… inimitable way with words.”
The teachers’ gaze shifted to me, and I felt my face burn. I gave a tiny, awkward shrug and went back to my food, hoping they wouldn’t ask me to repeat my inappropriate quip. Fortunately, after a beat of silence, the table settled back into the clink of cutlery and the low hum of conversation.
The fire crackled softly in the Gryffindor common room, and I lounged back against the couch, Crookshanks sprawled across my lap like a happy, furry blanket. He purred contentedly, his eyes half-lidded with bliss, and I found myself smiling widely as I idly scratched under his chin. I felt peaceful and happy.
So that’s why Hermione opened her big mouth to stir shit.
“I still can’t believe what you said at lunch, Ron,” she admonished me with a mix of scandal and disbelief. “And Snape laughed!”
“I’m pretty sure Snape laughing and complimenting Ron means the world is ending. There should be an entry about that in Unfogging the Future .”
I let out a huff of laughter at Harry’s snark, and even Crookshanks gave a cute little snort, absentmindedly kneading in the air. Hermione shook her head, still baffled.
“And you pulled a cracker with Snape!”
“Ron’s been pulling crackers with Snape since our first Christmas at Hogwarts.”
I felt immensely grateful for Harry’s defence of me. His nonchalant, uninterested tone also helped make it all sound normal. To thank him, I threw a chocolate frog next to him on the rug. He accepted the treat with a soft whoop.
“Really?” Hermione replied. “I didn’t even know you’d done it before.” She stopped speaking for a short moment. “I can’t believe you’re so quick to forgive him. After what he did with the boggart lesson, you shouldn’t be letting him off the hook so easily.”
I stared at her pensively.
“Y’know, I’ve found out that forgiveness… It’s essential if you want to live a happy life. Without regrets or remorse. Besides… I’ve forgiven worse. Way worse.”
I stopped there. Yeah… Way worse, I thought, suddenly recalling sadly about my big sister from Before.
“And it’s not like Snape ended the tutoring before Harry and I learned what we needed. He just… I mean, he would’ve put an end to it any day anyway.”
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Harry cut in.
“Holding grudges is like carrying around a heavy bag of rocks. Eventually, it’s going to weigh you down so much that you can’t see where you’re going.”
Both Hermione and I blinked in incredulity at his spontaneous bout of uncharacteristic wisdom. Crookshanks purred louder, as if agreeing. I smiled wryly. Hermione just shook her head, expression softening.
“All right. I see your point. Still…” She glanced at me, exasperated but affectionate. “Just… be careful, Ron.”
“When am I ever not?”
“I can list five occurrences right there and then,” Harry snarked back right away.
We laughed, and the tension dissipated.
The conversation lingered with me. Harry’s unexpected insight, Hermione’s worry, and, most of all, Snape’s reactions to each interaction he had with me the day before. I mulled over it as I lay in bed, then while I dressed, and still later as I sat for breakfast. Finally, I made my decision.
I was going to give Snape a second chance. The benefit of the doubt.
“I need to talk to Snape about something,” I told Hermione and Harry during breakfast, trying to sound casual. “I’ll go when I’m done eating.”
“What kind of something?” Hermione asked, eyebrows pinched together.
“Just… something important. I’ll find you guys after.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully, studying my face. Finally, he went back to his porridge.
“We’ll probably be with Hagrid to wish him a merry Christmas. Come find us when you’re done.”
I agreed to Harry’s proposition and stood up. I left the Great Hall, my footsteps echoing softly behind me. Once I was out of sight, I slipped into a nearby alcove, pulling the Marauder’s Map from my inner pocket. I activated it and searched for Snape, as he wasn’t in the Great Hall for his breakfast today.
The Map inked itself alive with moving dots and labels. With the school empty, I very quickly found “Severus Snape” marked in the Potions Classroom. Then I tucked the Map away and headed directly there, feeling anticipation mounting inside me.
Once in front of the classroom, I rapped my knuckles against the door and, after hearing Snape’s curt “Enter”, I stepped inside. The room was fogged with fumes and scented with a simmering potion I didn’t recognise. Snape was at his workbench, his long fingers deftly stirring something that hissed and emitted the massive fumes.
“I’m busy. Come back later,” Snape said, not looking up.
“You told me to come directly to you with any information about Black.”
Snape’s hand froze. His head snapped up abruptly, dark eyes narrowing on me.
“Close the door.”
I did. Without another word, Snape reached over, tapped his wand against his cauldron, muttering a spell that put the potion in stasis. Then he gave me his undivided attention. I fumbled a little, not knowing how to begin.
“Sir, do you know the spell to reveal Animagus?”
Snape’s expression became even more intense, his mind visibly shifting into high gear.
“Yes, of course… Why?”
I drew a slow, deep breath.
“Because Scabbers… My rat. He’s Peter Pettigrew.”
For a second, the silence was so deep I could hear my pulse hammering. Snape stared at me with incredulous disbelief and mounting anger, his lips thin and his gaze severe, clearly either doubting my sanity and thinking that I was playing a prank.
“You’d better explain yourself, Weasley,” he demanded frostily.
“I’ve got proof. I… came into the… ownership of this magical Map. It shows everyone in the castle. Names and locations. My rat’s label says ‘Peter Pettigrew’.”
“Let me see it.”
I fished the Map from my inner pocket, stepping forward to spread it on the nearest desk. I tapped it with my wand and muttered, “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed further, but his attention snapped to the Map as it bloomed to life, lines sketching themselves into existence. At once, two small dots appeared where we were, labelled “Severus Snape” and “Ron Weasley”.
Snape leaned in, studying the Map with an intensity and greed that made my stomach twist into knots.
“Where did you get this Map, and how long have you had it?”
Time to adjust the truth into a reality that wouldn’t get the twins in trouble, nor me.
“The previous owners gave it to me. I’d prefer not to say who, sir.” My pulse was racing, hoping that he wouldn’t press. “I’ve only had it since last month. And… that’s when I first saw Pettigrew’s name.”
That wasn’t a lie. That was when I first saw Pettigrew’s name. No one needed to know that I was aware of him before I had the Map in my possession.
“Where is the rat now?”
“In his cage, in the dormitory,” I replied, pointing to a tiny dot labelled “Peter Pettigrew”. “And the cage was charmed years ago to be unbreakable, sir.”
Snape’s face blanked as he stared at the Map in silence.
“Who else have you told about this?” he finally asked in a low and dangerous voice.
“Only you,” I replied quietly.
There was a long pause as Snape continued to stare at the Map, his face inscrutable and offering no clue about what he might be thinking about. But I could venture a good guess, and that was the exact reason why I felt hope and dread battling for dominance in my heart.
I knew that I was presenting Snape with difficult news. News that he could use to get his revenge on Sirius Black for all the hardships he put Snape through. News that he could simply dismiss before getting rid of the evidence.
I was playing a dangerous gamble. If Snape decided that he wanted Sirius to stay a criminal on the run, all he had to do was to Obliviate me and destroy the Map.
Snape looked up. Our eyes met. I looked as closely as I could, trying and failing to find the tiniest bit of clue about the response he would give me.
Would he betray me?
“We’ll take this to Dumbledore,” he said at last.
I sagged with relief, shoulders dropping as I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“But first,” Snape continued, making me tense up again. “There are a few points we must discuss. First, about the Map.”
I tensed even more.
“I’ll take that,” Snape said, reaching for the parchment.
I pulled it back by reflex, holding it between us.
“Wait! I need… I need to keep it.”
“Why would you need to keep it, Weasley?” he asked with a murderous glare.
“Because… I need to keep watch. Keep an eye on suspicious things happening in school, especially around Harry.” I racked my brain for any excuse possible. “You’re a teacher. You’re busy. You won’t have time to monitor it constantly. But I can. I’ll watch. I’ll ensure everything is in order. If there’s anything suspicious, I’ll let you know immediately. You know it.”
Snape’s lips curled faintly in the beginning of a sneer.
“And I am simply supposed to trust you with an object that reveals the entire castle and the movements of every person in it?”
“I won’t abuse it. I haven’t misused it and I don’t plan to. I haven’t used it for pranks, mischief, or anything else. I– I think I’ve already proven that I can be… trusted.”
For a moment, I thought everything was lost. But after considering me for a moment, Snape’s expression changed. Less suspicious, less greedy. More thoughtful, weighing.
“If I were to let you keep it, there would be conditions.”
I nodded vigorously.
“First, you will show me the Map whenever I ask. No hesitation, no excuses.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, you will swear not to use it for any other purpose than to track Potter, or any individual I give you permission for. No wandering around, no eavesdropping, no plotting.”
“What if I take the plot to you?”
He seemed unimpressed with my answer. I sighed.
“Agreed.”
“Third, you will be discreet. If word of this Map’s existence gets out, and I find it was due to your carelessness, I will confiscate it. Permanently.”
“Got it.”
“And lastly,” Snape ended with his voice sharp as a knife. “If I so much as suspect you are misusing it, I will take it back, and you will face dire consequences. Do you accept these terms?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a long, silent moment as Snape studied my face, sharp black eyes boring into me. Then, finally, he inclined his head.
“Very well. You may get the Map back after the term starts.”
I was extremely curious about his plans, which required him to have the Map for an entire week, but I didn’t ask. I was already lucky enough to have my bargain.
“Ah, about that—,” I began, and Snape immediately glared at me, as if I was already going back on our deal. “The words to deactivate it are ‘Mischief Managed’.”
His suspicion cleared, and he nodded in understanding. He tapped the Map with his wand and said the words. The lines and dots disappeared completely. He seemed satisfied.
“Now, on to the next point to address.”
I blinked in disbelief.
There was more ?!
“Sir?” I called after another lengthy staring contest. “What’s the next point?”
“Why didn’t you come to me sooner, Weasley? You say you’ve had this Map for weeks. Why wait until now?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I had prepared for this question, but the answer was still hard to give without getting flustered and fearing the possible consequences.
“Because… I didn’t know if I could trust you.” I said, eyes staring at the desk between us. “After the… the tutoring. The last one. When you said you didn’t want me to come to you for help. That… I should go to Lupin instead. I didn’t know… If you— If you would accept to hear me out. I didn’t know what to do.”
I didn’t see Snape’s facial reaction to my word vomit. I couldn’t bear to look at him when I felt this exposed and vulnerable.
“And yet, you chose to come to me in the end,” he replied, voice quieter than I had ever heard him. “Why?”
I squared my shoulders, trying to gather all the assurance I could.
“Yesterday, you agreed to help check Harry’s broom. You didn’t turn us away. And you… You said I did the right thing. It made me think… maybe you weren’t as angry at me as I thought.”
I hated baring myself and my feelings like this, and in front of Snape especially. Finally, he spoke:
“My words during our last session were… hasty. I was—” He stopped himself. “You should not have considered them. You made the correct decision by coming to me.”
My heart gave a little jump. I nodded shakily.
“Okay.”
Snape straightened, all business once more. I dared to lift my head again.
“Now, here’s what we’re going to do. First, you will return to your dormitory and retrieve the rat. You will act casually and not utter a word of our destination in his presence. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will wait for you at the entrance to the common room. You will join me. Afterwards, you and I will go directly to the Headmaster’s office. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Scabbers was shifting restlessly inside his cage. I carried it in my aching arms, walking quickly next to Snape, glad to be rid of him soon. Rid of Pettigrew, not Snape.
“Fizzing Whizzbee,” Snape muttered curtly to the gargoyle, who leapt aside to reveal the spiralling staircase.
We ascended in silence, save for Scabbers’ squeaks and the sound of his little claws on the metal. At the end of the stairs, Snape rapped on the door.
“Enter,” called Dumbledore’s familiar, warm voice.
We stepped inside. Dumbledore looked up from a parchment at his desk, his blue eyes crinkling with curiosity. His gaze flicked from Snape to me, then to the cage in my arms.
“Well, well,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice. “This feels oddly like déjà vu. Last year, it was a Diary; this year, a rat. You two seem to make a habit of surprising me.”
I flushed scarlet, but Dumbledore waved a hand lightly, as if to dispel my discomfort.
“Please, both of you, sit down. Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps some fudge.”
“No, thank you, Headmaster. I believe we had best get directly to the matter at hand.” He inclined his head toward me, so I went straight to the point.
“My pet rat is Peter Pettigrew.”
As if on cue, Scabbers let out a terrified squeak and hurled himself at the cage bars, causing them to rattle violently. Snape immediately took the cage from me and deposited it on the coffee table next to Dumbledore’s desk.
“We have reason to believe the boy is telling the truth. The rat appears to be in disguise. Possibly Animagus.”
Dumbledore’s whole demeanour changed. From one moment to the next, he went from gentle twinkling to intense, steely light. He rose from behind his desk, drawing his wand with a slow, deliberate motion. Then, for some reason, he turned his gaze to me.
“Ron,” he said gently, “perhaps you should join your friends now. What we are about to witness may be… unsettling.”
The hell with that.
Before I could give him a piece of my mind, Snape’s smooth voice rang out:
“I must disagree, Headmaster. Mr Weasley has already shown considerable fortitude in bringing this matter forward. Removing him now would serve no purpose except to cast doubt on his judgment and erode his confidence.
Dumbledore and I’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. However, Snape wasn’t finished yet.
“Furthermore, he deserves to witness the truth. His ’pet’ is no pet at all, and he should be granted clarity, not denial. I believe his presence here will be beneficial, both for his understanding and for the integrity of the situation. And,” he added with a faint edge. “I trust him to keep what he hears confidential.”
I stood there like an idiot, flushed and with my mouth agape. Dumbledore regained his composure quickly and inclined his head slightly.
“Very well. I cannot in good conscience ignore such a compelling advocacy. Mr Weasley, you may remain. But you must promise me absolute silence about what transpires here today.”
“I promise, sir.”
“Good.” Dumbledore’s tone softened, before he was back to business and turned to Snape. “Proceed when ready, Severus.”
Snape first cast an Immobilus Totalus, then extracted the rat from the cage, and finally, he cast a spell I didn’t know. The bright blue light struck Scabbers, who had no way to escape it. With a shudder and a blur, his form expanded until Peter Pettigrew lay crumpled on the floor.
The tension in the room thickened. Dumbledore levitated Pettigrew into an armchair, and he conjured thick ropes around his arms, legs and torso. Then he used the Reviving Spell on him. Pettigrew’s watery eyes darted wildly about, his pale face slick with sweat as his trembling hands scrabbled uselessly against the ropes.
“It seems we have much to discuss.”
At this, Snape produced a small vial from his robes, filled with a clear liquid.
“I have taken the liberty of bringing some Veritaserum. I believe it will aid us in acquiring the necessary truths.”
“Ah, Severus. Always prepared. Very well.” He turned back toward Pettigrew, expression unreadable. “Let us begin.”
“Let me go! Please, Ron—”
Snape grabbed his face, forcing his jaw open with a rough hand. He let three drops of the clear potion fall onto Pettigrew’s tongue. Almost instantly, his trashing ceased. His eyes dulled, and his body sagged into the chair, his panic fading into a blank, compliant calm.
Dumbledore stepped closer, gaze fixed on Pettigrew’s vacant face.
“How did you survive?”
“I faked my death,” Pettigrew answered, flat and toneless. “I cut off my finger, cast a Blasting Curse to destroy the street, and transformed into my rat form to escape.”
“Was Sirius Black the Potters’ Secret Keeper?”
“No. I was the Secret Keeper.”
“Why were you chosen instead of Sirius?”
“They switched at the last moment. They thought it would be safer. That no one would suspect me.”
“Where did you hide after faking your death?”
“I fled as a rat. I ended up in the Weasleys’ garden. I lived there for some time before being taken in as their pet.”
“Why did you betray James and Lily?”
“The Dark Lord’s power was rising. I didn’t want to be on the losing side. I wanted to live.”
“Is that why you joined the Death Eaters?”
“Yes. I wanted protection, power. I was afraid of being weak. I was afraid of dying.”
“When did you join the Death Eaters?”
“21st October 1980.”
For the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, Snape took a turn asking questions:
“Do you know of any plans involving Harry Potter?”
“No.”
“Have you planned anything against Harry Potter?”
“I’m not planning anything. I was content to stay hidden. No one would look for me. I was safe.”
Dumbledore took the reins back.
“Has Voldemort returned?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know of any way Voldemort might return?“
“No.”
“Have you had contact with any Death Eaters since Voldemort’s fall?”
“No.”
“Have you sent any messages? Has anyone searched for you?”
“No.”
“Does anyone know you are still alive?”
“You, Sirius, Snape and Ron.”
Dumbledore remained silent for a long moment, his piercing gaze fixed on Pettigrew’s blank face, deep in thought.
“Did you have any part in the attacks last year? In the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, the attacks on the students?”
“No.”
“Did you have any part in the attempted theft of the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“No.”
Looking immensely weary, Dumbledore went back to his seat and leaned back in it, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, as Pettigrew’s answers sank in. For a moment, he seemed to be considering his next question, but Snape, watching the rat-like man with a cold gleam in his eyes, seized the moment and took the reins back.
“Did you consider harming Ron if he got too close to your secret?”
Oh my god.
He called me by my first name
Also, fair question.
“No. I considered running away, but not harming him. I didn’t want to attract attention to myself.”
Snape’s expression barely shifted, but a faint flicker of contempt crossed his features. His gaze stayed on Pettigrew, looking like he was contemplating something.
Then, in a move I could never have predicted, Snape’s dark eyes flicked to me.
“Weasley,” he said, the tone almost too casual. “Do you have any questions for our… guest?”
Well. Honestly, I had a couple of those, but I hadn’t even considered that I would be allowed to ask them. I pounced on the occasion and leaned forward on the ball of my feet.
“Are there any other Death Eaters who are unregistered Animagi?”
I caught, from the corner of my eye, the way Dumbledore’s brow lifted, and Snape’s head spun in my direction. My pulse sped up. Had I asked something wrong? But it was too late, the question was already out there.
“I don’t know.”
Disappointing. I would have preferred a definitive ‘no’; that would have been a relief. Anyway.
“When you were hiding at Hogwarts… did you ever overhear something you weren’t supposed to? Something about Hogwarts’ defences? Something about Harry’s safety?”
The room seemed to grow still.
Pettigrew, still under the potion’s grip, spoke plainly.
“Draco Malfoy bragged about his father telling him that he heard whispers about the Dark Lord returning. People are preparing, just in case. He also said that his father had spoken about something the Dark Lord had left behind. His father wouldn’t say what it was, but that it was dangerous and powerful.”
My mind blanked a second before I thought about the Basilisk. There was a beat of silence, tense and heavy.
“I don’t have any more questions,” I said quietly, trying to keep my voice steady.
My heart was still racing, as I hated being the centre of attention.
“I believe we now have enough of a clear overview of the situation.”
With a smooth, practised flick of his wand, Dumbledore cast a spell toward Pettigrew. The man slumped forward, unconscious and tied securely.
“I will take it from here,” he declared, gentle but authoritative. “I will be notifying the proper authorities. With this evidence, we can begin to set things right.”
I exhaled louder than I wished to, tension draining from my shoulders. Dumbledore’s gaze softened as he looked at me.
“Mr Weasley, you handled yourself admirably today. You showed courage and intelligence, and I believe this deserves fifty points for Slytherin. Before parting, I ask only one more thing of you.”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Keep what you know to yourself. Do not even mention anything to your friends, even Harry. Loose words can cause unforeseen harm. I trust you to remain silent on these matters until it is safe to speak of them.”
“I promise.” I glanced between Dumbledore and Snape. “If it’s possible, could my involvement stay… secret? Or at least discreet… Given that Pettigrew knows…”
“Of course. I will protect your anonymity to the best of my ability. It’s the least we can do.”
I nodded, feeling more relieved than I had in weeks. Then, Dumbledore dismissed me, telling me to go and join my friends to enjoy the rest of my day. I murmured some awkward thanks before turning and leaving the office, my legs feeling shaky but light.
For the first time in a long while, the weight of Scabbers was no longer mine to bear. Actual adults would handle it. I could go back to being a student, back to my everyday life.
For now, at least.
Chapter 27: BOOK THREE - THE PROPHET’S SPECIAL EDITION
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE PROPHET’S SPECIAL EDITION
It was the morning of January 1, the last Saturday before the term officially started. The Great Hall was quiet; the long tables, freshly polished, were set back into place to prepare for the returning students tomorrow.
Snape entered the Great Hall only a few minutes after us with his usual fluid stride, and I couldn’t help but notice the glance sent my way. But it wasn’t the Potions Master in himself that caught the most attention from us. It was the object he carried. Harry made an excited sound, which was probably the only time he reacted this way for the Potions Master.
Snape stopped at the Slytherin table, where Hermione, Harry and I were beginning our breakfast. He held out the gleaming Firebolt to Harry.
“Mr Potter. I believe this belongs to you.”
Harry’s face lit up, and he stood so fast his chair nearly toppled.
“Thank you, Professor,” he said, his voice genuinely warm with gratitude. He reached out and took the broom reverently, his fingers brushing the sleek handle.
Snape inclined his head slightly.
“As I’m certain you will have gathered from our prior discussions, do not attempt to fly it alone. Especially not near the Forbidden Forest or in any remote areas. The Headmaster’s precautions remain in place, and I expect them to be followed.
“Of course,” Harry answered earnestly. “I appreciate you checking it over. Thank you.”
Snape nodded again shortly, before turning to leave, the tails of his robes sweeping behind him.
“I have to try it out today. Right after breakfast. I don’t care what we were planning. I’m not waiting until tomorrow.”
“So bossy, Sunshine… We’ll come with you. Right, Hermione?”
Hermione, who had just been buttering her toast, gave a resigned but fond sigh.
“I suppose we can rearrange the plan. It is a Firebolt, after all. I’m sure we can squeeze in our reading later.”
Harry’s face practically glowed as he looked between us.
“You guys are the best!”
“That we are, that we are,” I nodded sagely.
We dug into breakfast with faster energy, as Harry was pushing us to hurry. Whatever we had planned before, it would have to wait for Harry to calm down from his euphoria. I didn’t mind. I liked seeing Harry happy, and he deserved a reward for going along with Hermione’s and my plan to get a teacher to check the broom, risking losing it for a very long time.
When it was time for lunch, we made our way back toward the Great Hall, reminiscing about our nice morning on the Quidditch pitch. But as we passed through the wide doors, we were suddenly shoved aside urgently by a pale figure hurrying past us.
It was Lupin.
His face was a sickly shade of grey, his lips bloodless, and his hands trembled as he clutched his worn satchel to his chest. His eyes darted as though he barely saw us, and he mumbled “Excuse me–” before disappearing down a side corridor, the hem of his ratty robe fluttering in his wake.
“What the hell?” I said, perplexed.
We exchanged startled glances. I tugged on their sleeves.
“Let’s go.”
We went into the Great Hall. Almost all the teachers were back from the Christmas break and seated at the head table, whispering to one another, their faces pale and strained. Dumbledore’s chair was empty.
I was beginning to suspect what was happening and I braced myself mentally for the shitshow that would follow in the next weeks or even months. Curious about my intuition being true, I sought out Snape’s gaze, hoping for some clue. Seated at his usual place with his expression impassive, Snape caught my eye. He gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod toward something at his elbow.
There, next to Snape’s plate, lay a folded newspaper.
The teachers’ whispers cut off as soon as they finally noticed Harry standing on the threshold. Their heads snapped up. Flitwick’s knuckles were white as he gripped his goblet, stopping his heated discussion with Babbling. Sinistra and Sprout shook their heads in disbelief. McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a thin line as she stared at Harry intensely.
The Great Hall filled with an unnatural silence, like the hush before a storm.
Harry and Hermione exchanged confused glances, and I tugged at their sleeves again, pulling them toward the head table, where McGonagall sat like a statue, her shoulders stiff, her hands clenched in her lap. Her face, usually composed, was drawn, eyes shadowed with something uncomfortable, and as soon as we reached the foot of the head table, she rose.
“Mr Potter, I— there’s something you must know. It’s—”
“Minerva,” Snape cut her off abruptly. “This isn’t the place.”
His voice was low, but carried in the otherwise silent Hall. She blinked as though waking from a daze, then visibly regained some of her composure.
“You’re right, Severus. But I want to be there for this conversation.”
Snape gave a single curt nod. Without another word, he gathered the folded newspaper and tucked it under his arm.
“You three,” he said, inclining his head toward the doors.
We followed our Heads of House in silence out of the Hall, and the heavy hush went back to noisy and heated conversations. Snape led the way through the corridors at a brisk pace, McGonagall following close behind. Finally, we arrived at Snape’s office. McGonagall flicked her wand, conjuring a neat row of chairs for us.
We sat, quiet and tense.
Snape set the folded Prophet down on his desk and leaned against its edge, arms crossed. His expression was carefully blank, but his voice was clipped and cold, almost as though the matter was of no consequence.
“Potter. Peter Pettigrew has been found alive and is in custody. Your godfather, Sirius Black, is innocent of the crimes for which he was incarcerated. He will likely be exonerated in the coming weeks.”
Whoa. Like a freaking bandaid.
Snape wasn’t one to beat around the bush.
His words dropped like stones into the silence, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause, waiting for Harry’s reaction. For a heartbeat, his face was blank, as though his mind simply couldn’t absorb the information. Then his lips parted, and the words came out halting and disbelieving.
“Wait… what?” But… I thought…”
His eyes darted between Snape and McGonagall, as though searching for some indication that this was an elaborate, cruel joke. But their expressions were grim and unwavering.
His voice dropped, almost a whisper, filled with tremulous confusion.
“Then— who… betrayed my parents? Which one…?”
Snape’s gaze hardened slightly, though his voice retained its matter-of-fact tone.
“Pettigrew. It was he who informed the Dark Lord of your family’s location.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. His breath came in shallow, quick gasps as the enormity of the revelation crashed down around him. His world, everything he had believed for the past two and a half years, was unravelling.
Sitting on his right, Hermione reached out hesitantly and wrapped her hand gently around his. Her brows were drawn in deep concern, her eyes glossy as though she, too, was struggling with the implications. She bit her lip but said nothing, giving Harry the space to process.
Harry swallowed hard, his voice breaking.
“But… all this time… everyone thought it was Black… he was my godfather… and…”
Words failed him, and he shook his head slightly, disbelief and grief mingling on his face.
Snape, his arms still crossed, gave a curt nod toward the folded Prophet.
“You may read the article yourself, Potter. It contains the details you are no doubt eager to know.”
Harry looked toward the newspaper, but his hands trembled too much to reach for it. Hermione, noticing, leaned forward and gently picked it up, unfolding it to reveal the front page of the special edition. Her expression remained tight, her brows furrowed as she scanned the headlines, her lips pressed into a thin line.
The silence in the room was broken only by the faint rustle of the newspaper as Hermione carefully turned the pages. I was finally able to read the front page: “SPECIAL NOON EDITION”, “ A Scandal for the Ages: Sirius Black, Wrongfully Imprisoned!” And an old smiling picture of Sirius before his imprisonment.
“The whole thing is about it,” she eventually said, casting her glance around before looking back at the articles. “It says that Peter Pettigrew was found alive last week. He’s confessed everything about framing Sirius Black and killing all these Muggles… The Ministry is moving to clear Sirius’ name. They’re asking him to come to the Ministry for an official review and possibly to receive a public apology.”
She swallowed hard, taking a moment to breathe before continuing, brows furrowing when she skipped to another article named “Rats in the Ranks: Peter Pettigrew Exposed as Illegal Animagus! ”
“Oh… It says… Pettigrew was handed over by… the Headmaster of Hogwarts—” Her voice faltered briefly as Harry’s head snapped up. “ —and he was found to be an unregistered Animagus. That explains how he managed to stay hidden for so long. He was at Hogwarts all this time? Ah, no, he was… Oh my… He was disguised as a pet. They haven’t named the owner to protect their anonymity.”
I let the tension leave my body. Dumbledore held his promise. What a relief!
“Oh, there’s a picture— he’s in his rat form! Skeeter must have snapped it through the Ministry’s windows or something; the quality is awful.”
Suddenly, she stopped talking and gasped, eyes widening. Harry perked up, curiosity overtaking his daze. He leaned in, peering at the photograph.
“Scabbers?”
My face lost all colour.
Hermione’s head jerked in my direction.
“Ron, is that Scabbers?”
My mouth opened, but no words came. I looked to Snape for support, wide eyes silently begging for help.
“Indeed. Mr. Weasley’s involvement was minimal. Both Professor Dumbledore and I swore him to secrecy under the threat of severe consequences. He had little choice in the matter.”
Hermione calmed down somewhat, but Harry’s face twisted in sudden fury. He shot me a venomous glare like I had never seen from him before.
“You knew?” he exploded. “You knew all this time, and you didn’t say anything? You let me think my godfather was a murderer! You let me believe he betrayed my parents!” His voice rose to a shout. “A whole week! You lied to me, to my face, for this whole week!”
My eyes shimmered, my cheeks burning in shame. I bit my cheeks and said nothing. There was nothing to say. The truth couldn’t be said, as it would be worse. So I took it, trembling in fear and guilt, as Harry’s voice rang through the room.
“You’re supposed to be my friend!” Harry shouted, voice cracking. “You’re supposed to have my back, not keep secrets from me!”
Without waiting for a response, Harry abruptly stormed off, slamming the door on his way.
“Harry— wait!” Hermione called, hesitating at the threshold. She turned back to me, guilt and conflicting emotions written across her face. “I— I’m sorry, Ron. But I can’t let him go alone.”
She turned and ran after Harry, her hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor until they faded away, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
I crumpled in my seat, raising a trembling hand to my face to hide my hot, silent tears.
Did I just lose my best friend?
Was that the price for changing the timeline and saving his godfather?
I felt someone sit down beside me, and a soft, firm hand squeezed my shoulder.
“Mr Weasley,” McGonagall said quietly, her voice low and comforting. “I don’t know exactly what happened with Pettigrew, or how you came to be involved. But whatever you did… You did the right thing. You saved Sirius Black’s life and righted a terrible wrong.”
My shoulders shook as I sobbed into my sleeve. McGonagall gave my shoulder another squeeze, then stood, brushing her robes into place.
“I need to take care of the returning students,” she murmured to Snape. “Please, take care of him.”
I didn’t hear any response from Snape, but McGonagall didn’t wait around for one and left the office. The door clicked shut behind her, and silence filled the office like a thick fog. I sniffled quietly, shoulders shaking, hand still stubbornly covering my face.
After some time, Snape let out a small, almost silent sigh. I heard him step aside and open a drawer. He put something on the edge of the desk. I looked between my bangs and fingers, only to see a soft cloth placed neatly, just within my reach. I pressed my lips together to withhold a sob.
“Compose yourself, Mr Weasley,” Snape said quietly, the familiar edge of his voice dulled. “You did what was necessary.”
My breath caught as I reached out to take the cloth. I scrubbed at my face, trying to stem the flow of tears. My eyes wouldn’t stop leaking fat, hot tears despite my effort to compose myself. I completely avoided looking at Snape; I couldn’t bear it. I felt too humiliated to show my face properly.
For a while, Snape didn’t speak. Then he shifted, leaning back against the desk, his arms loosely crossed again. His voice, when it came, was low and level. More introspective than intrusive.
“You were braver than anyone gives you credit for. Including Potter.”
I drew a shaky breath, clammy hands twisting the cloth between my fingers.
“You made a choice. One that most would have lacked the spine to make. And you did it alone, without expectations of recognition or reward. That, Mr. Weasley, is strength. Our kind of strength.”
My breath hitched, but not on a sob this time. My tears thankfully stopped, and I felt like I had just got back some semblance of control over my body.
“Now, pull yourself together. You are Slytherin. You know as well as I that we are measured not by our emotions, but by how we control them. You made the right move, even when it cost you, even when others failed to see the truth.”
I nodded automatically, hollowly, just by reflex.
“Take the time you need. But when you leave this room, you’ll hold your head high. You’ll show everyone and yourself that you don’t shatter under pressure. That is the Slytherin way. We endure. We overcome .”
For the first time since the blow-up, my breathing evened out. My hands steadied. Some occasional tears still fell, but far in between, less like an outpouring and more like a quiet release.
And all the while…
Snape stayed where he was.
Presence steady and unmoving.
Waiting until I was ready to face the world.
Hours later, I was moping alone in the common room when Snape appeared in the entrance, eyes scanning the shadows until they landed on me.
“Weasley. With me.”
Brusque, but not unfriendly. It piqued my curiosity, so I set my book aside on a coffee table, stood up, and hurried to follow.
“Your parents are there,” Snape warned me, voice low and crisp. “Your brother Percy recognised Scabbers from the newspaper and they’ve come for explanations.”
I groaned. Just what I needed. Another emotional confrontation. Great. Just great.
“Are they really upset?”
“They are rightfully worried.”
We walked in silence for a couple of staircases before Snape spoke again, business-like and sounding pressed for time.
“The Headmaster is still at the Ministry. Professor McGonagall will be handling this for now. Keep to a minimum of information. Do not mention the Map. Do not reveal that you witnessed the questioning. Let me speak where I can.”
I nodded dutifully. Then hesitated, as one point hadn’t been raised.
“If they ask, could you… Could you take the credit for figuring it out? About Scabbers being Peter?”
We arrived in the corridor leading to the Headmaster’s office. Snape didn’t reply until we stopped in front of the guarding gargoyle. He let out a slow, reluctant sigh.
“Yes, I’ll handle it,” he said curtly, but his tone held an undercurrent of understanding.
Snape murmured the password, and the spiral staircase rose to deliver us to the office. Inside, McGonagall stood behind the great desk, and seated on the other side were Mum, Dad and Percy, faces pale and drawn. A folded newspaper sat on Percy’s lap.
The moment I stepped into the room, Mum rushed to me, enveloping me in a tight hug, her arms shaking lightly. Dad followed, wrapping us both in his arms. When they released me, even Percy awkwardly stepped forward to embrace me.
“We’ve been asking Professor McGonagall how all this happened, but she doesn’t have the details. Apparently, only Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and you know what occurred, son.”
We all took seats around the room. Mum kept me tucked against her side as if she might shield me from invisible harm. Percy sat stiffly, eyes downcast, guilt written in every line of his face. Dad looked at Snape and asked him to explain what happened.
Leaning against the desk, arms crossed and voice clipped, Snape answered:
“The investigation is ongoing. We cannot disclose all the details at this time. However, it was discovered that your son’s pet was, in fact, Peter Pettigrew. He was apprehended, and Professor Dumbledore turned him over to the proper authorities.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. Percy’s face flushed crimson, and his voice cracked as he spoke next.
“Ron— I’m sorry. I— I gave you Scabbers. I thought he was just a rat. Had I known…”
“I know, Perce. There’s no need to apologise. No one could have known.”
“Of course not,” Mum retorted, voice going up in anger and upset. “A grown man—living with my son. This is the second time one of my children has been targeted. First Ginny with that cursed Diary—and now this.”
She clutched me tighter, as if willing to fuse us together so that I would never again be out of her sight.
“Pettigrew confessed that he had no intention of harming your son,” Snape cut in firmly to stop the coming hysterics.
Mum and Dad exchanged troubled glances.
“That doesn’t make it sound less horrifying,” Dad commented quietly.
“All the same,” Mum added, her voice tightening with protective fury. “Hogwarts must do something to prevent anything like this from happening again. How will the school ensure our children’s safety after this?”
McGonagall, ever diplomatic, gave a measured reply.
“We will be reviewing all security protocols. The matter of unregistered Animagi will be thoroughly addressed. However, we must be cautious not to disrupt the school’s normal operations or to cause undue alarm among the students. I assure you, we are treating this with the utmost seriousness.”
There, I saw my chance to ask something that I had been thinking about since Pettigrew’s questioning.
“Maybe I should just learn the spell that forced Animagi back to human form. Then I could—”
“The Homorphus Charm is beyond your skill level at this stage,” McGonagall interrupted. “That spell is advanced, dangerous and imprecise without years of training in Transfiguration. It is not suitable for a third year.”
My face fell a little. Worth a shot.
“However,” Snape intervened smoothly. “There is something more within his grapes. The Revealing Charm. It’s subtler, less demanding, and if performed correctly, it can reveal whether an animal is an Animagus in disguise.”
“This sounds like a very good idea,” Dad said. “We’ll all feel better if Ron has some way to make sure no one else can pull something like this.”
“Yes,” Mum agreed, voice still trembling a bit. “If this can help Ron feel safer, then of course. He’s been through enough.”
Everyone looked satisfied with Snape’s suggestion. McGonagall, however, was not. She hesitated, lips pressed together.
“Severus, I’m not sure this is wise. We don’t want to encourage Ronald to see threats where there are none. This might do more harm than good, feeding into his anxiety—”
“Paranoia is dangerous,” Snape interrupted, cutting through her words. He levelled a calm, steady gaze at her. “But controlled awareness? That’s the Slytherin way. I’ll teach him the means to know .”
McGonagall exhaled through her nose. After a beat, she inclined her head, reluctant but accepting.
“Very well. I suppose you are right. And, even if I weren’t convinced, as Ronald’s Head of House, the decision is yours to make. You have his parents’ consent, and I can’t override that.”
Mum and Dad exchanged grateful glances with Snape, their expressions softening with gratitude.
“Thank you,” Dad said in a low tone. “Thank you for looking out for Ron again.”
Percy, who had remained quiet through most of the discussion, spoke up and asked permission to go back home briefly to get his trunk and to come back and stay at Hogwarts.
“I… I just want to keep an eye on him,” he admitted.
Mum’s eyes glistened as she convinced McGonagall to accept. It wasn’t very hard to persuade her, and Percy took the Floo again. While he was away preparing his trunk, Mum and Dad gave me one last fierce hug, whispering loving words in my ear and telling me to be good and listen to Snape.
Then, they turned to Snape and each shook his hand, murmuring gratitude for “saving Ron again” and telling Snape how happy they were that Ron had such a great Head of House. Snape accepted the thanks and praise with the little amount of grace he possessed.
Standing behind my parents and in Snape’s direct line of sight, I tried valiantly to cover my amused grin at Snape’s discomfort. Unfortunately, he saw me.
Whoops.
Later that evening, Percy and I sat close together in the empty Library, books and notes spread out before us, quills scratching.
“... and honestly, I don’t know what Potter is playing at,” Percy was saying, his voice low and tinged with disdain. “Avoiding you like this because you kept quiet? Ridiculous. Properly absurd. You did the right thing, Ronald. You followed the proper channels, respected the Headmaster’s authority, and you didn’t go blabbing to anyone. That is exactly what you should have done… I am quite proud of you.”
My heart missed a beat. I glanced up, startled by Percy’s admission.
“You are?”
There, he looked momentarily uncomfortable, as though admitting this had cost him some carefully maintained image. He straightened his glasses.
“Of course. It shows integrity and loyalty. This is what makes a person trustworthy. You were doing your duty, plain and simple. You stood by your word, and in the end, you helped bring a dangerous criminal to justice. That’s admirable.”
Warmth rose in my chest. Percy’s genuine pride and protectiveness made me feel… safer, in some way. Confident. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe our relationship would heal, that Percy might truly forgive me for our dispute and my past mistake.
That thought brought a smile to my face. Percy blushed and returned to his book on Animagi.
I returned to Snape’s list of reading material in anticipation of our private lessons that would begin this Tuesday, at the same time as our past tutoring sessions. I smiled at the parchment like an idiot for a few minutes, following the sharp letters scribbled by Snape.
I felt happy for a moment.
“You know,” Percy suddenly said à-propos of nothing. “I heard rumours last term about Snape tutoring you. What is true? And what was that about?”
“He was teaching Harry and me the Patronus Charm. In case— well, in case Harry got attacked by dementors again.”
Percy’s eyes widened, and his expression turned into one of awe.
“That’s advanced magic. How far along are you?”
“I’ve mastered it.”
Percy’s eyes bugged out.
“You’re in third year and you already know how to cast a Patronus? That’s impressive, Ron. Impressive! In a few years, you might even be able to cast a corporeal one!”
I flushed.
Ah.
“That’s what I meant by ‘mastering it,’” I said, face burning. “It’s already corporeal.”
He made a strangled, inelegant sound, then eagerly asked to see it. I hesitated, but I didn’t want to disappoint him, so I drew my wand out of my pocket and focused. Once my mind was ready, I murmured the incantation.
A bright, silvery form burst from the tip of my wand. The goose Patronus flapped its wings in the dim light, illuminating our table with a soft glow. At first, Percy seemed awed, then, when he recognised what kind of bird it was, his expression turned to bemusement.
“A goose? Why a goose?”
I shrugged, a playful twinkle in my eye. I leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper:
“Because I’m no chicken !”
Percy let out an unexpected, startled laugh, loud enough to echo in the empty Library. He quickly covered his mouth, eyes crinkling with amusement.
“I suppose that’s true.”
There was no mistaking the fondness in his voice. I grinned wider, feeling for the first time in a long time that things might, just might, always find a way to mend themselves.
I hoped so anyway.
Chapter 28: BOOK THREE - TUTORING IN PARANOIA
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TUTORING IN PARANOIA
The first week of term was awful. Harry was avoiding me, and even though Hermione understood and accepted what I did, she still stood by Harry, leaving me alone and lonely. This happened in every class shared with Gryffindor, and in those that weren’t, Harry had either taken to sitting with Theodore, Blaise, or by himself. Anything but me, then.
By Thursday, my patience was fraying. Malfoy, that shark, had smelled a wound, and at every opportunity, he pounced on it, mocking me for being a reject and a loner. It was hard and awful, and I hated Malfoy.
For this reason, I stood as far from him as I could during our class on Care of Magical Creatures.
“Right, let’s keep them warm, yeah? More wood an’ dry leaves!” Hagrid called out with his usual enthusiasm.
People were having fun, gathering kindling and leaves to feed the massive bonfire Hagrid had made for a dozen salamanders. Harry and Hermione were off to one side, chuckling with each other, backs turned to me. Coincidence or voluntary sign, it still twisted my stomach painfully.
As students were busy caring for the salamanders, Hagrid ambled over to me and crouched down to my level, his massive hand gentle on my shoulder.
“What’s this now? Why aren’t yeh with Harry and Hermione?”
I stared at the ground, cheeks burning with shame.
“We had a fight. That’s all. Harry’s mad at me. And, well… I deserve it.”
I kicked at the dirt, eyes staring absently at the ground.
“Now, now. Yeh’re a good lad, Ron. Friends fall out sometimes, ‘specially when there’s a lotta stress ‘bout. I’ll have a word with Harry, see if I can knock some sense inter ‘im. He’s got a good heart, tha’ one. I’m sure he’ll come round.”
I gave a shaky nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
Before Hagrid stood, he gave my shoulder another light squeeze.
“Oh, an’ don’t try to pet the salamanders. I know yeh, Ron. They’re fiery little things and don’t take kindly to cuddlin’.”
That, finally, dragged a small snort of laughter from me.
“You know me too well, Hagrid. I’ll keep my sweet lovin’ to myself this time.”
Hagrid lumbered away laughing, and I felt a flicker of warmth. The first time I’d felt all day.
Obviously, Hagrid’s talk had no effect. The day after that, when Trelawney instructed the students to form groups, I found myself abandoned. Harry quickly joined Theodore and Blaise, leaving me to stand awkwardly. I glanced around the room and hesitantly approached Parkinson and Greengrass.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
They looked me up and down, exchanging glances. Then, they both burst out laughing.
“As if!” Parkinson sneered.
Face burning in humiliation, I turned away and forced my feet to walk up to Bullstrode and Davis. I lowered my voice and asked if I could join them. My guts twisted when they did the exact same thing and looked me up and down before exchanging a glance. They didn’t laugh, just shrugged and said “Sure”. Relieved, I quickly sat down at their round table.
However, I rapidly found out why they accepted, as they began bombarding me with whispered questions about the Pettigrew’s case. I remained vague and provided only a few answers. But at some point, Milicent asked something that gave me pause.
“There are rumours… that Potter is the mysterious informant who found Pettigrew and handed him over to the Ministry. Is that true?”
I blinked owlishly, taken aback by how twisted the rumour had become. I hadn’t realised that Harry was now the central hero of the story. Perhaps that explained why Harry still refused to speak to me if he was constantly questioned about the case and his potential involvement.
I decided that, without more information, the best course of action was to lie and deny simply.
“I don’t know anything. Harry and I aren’t on speaking terms right now.”
The girls’ faces fell, disappointed.
“Oh,” Tracey muttered. “Useless for gossip then.”
Milicent nodded in agreement, and they turned their attention back to each other, leaving me feeling invisible and relieved as Trelawney’s high, dreamy voice filled the air, lecturing about palmistry. She droned on for over an hour, explaining the theory behind palm reading and the meaning of the lines on each hand while some students struggled to stay awake.
Finally, she clapped her hands, waking up a couple of students.
“Now, class, it is time to practice what you’ve learned. Pansy, could you be a dear and distribute the worksheets? Today, you will read your partner’s non-dominant hand.”
Parkinson stalked down the rows, handing out sheets. I looked at mine with curiosity and preemptively noted Tracey’s name on the dotted line at the very top. Then I watched as Tracey was the first to try a reading. She took Milicent’s hand and began reading it, flipping through the textbook for guidance.
“Your life line is strong… and, um, you have a forked fate line,” she said, scribbling details onto the worksheet.
I liked it very much and listened with rapt attention, all loneliness forgotten. When Tracey finished, it was Milicent’s turn to read my hand. She sighed and reached out reluctantly, but instead of grasping it, she hovered her hand above mine, pointing at my first line from a distance.
As though I had cooties.
I found it childish but didn’t say so out loud.
“Your Head line is curved… So that means that your mind is… let’s see. Leaning toward creativity with a vivid imagination. It’s separated from your life line, so you have enthusiasm for life.”
She scribbled it on the label.
“Your Heart line is sort of swooping upward? So that would mean… Hmm, that you’re sensitive and emotional. But it’s also very long, so that means commitment.”
“How cute,” Tracey commented with a smirk.
Milicent ignored the comment, writing the information with a focused expression.
“Your Fate line is very long, again. So, you have a mission or a strong sense of purpose. And it begins at the bottom of your palm, meaning… You discover your path early in life.”
“Lucky,” Tracey commented again.
“Trace, I’m trying to focus.”
Tracey shut it, letting Millicent fill her worksheet in silence.
“Your Sun line is broken. So you’ll face hurdles.”
Tracey looked about to comment again, certainly something like “How unfortunate” or some other sarcasm.
“And last, your Life line. It’s curvy, too. So plenty of energy.”
She put her finishing touch on her worksheet with a flourish.
“There,” she said, giving it to me. “Your very own destiny.”
So cool.
I sat alone in the tutoring classroom, my books and notes spread neatly across the desk. I absently tapped my quill against the parchment, glancing up at the door every now and then. Snape wasn’t there yet.
My mind drifted back to earlier that day, after Defence Against the Dark Arts. I’d been walking a few paces behind Harry and Hermione, just out of their line of sight, when I’d caught snippets of their conversation. They were talking in hushed voices about Lupin, about how pale and sickly he looked. Hermione had commented that he was probably still in shock after everything with Pettigrew and Sirius and that it couldn’t be helping with his illness.
“He’s getting worse,” Hermione had whispered. “Have you noticed how often he’s absent?”
Remembering those words, I was wondering if Hermione was close to figuring it out. Did she see the pattern yet? I wasn’t sure. Would she pick up on the fact that Lupin’s absences happened every full moon? Was there something else that could clue her in? The thought of Hermione’s sharp mind working it all out by herself impressed me.
And also made me feel a little inadequate compared to her.
The classroom swung open with a loud creak, interrupting my musings. Snape swept in, robes billowing, and he didn’t bother with greetings.
“Summarise the key principles behind the Revealing Charm.”
Right to business. I liked it very much.
“The Revealing Charm is used to expose hidden writing or concealments. It works by dispelling simple enchantments or revealing hidden ink or magical script. The wand movement is an upward flick.”
Snape gave a curt nod, moving on without pause.
“Name the properties of the potion used to reveal if an animal is an Animagus.”
That, of course, was the part I had learnt by heart because an error on a question about potions in particular was a sure way to get in trouble with Snape.
“The potion reacts to the animal’s innate magical signature. It contains powdered bicorn horn and mistletoe essence to interact with Animagus magic, and it causes a brief shimmer around the animal or changes the colour of its eyes if the animal is truly a transformed wizard or witch.”
Snape dropped a heavy pile of essays onto the teacher’s desk with a dull thud. Without a word, he placed a second pile —this one of blank parchment— right in front of me.
“Today, you’ll practice the Revealing Charm on these. Each parchment has a concealed message hidden under different simple enchantments. You are not permitted to leave this room until you’ve lifted every concealment.”
He sat at his desk, pulled out his quill, and set to work grading essays.
I was completely caught off guard. I glanced at the pile in front of me, then pushed my books and notes aside to clear some space for practice. Drawing my wand, I stared at the first sheet of parchment, took a deep breath, and cast the spell. A faint shimmer of letters appeared briefly. One or two words that disappeared again before I could read them.
I had the distinct feeling that I would be stuck in this room for a very long time.
Determined, I began the slow, painstaking work, one line of text at a time. Each parchment seemed to fight back, resisting the spell’s pull. And just like Snape said, each parchment had another spell used on it to conceal the text, so it felt like I kept stepping back two steps when I began a new sheet.
Still, I was determined. The magic was fascinating, and I couldn’t help but imagine how useful it would be in real life.
Time lost all meaning as I repeated the spell over and over again. I worked steadily through the pile, parchment after parchment. My back ached from leaning forward. My hand cramped from gripping my wand. My growing bangs kept falling into my eyes. But I was so focused that I hardly noticed.
Finally, after what was probably hours, I lifted the last concealment on the final parchment. I let out a quiet breath of relief and looked up. Snape hadn’t moved from his desk, still focused on his stack of essays. I cleared my throat.
“I’m done.”
He barely glanced at the parchments, now fully covered in neat lines of revealed text. Instead, he gathered his graded essays into a tidy stack and added the to-be-graded ones.
“I fully expect you to have read and understood all the parchments before our next session,” he said, his tone even and unimpressed. “Now, curfew was ten minutes ago. I will escort you to your common room.”
I blinked. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been working. Heart racing, I scrambled to collect all my things into a pile and followed Snape out of the room.
It was the first Saturday of term, and the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw match had drawn nearly everyone to the stands. I found a seat high up in the middle, my eyes scanning the field as I worried more about Harry and the potential appearance of Dementors —that the Ministry still hadn’t come to collect— than the actual match.
A sudden weight next to me made me glance up. Hermione had settled into the seat beside mine, her cheeks flushed from climbing the stands. She offered me a hesitant smile.
“Thought I’d sit here. Too noisy with the Gryffindors.”
I nodded, grateful for the company.
We tried to discuss Harry, his anger toward me, and what might be going through his mind, but the noise of the crowd made it impossible to have a proper conversation. Every few minutes, the stands erupted in cheers or groans as the Chasers fought for control of the Quaffle.
Eventually, we gave up trying to talk and just watched the match together, side by side.
Slytherin’s team played hard, like always, their green robes flashing in the sunlight as they dodged Ravenclaw’s attempts to intercept. Cho Chang was graceful on her broom, but like the commenters said, “her Comet Two Sixty was no match for a Firebolt”. Lee Jordan’s commentary kept focusing on the broom, to McGonagall’s exasperation.
It was a tense, close match. In the end, Slytherin scraped a narrow victory, only ten points ahead. As Harry caught the Snitch and the whistle blew, the Slytherin stands erupted into cheers.
Hermione turned to me, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Well, at least that can only lift Harry’s mood. Maybe he’ll calm down now.”
I nodded woodenly. Maybe… Hopefully.
During the post-match celebration in the common room, Harry didn’t even look in my direction once.
The Dementors finally left Hogwarts and Hogsmeade grounds the very next day.
At least there’s that.
My essay on undetectable poisons for Potions class looked like a battlefield. The third question was giving me a headache, but I was determined not to give up. Well, at last until the Library closed for the night.
Halfway through scribbling a line about volatile interactions between two rare herbs, a familiar figure slid into the chair beside me. Hermione set down her bag and gave me a quick glance, then her eyes dropped to my essay.
“Oh, you’re working on that one,” she murmured, pulling out her parchment and books. “It’s nasty, isn’t it?”
Still in the zone, I gave a small grunt of agreement, too tired to voice more. She settled into her work, and soon, we were suffering side by side in companionable silence. Occasionally, one of us would mumble a reference or hand the other a book, but we didn’t speak much.
Despite the headache, it was a peaceful, almost calming experience.
After what felt like forever, Hermione sat back and dried her essay with a satisfied sigh. “Done,” she announced quietly with a triumphant smile on her face.
I groaned, stretching out my cramped hand.
“That’s not fair. You started after me!”
She shrugged, smug but not unkind. I scowled down at my parchment, tapping the end of my quill against the table.
“That third question is going to kill me.”
“Third question? There are only two questions for this essay.”
“No, there’s three. Look—”
She scanned my sheet, her puzzled expression shifting into surprise and then into a mix of envy and annoyance.
“Whenever I ask for extra credit, he always says no. But he gives it to you? That’s unfair!”
“I didn’t ask for extra credit. Or at least I don’t think so… Is it possible to ask for extra credit without knowing it?”
Hermione huffed in amusement.
“No, Ron, you can’t ask without knowing it. But then, why would he give you an extra question?”
I hummed. Maybe…
“Maybe it’s part of the tutoring…”
“Tutoring? What tutoring?”
Right. She didn’t know.
“Snape is teaching me how to lift concealment spells. It can be used to detect hidden Animagi.”
“Oh… I… didn’t know you asked for that.”
I scratched the back of my neck, feeling awkward.
“Just in case. You know. After Pettigrew…”
Hermione’s face softened. She set her quill down.
“I never asked you how you felt about Scabbers turning out to be Pettigrew… You must feel betrayed, too. I mean, he was your pet… If Crookshanks suddenly turned out to be a person, I would probably…”
I opened my mouth to say something, but I didn’t know what to tell her. I’d always known that Scabbers was Pettigrew, and thus, I never got attached. However, I couldn’t tell her that. Instead, I glanced at my half-finished essay.
“I really need to finish this tonight,” I said lamely. “Can we talk about it later?”
“Sure,” she murmured, pulling out her Arithmancy textbook and beginning to flip through pages of numbers.
With her attention back on her work, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the third question again. Why was it there? It was strange. I was pretty sure I hadn’t asked for extra credit. The only additional learning I had requested was tutoring on the revealing charm.
Hum.
My brow furrowed, and on a sudden hunch, I whispered the Revealing Charm and traced my wand along the parchment.
Lines shimmered, and a fourth question appeared at the very bottom of the page.
I let my head thud against the table with a groan.
Even more work.
Damn.
Three days later, I was back in the tutoring classroom, seated at the same desk where I had been the week before. My books and notes were neatly stacked in front of me, though my wand rested idly in my hand.
That morning, when Snape collected our essays during Potions, he’d barely glanced at the parchment before his gaze landed on mine. He’d given a single, approving nod. Nothing more, but it had made me feel light with pride.
Now, I found myself thinking about it as I sat waiting. Since that nod, I’d gotten into the mindset of casting the Revealing Charm on nearly everything in sight: parchments, the inside covers of books, and even the underside of desks. The only thing I’d ever managed to reveal was a crude message carved into the wood of a desk in Charms, something so vulgar it made me snort.
The classroom door creaked open, and Snape swept in. He moved toward the front of the room, carrying his usual stack of homework to grade. Before he could give his customary abrupt instructions, I cleared my throat and spoke up.
“Sir?”
Snape raised a brow, waiting.
“About the potion essay… The third and fourth questions… Were they… extra credit, or…?”
“You will discover,” he said, setting his papers down with a soft thump, “that extra questions serve more than one purpose, Mr Weasley. Not all knowledge is acquired for the sake of points and grades. You are here to learn, and it seems you are beginning to grasp that. Now, begin.”
I blinked, completely lost and perplexed.
“Begin…? But you didn’t give me any worksheets…”
Snape gave me a long look, then answered in a silky voice that gave me shivers I firmly ignored.
“You won’t need worksheets for this lesson. You have this session and the next, until curfew, to succeed in your task. If you fail, you will write a twenty-inch essay on what you could have done better to succeed. Now, begin .”
I scrambled out of my chair, looking around the room in confusion. I turned on the spot, trying to spot some clue, anything. But there was nothing obvious, no parchment, no instructions on the board. With a resigned huff, I made my way back to my desk and drew my wand, casting the Revealing Charm on every one of its surfaces.
I finally revealed a word on the edge of it: “goose”.
I straightened up, a flicker of understanding drawing on me with terrible clarity.
“How many do I have to find?” I asked, trying for casualness, but my horror bled through.
Snape didn’t even deign to look up from his grading.
“You will find the answer to that question yourself, or you will write the essay. Those are your options.”
I sighed but couldn’t help feeling a thrill. It was like being in a human-sized puzzle or one of those escape rooms I never had the chance to try. Still, the threat of that essay kept me focused.
I moved to the next desk, and when that turned up nothing, I moved to the next. And then the next. I continued, pacing around the room, systematically using the Revealing Charm on every surface. Each desk, each chair, even the legs of the tables. It was long and tedious work, especially since my charm wasn’t yet strong enough to cover large areas in one go, meaning I had to scan objects in sections.
Another word appeared on the leg of a desk: “weasel”. I scowled first, then grinned. More than nerve-wracking, it was oddly fun.
By the time I uncovered a third word —“Ronald”— I felt a surge of triumph. But as I stood staring at Snape’s imposing desk, I hesitated. Could I risk it? Bothering him to cast a Revealing Charm on his desk felt like asking for trouble. My hand hovered for a moment before I lost my nerve and turned to check the blackboard and the various maps on the walls instead.
Before I could finish the last Map, Snape’s voice cut through the silence.
“That will be all for today.”
I straightened up, disappointed that the session was already over. I was very curious about the places I had yet to check. Unfortunately, it would have to wait for next week, I thought as I gathered my things and Snape swept his papers into a stack.
Without another word, he gestured for me to follow. We left the classroom, his stride long and silent down the empty and dark corridors.
As we walked, I commented dryly:
“You’re developing my paranoia.”
Snape’s lips curled into the faintest of smirks.
“Just as planned”, he deadpanned.
I snorted and stared at him sideways.
“Just like McGonagall said, she feared. Said it was bad for me.”
He simply arched a brow, not breaking his stride.
“And are you going to tell her?”
“No.”
We reached the entrance to the common room passage. Snape stopped, his black eyes glinting in the dim torchlight.
“Keep your eyes open, Mr Weasley.”
He turned, his robes fluttering behind him as he walked down the corridor, leaving me standing there.
I leaned against the wall for a moment, watching him go and thinking that Snape was kind of channelling his inner Moody’s “Constant Vigilance”. In a less shouting way, but no less effective.
Somehow, word had gotten out. Malfoy had heard—or perhaps guessed—that I was having private lessons with Snape. It had become a thing. The next few days were sheer misery. Malfoy seized every opportunity to mock me, crowing about me being the “teacher’s pet”, sneering and jeering and elbowing me into walls between classes. Crabbe and Goyle guffawed at every insult, pushing me around like I was a first-year. Without Harry and Hermione nearby, I felt terribly alone.
Each jab sank deeper.
On Monday morning, I yawned as I sat up in my bed, rubbing at my tired eyes. Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy were already awake and practically rolling on the floor with laughter. Their voices echoed with amusement, though I couldn’t catch what was so funny.
Used to their antics, I ignored them. I yawned again, dragged myself out of bed and dressed slowly, my mind half-occupied with my Ancient Runes flashcards. I absent-mindedly brushed my teeth, eyes glued to my flashcards, as I muttered translations and symbols to myself.
Once ready, I swung my satchel over my shoulder, still focused on memorising the intricate runes. The others were still cackling like mad hyenas, but I refused to rise to the bait. I left the dormitory without a word.
The Slytherin common room was unusually lively that morning, full of people chattering and smirking. I didn’t stop to see what was going on, simply not interested while I was too preoccupied with my flashcards. I mumbled the names of the runes under my breath as I climbed the stairs to the dungeons and made my way to the Entrance Hall.
As I crossed into the Great Hall, heading for a nice breakfast, I was suddenly yanked sideways. Strong hands grabbed my arms and pulled me out of the Hall with an almost violent force.
“Oi—! What the—? Let go of me!” I protested, struggling.
“Ron! Calm down— it’s me!”
Harry’s voice was urgent, his face angry and worried.
“Harry? Hey, what’s going on? What are you doing?”
“How the bloody hell didn’t you look at yourself in the mirror this morning?!” Harry’s voice was sharp with disbelief.
Confused and beginning to dread something awful, I wrenched free and bolted to the nearest bathroom. I shoved open the door and ran to the mirror above the sink.
My breath caught. I stared, mouth open in shock and outrage.
There, scrawled in large, bold letters across my forehead, were the words “TEACHER’S PET”.
“Holy shit! Fuck—how many people saw me like this?!”
I splashed water on my face, scrubbing my skin with my nails. The words stayed.
“You were walking through the whole Entrance Hall,” Harry said grimly. “Probably everyone .”
I felt a wave of mortification crash over me. I gripped the sink in a death grip.
“What do I do? What do I do?” I shrieked frantically, glancing back at Harry with wide, horrified eyes.
Harry hesitated, glancing toward the door.
“I can tell Snape you’re sick, and you can go to the Hospital Wing to get it removed–”
“I can’t miss the Potions test! It’s today— first thing!”
“Then go to the Hospital Wing during Transfiguration?” Harry replied, biting his lip, torn.
I stared at my reflection, face red with shame. I clenched my fists.
“I don’t see another way,” I muttered bitterly.
I swore under my breath, running my hands through my hair in frustration.
“Wait,” Harry said. “Your hair has gotten pretty long since summer. Maybe if you pull your bangs forward… You can cover it.”
I gave him a desperate look, and Harry guided me to adjust my fringe, smoothing it down to cover as much of the graffiti as possible. We worked quickly, with Harry checking from different angles.
Finally, I looked back at the mirror. The bold letters were mostly hidden, though faint outlines peeked out near my temples.
“Just… just keep your head still and don’t move too much,” Harry advised, trying for an encouraging tone.
“I’m going to die of embarrassment.”
The door of the Potions classroom loomed ahead. Harry and I rushed in just in time as Snape’s black-clad figure stepped forward to close it. His dark eyes flashed with cold disdain, and he paused, lips curling in his familiar sneer.
“Cutting it rather close, aren’t we, gentlemen?” he drawled, his tone sharp as a whip.
I swallowed, cheeks burning with residual panic, while Harry muttered an apology. We hurried to our seats. Harry joined Hermione, whose brows furrowed in worry but who wisely said nothing. I slumped into my seat next to Neville, who offered a nervous, fleeting smile.
Snape flicked his wand at the blackboard, the chalk dancing to form neat instructions.
Antidote to Uncommon Poisons. Time limit: one hour.
The room fell into a tense hush as students scrambled to begin.
I did my best at focusing. I gathered my ingredients from the student’s cupboard with methodical care. Back at my station, I lit the flame under my cauldron and began preparing my ingredients, trembling fingers becoming steadier at each practised movement.
I crushed the billywig sting with my mortar and pestle, its fine powder glowing faintly. Then, donning my dragon-hide gloves, I tackled the chizpurfle carapace, hitting it with firm, precise strikes. I was extra cautious after seeing Neville’s piece fly off the table and clatter noisily across the floor.
Fire seed next. The heat from the cauldron and the fire seed made sweat beads on my forehead. I wiped it away with a sleeve. I smoothed back my bangs at my best, but there wasn’t time to do more. The clock ticked mercilessly onward.
My brewing took over again, the rhythmic stirring calming my nerves. Clockwise, counter-clockwise, one ingredient, then another. The potion boiled, then simmered, and boiled again, its colour gradually morphing into a vivid neon green that shone with eerie brilliance despite the base ingredients of orange, blue, and brown.
Go figure.
I allowed myself a flicker of satisfaction. Then I ladled a sample into a glass vial, labelled it carefully with my name, and finally dared a glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes left.
I took a deep, calming breath, relieved to have succeeded. Glancing around, I noted Neville’s potion was a murky brown, definitely a fail. Hermione’s potion was, of course, perfect. Harry’s was coming along nicely, its hue nearing the right shade.
I let myself relax for a heartbeat until my skin prickled under the weight of an intense stare. My gaze jerked forward to meet Snape’s.
The Potions master was watching me with an expression I rarely saw on his face— widened eyes as though he were genuinely startled.
Realisation crashed into me. The words.
My hand shot up to my forehead, trying to brush my sweaty bangs back into place, but without a mirror, I couldn’t tell if the damage was already done. My face burned red as I slumped in my seat, wishing I could disappear.
For the remaining fifteen minutes, I brooded silently, turning my sample absentmindedly between my fingers.
Finally, Snape’s clipped voice cut through the room.
“Time’s up. Bottles on my desk.”
Chairs scraped as students carried their vials forward. I did the same, my movements shaky and reluctant. As I placed my potion sample on Snape’s desk, the professor’s voice, low and firm, reached my ears.
“Stay after class.”
I gave a tiny nod, my heart sinking even lower.
When the bell rang, the other students bustled out of the classroom in a flurry of chatter and scraping chairs, but I remained seated, silent at my workstation. My hands were clenched on my lap, my shoulders slightly hunched.
Snape remained still for a moment, waiting for the noise to die down, then stepped forward and shut the door with a decisive click. He turned to face me, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of irritation and something more thoughtful.
“Weasley. What, precisely, possessed you to enter my classroom in that state?”
I flinched, slightly ashamed and hating to be scolded for something I hadn’t asked for and was actively enduring. Frustration took over my embarrassment.
“I tried to fix it before class, but it didn’t work. I planned on going to the infirmary after your class, as you don’t allow make-up exams, sir. ”
“Watch your tone with me, Weasley,” Snape replied in a dangerously low voice.
I bit the inside of my cheeks to avoid worsening my case. Then, with a circle of his wand and a muttered incantation, Snape erased the hateful words from my skin, leaving it clear once more.
“Thank you, sir. What was that spell?”
“A counter-charm specifically for hexed ink. Hardly advanced magic. But one you should endeavour to learn if you insist on making yourself a target. This sort of childish trap should not have ensnared you. You have potential more than you give yourself credit for, and I expect you to anticipate their tactics and protect yourself accordingly. Use your head and keep your guard up.”
Once more with blaming me for a situation I had no control over. I glared at the tabletop instead of Snape. I knew how he was, and despite his harsh words, he did help me without me having to even ask. Also, my mounting anger slowly but surely replaced my embarrassment, which I highly preferred.
“Who hexed you?”
I was not going to give a name when I planned to seek revenge in a definitely not school-approved way.
“I have a pretty good suspicion, but I can’t prove it.”
Malfoy was a little cunt, and he was going to pay.
“Then do not act on suspicion alone,” Snape advised me. “You are in Slytherin; you should know better than to confront anyone without evidence. Keep your distance. Watch. When you are certain, then act with precision.”
Huh. Usually, Snape told me not to act without alerting him or other proper authorities. Was he giving me his blessing for seeking revenge, or was I simply hearing what I wanted to hear?
“Do not let them see you flinch, Weasley. They thrive on reaction. You are capable of better.”
Again with people telling me the obvious. I knew they did it for a reaction. That was the whole point of willingly hurting someone.
“Yes, sir,” I said, dutifully respectful and keeping my face straight, hiding my not-so-tasty thoughts. “I need to go to Transfiguration.”
Snape inclined his head.
“Go. And if this happens again, I’ll expect you to handle it before stepping foot in my classroom again.”
“Yes, sir.”
I gathered my things and, with a final mumbled thanks, slipped out of the classroom. Outside, Harry was leaning against the wall, his face pale and anxious. When he saw me emerge, he straightened up, his arms crossed, but his stance was less confrontational than I had seen in a long time. He glanced briefly at my face and gave a slight nod.
“He got rid of it?”
“Yeah,” I replied, pushing my fringe aside to show him my spotless forehead. “Thank you for pulling me out before more people saw.”
My anger only slightly abated, but I did my best to focus on Harry instead. This incident shifted our dynamic. I couldn’t afford to miss this overture Harry was giving me. Malfoy and his cronies could wait.
We hurriedly started down the corridor toward the Transfiguration classroom, our steps slightly out of sync. The silence between us was far from comfortable, and it felt fragile, like a truce we both wanted to test but were afraid to speak aloud.
“Look,” Harry said after clearing his throat loudly. “About… about us. Just, I think we should talk about it… Later.”
“I’ll be here whenever you want me to,” I answered truthfully.
Harry nodded, and we spent the rest of the way in silence before reaching the corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom, where our classmates were already beginning to file in.
As we entered the classroom together, side by side, the fragile truce between us held, thin as parchment, but enough for now.
Chapter 29: INTERLUDE III
Summary:
The fallout of Ron handing Pettigrew over. Teachers, friends and family alike.
Notes:
Since the arc about Pettigrew is crucial for the rest of the story, it gets its own interlude.
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE III
Chapter Twenty-Three
26 December 1993
The dungeons were blessedly silent.
The cauldrons on his shelf stood cold and still. The potion fumes from earlier had long since dissipated, replaced by the damp chill of stone and the faint scent of ash from the fireplace. Severus Snape sat alone in his armchair, robes discarded and slung over the back of his desk chair, cravat loosened. The bottle of scotch on the low table before him sat untouched, though his glass was full.
He hadn’t moved since pouring it.
The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Somewhere above, footsteps echoed faintly as the castle settled in for the evening. But in Snape’s office, the only thing alive was the quiet weight of his thoughts.
Pettigrew.
The name alone filled him with a rancid mix of nausea and vindication.
That disgusting little coward had scurried under their noses for years— his nose. Hidden in plain sight as a family’s beloved pet. The Ministry would foam at the mouth when they learned. The Prophet would spin. Fudge would choke on his own public narrative. But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that Sirius Black was— is —innocent.
He would be cleared.
Snape’s fingers tightened around the armrest. He stared into the flames as though he could will them to burn away the bile rising in his throat.
He hated it. Hated every inch of it.
Sirius Black. Free. Pardoned. Pitied. Welcomed back into wizarding society as a wronged man, draped in the glamour of survival and the tragic poetry of betrayal. He would be embraced. Celebrated. Heroised.
Snape could already hear the applause.
And still—he had given Pettigrew to Dumbledore.
He’d handed the evidence over without hesitation, signed the boy’s credibility with his presence, and offered Veritaserum to bolster the truth. Because truth mattered damn it. Because he’d known, the moment the words left Ron’s mouth— “Scabbers is Peter Pettigrew” —that this was not something he could bury. Not even for the chance to silence Black forever.
It should have been easy.
Let the Map disappear. Obliviate the boy. Destroy the rat. Tie up the loose ends and let Black die alone and hunted.
But when Ron had stood there, so steady, so composed, his hands clenched, trusting him —it hadn’t been easy at all.
And then—just for an instant—Snape had looked into the boy’s eyes and seen it.
“Will he betray me?”
The thought had been faint, flickering like a match in the dark, but it struck him like a slap. Not because it was cruel—but because it was honest. Raw. The boy wasn’t manipulating him. He was preparing himself for disappointment. Preparing to be hurt. Snape had felt that once. Still did, in quiet moments. And now it lived in Ron, too, curled up like a blade behind his ribs.
He hadn’t known that level of vulnerability could still shake him. But it had. It had rooted in his spine and hissed: he doesn’t trust you. Not fully. Because you taught him not to.
Snape took a slow sip of the scotch. It burned, but not enough.
Ron.
Of all the things he had anticipated this morning, that had not been one of them. The boy had come to him—him, not Dumbledore, not McGonagall, him —with one of the most dangerous truths in recent history. Armed with nothing but calm determination and a terrifying willingness to tell the truth. Not for glory. Not for reward. For safety. For Potter’s safety, no less.
Snape had studied his face, trying to find the selfish motive. The game. The manipulation.
There had been none.
Just sincerity. And, of all things, hesitation. As though Ron had doubted whether he would even be heard.
Snape set the glass down with a soft clink and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He could still hear the boy’s voice in the memory: “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
And in that moment, he had known exactly why. Because of himself. Because of what he’d said during their last session. Because he’d driven the boy into silence and doubt, and now—now Ron had returned anyway, holding out truth and loyalty like a fragile offering.
He deserved that.
Snape had driven him away. Had thrown him out of tutoring. Had humiliated him. All because he couldn’t stomach the idea that the boy had gone to Lupin for help. Because he’d cared— too much —and it had festered into fury.
And still, Ron had come back.
Still, the boy had chosen him.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, expression empty, heart slow and heavy. Ron had stood in Dumbledore’s office without flinching and had watched Pettigrew transform with the steadiness of someone far too accustomed to horror. He had asked sharp, precise questions— “Are there any other unregistered Animagi?” —like a strategist, not a student. And he had taken it all in with that same grounded composure that had marked him from the start.
Snape had let him stay.
Defended his presence. Called him by name.
He’d seen the way Ron had flushed at that, the way his eyes widened just slightly like the recognition had struck some unexpected nerve. Snape wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Perhaps because it was true: Weasley was too impersonal for what Ron had become.
Because he had become something.
An informant. A confidant. A… protégé ?
The thought unsettled him, causing him to shift. He didn’t want to label it. Couldn’t.
But the truth was there.
Ron Weasley was no longer a boy he merely tolerated or respected from afar. He was someone Snape relied on. Someone he trusted, even—especially—with matters others would bungle or ignore. Ron didn’t seek credit. Didn’t brag. He observed. He calculated. He protected.
Even when it hurt.
Snape exhaled slowly through his nose. His fingers tapped once against the side of the glass.
You were right to bring it to me.
He hadn’t said it aloud, but he’d meant it.
And Ron had heard it anyway.
In a world of half-truths, petty rivalries, and Ministry poison, Ron had handed him a live grenade with steady fingers—and trusted him to do the right thing.
And he had.
Even if it cost him everything he wanted.
Snape looked back at the fire. The flickering light reflected in his eyes, hollow and amber and tired.
He would never be the hero. Not to anyone. Certainly not in the aftermath of Black’s exoneration.
But today… today, he had done right.
Because Ron had done right.
And because a boy with reason to doubt him had looked him in the eye, braced for betrayal—and still chosen to try.
And if that boy— his boy, a quiet voice whispered treacherously—could walk into his office, after everything, and still believe in him…
Then maybe Snape hadn’t lost everything after all.
He would make it right. With Ron. With himself.
He would start again.
The fire crackled on. Snape sat in silence, the scotch now warm in his hand, and thought of a silver goose waddling through shadow.
And smiled. Just barely.
The castle was quiet.
Evening light filtered through the tall windows of the Headmaster’s office, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. Albus Dumbledore stood at the open window, hands loosely clasped behind his back, the wind playing with the hem of his embroidered robes. The horizon was painted in lavender and rose, the sky heavy with snow-laced clouds that hadn’t yet found the will to fall.
The day had been long. Eventful. Burdensome.
Pettigrew was secure.
Plans were in motion—carefully calculated steps that would lead to Sirius Black’s exoneration and the Ministry’s inevitable unravelling. Dumbledore had already dispatched trusted intermediaries, burned through a dozen pieces of parchment, and consulted several portraits. The logistics were settled. The strategy in place.
But none of that occupied his thoughts now.
His mind was fixed, instead, on a boy. Not Harry. Not Sirius. Not even Peter.
Ronald Weasley.
For the third year in a row, the boy had walked straight into the centre of a secret most adults had failed to notice. No prophecy, no guidance, no institutional support. Just quiet awareness. Quiet courage.
Year One: He had discerned the truth about Quirrell—quietly, and without fuss.
Year Two: He had uncovered the Diary. Not just that it was dangerous—but why.
And now: Pettigrew.
There were patterns here. Too many, for Dumbledore’s comfort.
Coincidence could explain the first. Perhaps even the second. But the third? The third began to suggest something else.
Dumbledore’s eyes tracked the clouds shifting over the Forbidden Forest, fingers tightening slightly behind his back.
He had encountered a wide range of students during his long career. Heroes born of circumstance. Intellectual prodigies. Students with deep intuition. But Ron… Ron did not fit into any one category. He was not famous. Not favoured. Not glorified.
And yet, again and again, he saw the shape of what was hidden. And acted.
It made Albus wonder.
Was it luck? A finely tuned moral compass? The natural clarity of someone who did not seek to be seen? Or… something more?
Ron had none of the usual trappings of a Seer. No inner turmoil spilt through prophecy. No unconscious trance. But he did have… instinct. A quiet sharpness that could not be taught. The jinx. The Diary. The rat. Each time, he’d followed threads no one else noticed.
It was not Divination in the traditional sense. But Dumbledore could not deny that the boy had a gift.
He turned from the window at last, moving back inside, the fire in the hearth casting warm golden hues against the stone. His eyes settled on the chair Ron had occupied hours earlier. Still slightly askew. Still radiating the energy of someone who had not expected to be allowed to stay.
And yet, he had stayed.
Because Severus had said he should.
Dumbledore allowed a small smile to touch his lips, the expression more tired than twinkling.
He had not missed that moment. The way Snape had cut in—not just to argue, but to protect. It had been instinctive. Immediate. Personal.
Albus had watched Snape for many years. He knew when the man was playing a part and when he was not. And today, there had been no performance. That defence had come from a place of conviction. Of connection.
That surprised him.
And it heartened him.
Snape did not form attachments easily. He distrusted them. Feared what they might expose in him. But Ron—somehow—had gotten through. Not with flattery. Not with manipulation. With presence. With quiet, relentless integrity. With earned respect.
The boy had given Snape a reason to believe again—not just in a cause, but in a person.
And that, Dumbledore thought, might be the most valuable thing of all.
Ron was becoming something rare. Not just a clever child, not just a courageous friend. But a stabilising force. The kind of person people listened to without realising they were following. The type of person who made others better, just by refusing to be cruel.
Snape needed that.
Harry would need that.
The world, if it were going to survive the next war, would need that.
Dumbledore moved to his desk, his fingers brushing the surface near a teacup that had gone cold. He didn’t sit. He only looked down at the place where Ron’s cage had rested. Where Pettigrew had been unmasked. Where a quiet boy had tipped the scales of fate again and again and again.
He was no longer comfortable calling it luck.
No…
There was something else at work in Ronald Weasley.
And Dumbledore was determined to watch it closely.
Not to control it. Not to push.
But to protect it.
The fire crackled. Outside, snow began to fall at last.
And inside the tower, Albus Dumbledore whispered softly to the empty room:
“The world will not see him coming.”
And that, he thought, was precisely why Ron might survive it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
1 January 1994
Harry’s chest heaved as he stood in Snape’s office, the echo of his final shouted words still ringing in the air. He didn’t wait for a response. Couldn’t. His heart pounded furiously, and his hands clenched at his sides as he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
His feet moved before he could think, thundering down the corridor. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to go—away from that room, away from Snape’s pinched silence, from McGonagall’s look of pity, and most of all, from Ron.
Ron.
His mind reeled, fists clenched tighter. The cold castle air bit at his face as he tore through corridor after corridor until the doors of the castle loomed ahead. He flung them open and stepped into the snowy courtyard, the wind slicing across his skin and cutting through his robes.
Good. He wanted to feel something. Anything other than this twisting, howling thing inside his chest.
He let out a wordless shout and kicked at the snow, scattering it in every direction. He kicked again. And again. A bench. A stone. He didn’t care.
Ron had known.
Ron had looked him in the eye, sat beside him at breakfast, at lunch, walked beside him. He had nodded and laughed and talked casually—all while knowing the truth. All while keeping Sirius from him. Keeping his godfather from him. The man who should have been with him these last twelve years. The man who had been locked away in Azkaban—alone, broken—and Ron had known he was innocent.
And said nothing.
The betrayal sat heavier than anything else. He could imagine the lies from adults. Could even, in some twisted way, understand Dumbledore’s silence or Snape’s orders. But Ron? His friend? His first friend?
A whole week. A whole week of watching Harry, still believing the wrong man was responsible for everything that had shattered his life. And Ron had let him.
The rage boiled over again. Harry struck at a tree, his knuckles smarting on the frozen bark. He just watched him. Like it meant nothing. Like it didn’t matter.
“Harry!”
Hermione’s voice cut through the wind as she caught up to him, breathless, wrapped in her cloak and scarf, snow clinging to her sleeves.
“Harry, please, wait—”
He didn’t turn around.
“Don’t,” he said roughly.
She hesitated behind him. He could feel her presence, the way her words caught in her throat before she spoke them.
“He didn’t mean to hurt you—”
“He lied.” Harry spun to face her, his eyes blazing. “He lied, Hermione. For a whole bloody week, he looked me in the eye, knowing what I thought, and just… let me believe it.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I know it feels unforgivable right now. But he was under pressure. Dumbledore—Snape—”
“That’s not an excuse,” Harry snapped. “You don’t get to say you’re my friend and then lie to me about something like this. He let me think my godfather was a murderer. He let me carry that!”
Hermione looked stricken, guilt flickering in her eyes, her gloved hands trembling slightly.
“He didn’t want to hurt you. He—he was scared. They threatened him—”
Harry shook his head, cold biting at his ears now, sharp and relentless.
“I don’t care. He could’ve told me. He should’ve. Friends don’t lie like that.”
Hermione’s mouth opened again, then slowly closed. She looked at him for a long moment, then her expression softened, and she stepped forward.
“I’m not going to argue anymore,” she said gently. “You’re right. It wasn’t fair. And you’re allowed to be angry. I just—I don’t want you to be alone right now.”
He didn’t respond. Not right away.
The fury hadn’t ebbed, but it was duller now. Dull and aching and hollow. He dropped onto the cold stone bench behind him, snow crunching beneath his weight. Hermione sat beside him, close but not too close. She didn’t say anything else. Just sat.
Harry stared out at the empty grounds, his breath misting in the winter air. The silence stretched between them, heavy but no longer suffocating.
After a while, he said quietly,
“He didn’t even look guilty. He was so good at lying, I didn’t see a thing.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She just reached out and took his hand in hers.
The fire in the sitting room had burned down to glowing embers, the soft crackle of wood the only sound that lingered. Molly sat curled in her armchair, a knitted blanket pooled around her legs, untouched yarn and needles resting in her lap. Across from her, Arthur leaned forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands laced tightly together.
Neither of them had spoken for a while.
The clock on the mantel ticked, its hands creeping steadily toward midnight, but neither noticed. Their thoughts were far away, locked behind a tall wooden door in a Headmaster’s office, replaying the same conversation over and over.
Peter Pettigrew.
A rat. A man. A murderer. Living in their house.
Arthur exhaled, low and weary. His voice was quiet when it finally broke the silence.
“He slept in Ron’s bed.”
Molly didn’t answer. Her hands tightened over the edge of the blanket.
Arthur continued because the silence was unbearable.
“I kept telling myself he was just a lazy old rat. I’d joke about him being useless, not even catching the gnomes. And all that time—”
Molly’s voice came sharp and sudden.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare blame yourself. I was the one who let Percy keep him all those years ago. I was the one who bought the food and cleaned the cage. We both missed it.”
Arthur turned his head, looked at her, and nodded slowly. He didn’t press. She was right, of course. But the guilt was stubborn, coiled like ivy around his ribs.
Molly stared into the fire, the light dancing across her face. Her lips were pressed thin.
“I keep thinking about all the times I told Percy and Ron to be careful with him. To feed him. To keep him warm in winter. To take care of him.” Her voice cracked. “And they did. For years, they did.” She wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “And that thing just watched them. Slept at their side. Ate from their hand. It makes me sick.”
Arthur nodded again, his brow furrowed. He kept thinking about it. About that man. So close to his boys. His innocent boys. That rat had watched Percy grow up. Had been so close. And now, Percy felt guilty because he had gifted the rat to Ron.
“Percy will need time,” Arthur finally said in a low, tired voice. “To learn to let go of his guilt.”
“There is nothing for him to feel guilty about. Nothing. He was just a child himself,” Molly said, voice cracking on “child”. “No one can blame him. No one.”
“And still he feels the responsibility,” He responded after a moment, “But it’ll help that Ron forgave Percy. First thing out of his mouth—‘It’s not your fault.’ No anger. No accusations. Just—‘no one could’ve known.’”
Molly let out a soft, pained sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
“He always does that,” she said. “He makes it easy for everyone else. Even when he’s hurting. Even when he’s the one who’s been wronged.”
Arthur leaned back against the cushions, gazing up at the ceiling with tired eyes. He felt exhausted. He was supposed to protect his family and protect his children from harm. And still, he didn’t see what was under his nose. But Ron had. Once again.
“He didn’t tell anyone. Not even his friends. He found the truth, and instead of running to us, he went to Snape.” A beat. “He trusted Snape.”
“At least Snape didn’t let him down,” Molly murmured.
Not like them.
That had shaken her. That Ron felt safer going to Snape than to them. Just like last year. She tried to understand. She really tried. And perhaps she could, looking back on today.
The way Snape had stood by Ron in that meeting. How he spoke—quiet, direct, controlled—but never dismissive. Never cold. He didn’t look at Ron like a child caught in something too big for him. He looked at him like someone capable. Someone to be trusted.
Like someone important.
Arthur ran a hand through his thinning hair, sighing deeply.
“I never thought I’d be glad Ron was sorted into Slytherin. But after last year… And now this...”
Molly didn’t argue.
There was a long silence again, thick with thoughts too difficult to shape into words. The ache of near-loss. The helplessness of watching their boy become something larger, heavier, more burdened than either of them had wanted for him.
But also—pride.
So much pride, it hurt.
“He’s not the same boy who left for Hogwarts,” Molly said softly. “He’s still kind. Still gentle. But there’s something else now. A weight. A sharpness. He… sees things.”
Arthur didn’t answer at first. Then:
“Dumbledore sees it too. And Snape. That’s what frightens me most. They all are expecting more of him. Because he proved that he sees more than most.”
Molly looked at him.
“You think they’ll ask more of him?”
“I think they already are.”
She shook her head slowly, eyes shining.
“He’s just a boy.”
Arthur reached across the space and took her hand. Held it, warm and steady.
They sat together in the flickering dark, listening to the fire’s soft sighs. Around them, the Burrow stood quiet. Safe. Full of memories—some now tinged with horror but still home.
“I just want him to be safe,” Molly whispered.
“I know.”
“I just want him to be happy.”
“I know.”
Arthur squeezed her hand.
They stayed like that long into the night. Two parents holding onto each other, and to the one thing they still had power to give: love, unwavering and unshakeable, no matter what secrets their son uncovered next.
The fire in the Gryffindor common room had long since burned low, casting shadows that danced across the floor in a silent, flickering rhythm. Percy sat upright in the stiff armchair beside the hearth, still in his Hogwarts robes, though his tie had come undone and his badge sat forgotten on the nearby desk. A single candle lit the room now, its flame bending with every draft that stirred the curtains.
He wasn’t reading. Not anymore. The open book on his lap had slipped askew, and his eyes weren’t even on the page.
He was thinking about Ron.
Corporeal, he thought again, with a small breath of disbelief. Third year, and he can already cast a corporeal Patronus.
It wasn’t just the spell. It was everything else. The goose, ridiculous and radiant. Ron’s smirk when he made the joke. The way Percy had laughed— really laughed, not politely or out of obligation, but with warmth he hadn’t felt in months.
He’d almost forgotten what that felt like.
And then there was the realisation that haunted him most now, long after the fire had dimmed: He doesn’t need me to be proud of him. He never did. He’s already done everything I said I valued. And more.
Percy leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose, eyes drifting to the low glow of the coals.
Ron had followed the rules. He had kept quiet when it mattered. He had trusted the proper authorities—gone to Snape, gone to Dumbledore. He hadn’t tried to take matters into his own hands, hadn’t run off for glory. He had acted with integrity, caution, and purpose. He had respected the chain of command.
And the result? A criminal captured. A terrible truth uncovered. A family safe.
Percy clenched his jaw.
And I doubted him.
That was the truth of it. When Ron blackmailed him two summers ago, Percy had drawn a line and carved Ron out of his heart like a failed equation. It had been easy, then, to reduce him to a cautionary tale: clever but corrupted. But now— now —Percy saw the pattern clearly. Ron had made a mistake. One mistake. A flash of Slytherin cunning, poorly used, emotionally driven. And Percy had let that one moment define everything.
But since then?
Ron had saved Ginny. No one else had even been close to saving her. Not their parents. Not Percy himself. It had been Ron, with his quiet attention, his inconvenient instincts, his refusal to look away. He had refused to let her fade. And he had gone to Snape for help—not for recognition, but because it was the right thing to do.
Just like now. Just like with Pettigrew.
Ron didn’t chase praise. He didn’t perform. He didn’t even boast. He simply saw something wrong, and he acted.
Percy ran a hand over his face, eyes burning.
I failed him again, he thought bitterly. I pushed him away when he needed guidance. I clung to my pride when he offered me remorse. And all the while, he just kept doing the right thing.
Not because it was easy.
But because it was him.
There was a fierce kind of loyalty in Ron—a quiet, bone-deep loyalty that wasn’t showy or loud. It was woven into everything he did. Even the blackmail, now that Percy looked at it with clearer eyes, had been an act of desperation. Not malice. Ron had felt cornered. And alone.
Percy swallowed hard, staring at the shadows his candle threw against the far wall.
He didn’t know if he’d ever fully atone for how badly he’d handled things. But tonight, sitting beside Ron in the Library, he’d caught a glimpse of something rare. A chance to begin again. A bridge rebuilt, not all at once, but stone by stone.
And he would not let it crumble this time.
He deserves better. He deserves someone who sees him. Who respects him.
Percy looked over to the desk, where his badge gleamed faintly in the firelight.
He’ll do more good than I ever will, Percy thought, and for the first time, the idea didn’t sting. It felt… right. As though the world might be a little better if it were true.
He stood slowly, walked to the desk, and picked up his badge. Held it for a moment.
Then, quietly, he set it down again.
Not everything that mattered had to shine.
Some things, like Ron, simply were —steady, brave, and fiercely good.
And Percy was proud. More proud than he’d ever said aloud.
Tomorrow, maybe, he’d try to say it again. And more.
12 January
Twelve days. Harry had counted each one like tally marks in his head, like the bars of a cell.
He hadn’t spoken to Ron once.
Not during meals, not in class, not even when they passed in the corridors or shared a table in the common room. Harry simply… shut him out. Every word Ron had ever said to him replayed now with bitter hindsight. Every smile, every casual laugh, felt like a lie.
He stuck close to Hermione. Or Theodore. Or Blaise. Anyone who wasn’t Ron. And yet Ron was everywhere—his presence like static at the edge of Harry’s awareness. Harry couldn’t not notice the way Ron’s shoulders drooped when he entered a room. The way his face, usually so expressive, seemed pinched into neutrality. Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.
But what gnawed at him—what chewed slow and hard through his thoughts—was how everyone else treated Ron.
Hermione defended him. McGonagall had pulled Harry aside and said Ron acted “with a maturity beyond his years.” Hagrid said Ron had done “what he had to do.” Even Luna, who barely spoke to anyone, had passed Harry once and murmured that “some secrets hurt more to hold than to hear.”
And Percy. Bloody Percy, who was supposed to be stiff and self-righteous, had spoken to Harry at breakfast and said quietly, “He made the right call. You’ll see that eventually.”
Everyone kept telling him Ron was right.
But if that was true… why did Harry feel so wrong?
It was like they’d flipped the board on him and handed him the black pieces without asking. As if he were the one being unreasonable. As if his pain, his betrayal, his grief thinking his godfather was a traitor—that meant nothing because Ron had kept a promise.
Harry hadn’t asked for promises. He’d asked for a friend.
So he stayed angry. Or tried to.
Because if he let go of the anger, all that was left was… confusion. And guilt.
He didn’t want to feel sorry for Ron. Ron was the one who had lied. Who had looked him in the eye for a week and said nothing. Ron, who had known the truth and let Harry suffer.
So when Hermione sat next to him one day and said quietly,
“I realised something today.”
Harry barely looked up.
“What?” he said too quickly, already irritated by the familiar tone of Hermione winding up to lecture.
“It was Scabbers .”
He blinked at her.
“Yeah. We know that. What about it?”
Hermione stared at him, her mouth slightly open like she couldn’t believe he didn’t see it.
Harry scowled.
“Hermione, seriously. What’s your point?”
She hesitated, then pressed on.
“Scabbers. Harry… Ron’s rat. His pet. The one he’s had for years. The one he used to carry in his pocket, sleep with, talk to—he loved him.”
That made Harry pause.
Hermione’s voice softened.
“Imagine if Hedwig… wasn’t really Hedwig.”
He went still.
“Imagine,” she continued, “if she’d been a person all this time. A murderer. A traitor. Imagine learning that everything you shared with her—every letter, every tear, every moment—was watched by someone who wanted you dead.”
Harry said nothing.
Hermione’s hands twisted in her lap. “I spoke to Ron briefly the other day. He’s getting tutoring from Snape. He’s learning spells to detect Animagi. Harry… he’s paranoid now. Scared. He barely talks. He’s not sleeping. I think he—he’s traumatised.”
Harry didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words hit him like bricks to the chest.
He’d imagined Ron as the villain. The liar. The betrayer.
But now… he imagined Ron discovering the truth. Imagined the sick horror curling through his stomach as the rat he’d cuddled and trusted was revealed as the man who’d betrayed Harry’s parents. he man who’d murdered Muggles. The man Ron had cradled in his hands.
And Ron had stayed silent.
Not to be cruel. But to protect Harry.
To do the right thing.
Harry’s anger didn’t burn anymore. It didn’t roar. It drained.
All that was left was a hollow sort of ache, and the dawning realisation that maybe—maybe he wasn’t the victim here.
Maybe, this time, he was the one who couldn’t see past his own pain.
He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them loosely. Hermione didn’t speak again. She just stayed beside him, quiet, like she knew he needed space to think.
And Harry did.
Because suddenly, he wasn’t sure who he was angry at anymore.
Maybe Ron hadn’t betrayed him.
Maybe Harry had betrayed Ron.
Chapter 30: BOOK THREE - RECONCILIATION
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RECONCILIATION
The sun was low in the sky, casting long beams across the nearly empty courtyard. The soft breeze stirred my hair as I stood awkwardly beside the stone fountain, waiting. Hermione was also here, a few feet away, keeping her distance but staying close enough to intervene if needed. She kept glancing between Harry and me.
Harry’s expression was tense and almost hesitant, standing a few feet from me, his hands clenched at his side.
“Okay,” Harry finally said quietly, voice rough with unshed frustration. “Let’s talk.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Then, he just… stopped there, and I decided to wait for him to continue.
“You— you didn’t tell me, Ron. You hid the truth. You—” he stopped himself again, forcing his tone back under control. “I trusted you.”
The past tense almost brought tears to my eyes. I breathed deeply through my nose before speaking in a soft voice that I hoped was steady despite my emotional state.
“I know… I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve— I should’ve asked Dumbledore and Snape to let me keep you in the loop. I’m… sorry I didn’t. I didn’t think I could tell you. It’s my fault.”
“It wasn’t all your fault.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll take it anyway.”
Harry let out a harsh breath, anger flickering behind his eyes.
“You should’ve told me. You should’ve trusted me.”
“I do trust you,” I said genuinely. “I do. This… this wasn’t about trust. And not only about keeping my promise to Dumbledore…”
“Then what? What was it about?”
I sighed and stared at a point behind Harry’s shoulder.
“I didn’t want to be the messenger. I’m sorry. Really. I’m a coward, and I’m sorry about that, too. I should’ve put my big boy’s pants on and figured something out.”
Harry was silent, his frustration now simmering under the surface. After a moment, he said tightly.
“Pettigrew being Scabbers was not your fault. That’s not a case where I’d have shot the messenger.” He sighed. “Just… Can you promise me you’ll never hide something from me again? No more secrets.”
Hermione stiffened slightly, her lips parting as if she were about to protest, but she held herself back, letting me answer.
“I can’t promise that, Harry. I just can’t. If I have to keep a secret to protect you or someone else I love, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. I’m sorry, but that’s not something I can compromise on. What I can promise is that next time I’m told to keep a secret that you should know about, I’ll fight back to get permission to tell you.”
Harry huffed.
“I hate that everyone keeps saying that you were right about keeping the secret. Hermione, McGonagall, Hagrid, Luna, even Percy, for Merlin’s sake. All of them telling me to forgive, to understand.” He let out a heavy, tired breath. “I’m sick of hearing that and being… the bad guy.”
Hermione, her voice quiet but firm, finally spoke.
“Harry, no one is saying you are the bad guy, or that you should ignore what happened. But it’s not realistic to ask Ron to tell you everything. Especially not when he was sworn to secrecy by someone like Dumbledore. He’s the Headmaster. You know how bad that would have been.”
Harry rolled his eyes, a bitter huff escaping him.
“Yeah, well, I’m just sick of feeling like the last to know.”
“I get it,” I replied honestly. “I really do. And I’m sorry that mess made you feel that way.”
For a moment, Harry just stared at me, raw and uncertain. Then he let out a long sigh, the fight draining out of him.
“Okay.”
Relief flooded me so quickly that it left me a little dizzy and teary-eyed. I gave him a tentative smile, stepping closer.
“Can we… Can we hug?”
Harry gave a tired, lopsided smile, his arms opening slightly. I stepped into his hug, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing him hard. I sniffed loudly, failing to keep my tears at bay anymore. Harry held me tighter.
After a moment, I heard a quiet sniff from the side and realised Hermione was wiping her eyes. That made me snort softly in amusement.
“Great, now Hermione’s crying too. Mate, time to step up or risk being seen as the cold-hearted one.”
Harry gave a low chuckle, the first genuine one I’d heard in forever.
Things were good.
I sat hunched over a worn wooden table in the Room of Requirement, following the twins’ instructions as they took turns demonstrating the wand movements and incantations for the counter-charm to hexed ink. In no time at all, I could cast it effectively.
“Thanks for teaching me, guys. I’m glad I can do it myself now.”
“You’re welcome, Ronniekins,” George replied with a casual shrug.
“Anything for our favourite little snakeling,” Fred added with a grin.
I smiled at them, feeling a huge wave of fondness for them.
“Now, lads,” I said in a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s not all I wanted to ask today.”
“Oooh, things are getting interesting.”
“Name it, and we shall provide!”
I huffed in amusement at their dramatics.
“I need your expertise on how to get back at Malfoy. Something sneaky, not too dangerous. Just enough to make him regret that stunt.”
Fred and George exchanged a gleeful ‘Whoop’ before launching into a rapid-fire brainstorm:
“What about an exploding ink quill? The moment he starts writing, boom! Colourful smoke everywhere!”
“Or a charm on his robes that reveals silly nicknames when he’s out in the sun.”
“Self-tying shoelaces! Imagine him tripping every step.”
“Or bouncing boogers. Harmless but embarrassing.”
“Or our voice-squeaking sweet prototype!”
I chuckled at their ideas. They sure didn’t lack imagination. I knew I couldn’t come up with half the ideas they just casually popped in under a minute.
“All of it sounds brilliant,” I told them before becoming serious again. “But… How do you do it discreetly? Won’t it be obvious I’m behind it? Especially to Snape…”
George shrugged, a confident smirk spreading.
“Relax, dear brother. That’s where we come in. You sit back, keep your hands clean…”
“... and we’ll make sure Malfoy gets what’s coming without a trace leading back to you. Or us.”
I truly was lucky to have those two demons at my service.
“Alright then, I like the sound of that. I’m counting on you.”
“Don’t worry,” George said. “We’ll defend your honour with the utmost care.”
“Just enjoy the show,” Fred added, before letting out a villain laugh.
All I could do was laugh at his absurdity.
I was lingering near the entrance to the Slytherin common room, having just returned from my spontaneous tutoring with my brothers, and Harry welcomed me. We were chatting idly when a prefect approached me, her expression harried.
“Weasley. The Headmaster wants to see you. Now.”
I stiffened instantly, heart leaping into my throat. Harry’s brow furrowed, concern tightening his jaw.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “But I’ll go.”
I mustered a shaky smile for Harry, but my mind was already racing. Could it be about the Prophet’s article this morning?
As I walked quickly through the corridors, my thoughts churned. The article written by Rita Skeeter had made the front page; it was a piece claiming Dumbledore had gone to the Ministry to reveal that he’d met with Sirius Black, who was supposedly willing to cooperate under certain conditions. The paper made it sound like a secret alliance. On top of that, Dumbledore’s statement demanded a fair trial for Pettigrew.
My stomach twisted. Was this meeting about that? Was my role about to be exposed?
Halfway to the Headmaster’s office, I heard brisk footsteps behind me. I glanced back and felt a small wave of relief wash over me.
“Mr. Weasley,” Snape said smoothly, his dark eyes gleaming with something between irritation and curiosity. “I was summoned as well.”
I swallowed hard.
“Do you know what this is about?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Snape’s lips tightened.
“Not here,” he murmured. “We’ll discuss it inside.”
Despite the ominous summons, Snape’s presence beside me was oddly comforting. If he were involved, surely nothing disastrous could happen to me. His towering figure, precise steps, and cool confidence made me feel less like a target and more like a participant in something important.
We soon arrived at the stone gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase. Snape gave the password, and we ascended to the Headmaster’s office.
Inside, Dumbledore sat behind his vast desk, framed by the warm glow of the evening light filtering through his windows. His expression was serious, but his eyes twinkled faintly with the same knowing calm I’d seen so many times.
“Ah, Severus, Ronald, thank you for coming,” he greeted. “Please, have a seat.”
I did as instructed, and the stiffness in my spine relaxed slightly. Snape remained standing, his arms folded, looming behind me, his gaze fixed sharply on Dumbledore. I sensed his tension, though he masked it well.
Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk.
“You’ve both seen the Daily Prophet, I imagine.”
I nodded hesitantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“As have I,” Snape said tersely.
Dumbledore inclined his head.
“I wanted us all to be on the same page. I assure you that the Ministry is unaware of your involvement. Nor, officially, does anyone know of Severus’s role. Hogwarts, as a semi-autonomous institution, positioned itself as the official discoverer of Mr. Pettigrew through an internal investigation regarding Sirius’s potential presence and threat.”
Relief flooded me so fast it left me breathless.
“So… no one knows about me?”
Dumbledore smiled gently.
“No one, Mr Weasley. I have ensured that your involvement remains confidential. You are not named, and neither is Severus. Your safety and privacy must be maintained.”
I released a shaky breath, almost lightheaded with gratitude.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”
Snape’s gaze flicked toward me, his usual smirk absent. He inclined his head slightly, a subtle sign of his relief.
“And what now, Headmaster?” he asked quietly.
Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled.
“Now, we stay vigilant. The public story is set. You both have no further involvement in official records. If you hear anything that might compromise that narrative, come to me immediately.”
I hesitated, then asked,
“Professor… is Sirius safe? And… what happens if Pettigrew tries to slip away?”
Dumbledore’s expression softened.
“Sirius is under protection, and Mr. Pettigrew is currently under close observation. The Ministry has little choice now but to pursue this case with the attention it deserves. Your courage has been invaluable, Mr Weasley. Remember that.”
I flushed, glancing down. Snape’s eyes were inscrutable, but his posture relaxed slightly, as if satisfied.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered.
Dumbledore gave us both a nod, his tone gentle.
“That will be all for now. Stay vigilant, but rest easy. You’ve both done your part admirably.”
I stood, my legs a little shaky, but my heart lighter than it had been in days. With Snape’s solid presence at my side, I followed him from the office, grateful beyond words that —for now— I was safe.
We reached the bottom of the staircase, and Snape glanced down at me, his expression taut.
“Discretion is paramount, Weasley. Speak of the content of this meeting to no one.”
I hummed pensively before speaking without thinking.
“If anyone asks, I’m telling them we just went out for a stroll to discuss the weather.”
Snape’s lips twitched, whether in mirth or irritation, I wasn’t sure. The man’s voice, low and dry, betrayed just a hint of amusement.
“Better that than your usual attempts at subtlety. Now go.”
I rolled my eyes but obeyed, amused despite myself by Snape’s snarky response to my smartass comment.
I leaned back against the cool stone wall outside the Potions classroom, arms crossed. Hermione was pacing a little, shooting worried glances at the door every few seconds. I tried to look like I wasn’t as anxious as I felt, but my foot was tapping against the floor.
“I wonder what Snape wanted to talk to him about,” Hermione murmured.
“Probably about the new Prophet article,” I ventured with a shrug. “Things are moving faster.”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“The trial is set. Five weeks. It’s not that far off.” Her voice softened. “It must feel more real for Harry now, don’t you think? Pettigrew will finally pay for his crimes…”
I sincerely hoped so. There was still the possibility that a Death Eater would help him escape custody. And I knew what could happen if Pettigrew was on the loose.
Before we could keep wondering, the classroom door creaked open and Harry came out. He didn’t look upset exactly, but his face was thoughtful, distant.
Hermione pounced on him straight away.
“Are you okay? What did Snape want?”
We fell into step as we made our way down the corridor. Harry hesitated a second before speaking.
“He asked if I wanted to attend the trial.”
“Really? You can go?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Dumbledore’s making arrangements. Snape said he’s helping set it up with the Ministry.”
Hermione’s brows drew together.
“Do you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, slowing down as we reached the stairs. “Part of me wants to see justice done, but… It’s not just that. It’s my parents, you know? People will be talking about them like… like it’s just a story. But it’s not. It’s real to me.”
“You don’t have to decide now,” Hermione replied gently. “It’s a lot to deal with. And no one would blame you if you didn’t want to go.”
“We’ll be behind you either way, mate.”
Harry gave us a small, grateful smile.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Let’s get some lunch,” I said, nudging his shoulder with mine. “You’ll think better with food in your stomach.”
Because I was a misunderstood individual, they both rolled their eyes at me. But they still followed me toward the Great Hall. I glanced at Harry’s face again. He looked tired but not as weighed down. At least he knew we had his back. Whatever he decided, we’d be there.
And people had better not be assholes to my little man if he chose to forgo the trial.
I loved Hagrid’s hut. It always reminded me of those Middle Age show houses from the theme park I’d gone to when I was a kid Before. The stone walls, the rough wood, the mismatched hunting tools and the stained glass windows gave it that storybook vibe.
But what really made me fond of this place was Fang.
“Who’s the itty bitty lil’ love baby? Yeah, it’s you, good boi!” I crooned, scratching behind his massive ears.
Fang flopped against me with a happy grunt, his tail thumping like a drum against the floor.
“Sometimes I think Ron’s your secret child or something,” Harry said with a grin, and I saw him shoot a look at Hagrid, who let out a booming chuckle. “With the way he treats animals like they’re perfect, innocent babies who can do no wrong.”
“They are !” Hagrid and I both declared in unison, and I felt a flicker of pride at how quickly we agreed.
“My point exactly,” Harry said dryly.
“Boys,” Hermione cut in, her voice that special blend of exasperated and patient. “Can we go back to the matter at hand?”
Such Mommy vibes. I bit my tongue to keep from saying it out loud. Instead, I gave her a cheeky, exaggeratedly serious nod and sat up straight, hands neatly folded in my lap. She rolled her eyes but turned her focus to the stack of Daily Prophets on her lap.
She pulled out yesterday’s issue, flipping through the pages with grim determination, her brows drawn together. Harry leaned back against the wall near the fireplace, arms crossed, his mouth set in a hard line.
“I don’t see Harry’s name in this one… Ah, it’s just a rehash of this week. Sirius in protective custody, his vendetta to avenge the Potters… Hmm. Oh—” Hermione’s eyes widened. “Have you heard this bit? How did we miss it yesterday? ‘Black’s dramatic escape from Azkaban was achieved through his illegal ability to transform into an unregistered Animagus, a skill shared with Pettigrew.’ ”
She glanced at us, clearly scandalised.
“Figures,” Harry muttered darkly. “Seems like anyone and their Kneazle could be an Animagus these days. What’s next? Skeeter saying I’m an animagus too?”
Hagrid snorted, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Wouldn’t put it past her, would yeh? But Skeeter’s got a sharp tongue an’ no shame. She’s just stirrin’ the cauldron, makin’ trouble for everyone.”
“She’s probably having the time of her life writing all this rubbish,” I said, scratching behind Fang’s ears again.
Hermione gave a heavy sigh.
“Except, this time she’s got proof about Sirius. It’s not just a story. She’s got a photo of his animagus form. Just like she did with Pettigrew.”
Harry stepped closer, peering over Hermione’s shoulder.
“Wait— hold on,” he said, snatching the paper from her hands. “I’ve seen this dog before. During my first match— the one when the Dementors showed up. That was him?”
“Are yeh sure?” Hagrid’s eyes narrowed. “Pretty reckless o’ him ter come ter a Quidditch match when the grounds were swarmin’ with Dementors.”
“I’m sure of it,” Harry insisted, handing the paper back to Hermione, his brows furrowed in thought.
Hermione skimmed the article again, her lips tightening.
“She says the Ministry is playing favourites by letting Black register his Animagus form without facing legal consequences.”
I snorted. Skeeter was probably just bitter she wouldn’t get away with doing the same if her unregistered Animagus form was ever exposed.
“Honestly,” Harry said, shaking his head. “It’s a good thing Ron’s learning the Revealing Charm. There seem to be a lot more Animagi than McGonagall let on at the start of the year. Six in Britain, she said? Pff.”
“The truth from the mouth of babes,” I added dryly, earning a glare from Harry. “At least I’m getting better at it. Though…” I groaned, running my hand through my hair. “Not enough to avoid that essay from Snape.”
I thought back to my last tutoring session, how I’d failed to spot some of the hidden clues, even after daring to poke through Snape’s desk drawers. The embarrassment still burned. I was even considering sneaking back to the tutoring room just to try again.
“He’s spiralling again,” Harry mock-whispered to Hermione. “Probably thinking about his essay on why he’s a mistake.”
“Ron isn’t a mistake. Wha’ are yeh talkin’ ‘bout here, Harry?” Hagrid’s voice rumbled with disapproval.
“Ron’s got private tutoring from Snape,” Harry explained, smirking. “He got an essay about why he failed an exercise. He’s been whining about it since Thursday.”
“I do not whine!” I protested—whining, obviously—which made them all laugh.
Hermione shook her head and turned back to the paper.
“Some Ministry officials agree with Skeeter. They’re openly questioning the decision to let Black off the hook. ‘Political tensions are rising as debates continue behind closed doors ’… Oh, and here, they mention you again, Harry. Speculation about whether you’ll attend the trial.”
“Are yeh?” Hagrid asked, his voice low and steady.
Harry gave a small shrug, his jaw tightening.
“I still don’t know. It’s not like I want to sit through that circus. But… maybe I should. What do you think, Hagrid?”
Hagrid rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
“I think yeh should do what’s right for yeh, Harry. If it feels right ter be there, then be there. But don’t feel pressured. It’s yeh decision.”
“See?” I said, pointing at Harry with a grin. “Hagrid agrees with us. We’ve got you.”
Hermione gave a loud sigh, drawing our attention back to her. She flushed a little and pointed to today’s Prophet she’d just started reading.
“‘Black is recuperating at St. Mungo’s under tight Ministry security… Professor Lupin already visited. People are raising questions about his involvement. Skeeter suggests that ‘ Lupin may have aided and abetted Black before it was widely acknowledged he was innocent. ’”
“That’s rubbish!” Hagrid said firmly. “Professor Lupin wouldn’t’ve done that.”
“I mean, it’s possible Lupin believed Sirius was innocent before it was public knowledge,” Hermione said hesitantly, chewing her lip.
“Well…,” Harry murmured. “Lupin was friends with two unregistered Animagi, and he didn’t tell anyone when Sirius was still being hunted…”
“Nah,” Hagrid said gruffly. “Remus Lupin’s a good man. Not the type ter do somethin’ reckless like that. If he’d thought Sirius was guilty, he’d’ve come clean right away.”
Yeah, right. A Marauder not doing something reckless.
“You’re right,” Harry said, though he didn’t sound fully convinced. “That doesn’t sound like Lupin.”
That sounded exactly like Lupin, if you asked me.
“Skeeter’s just stirrin’ trouble with her quill, like always,” Hagrid muttered. “No way Lupin was in on it. No way!”
Hermione shut the paper with a decisive snap.
“You’re right, Hagrid. It wouldn’t make sense for Professor Lupin to risk everything, especially if he didn’t know the truth for certain.”
We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our now-cold tea.
“Well, that settles that,” I said, scratching behind Fang’s ears again. “Let’s not waste our Sunday worrying about Skeeter’s nonsense.”
“Agreed,” Harry said, giving me a tired smile.
Hermione nodded, and we let the subject drop, the tension finally easing as we turned to Hagrid’s rock-hard scones. Still, as I bit into one, I couldn’t help thinking that I just wanted this whole mess to be over. For Harry, for Sirius… and for me.
If Pettigrew ended up getting the Dementor’s Kiss, it would tie off the loose ends, and we could all move on. Harsh, maybe. But I knew what he’d done.
And I was sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I sat slumped over my workstation, my ridiculously long essay resting like an accusation, as if mocking me for failing that last exercise. My eyes kept flicking to the classroom door, but Snape still wasn’t here. I drummed my fingers, debating.
The idea buzzed in my head, half tempting, half terrifying. Should I just… start casting the Revealing charm? Snape wasn’t here yet. Would he be furious or secretly pleased if I took the initiative? I imagined both reactions—his classic glare of disdain or that subtle twitch of approval at my cunning.
I glanced at the door again. Empty. Five minutes, and still no Snape. The room felt too quiet, and my nerves were starting to fray. I couldn’t just sit here like an idiot.
I stood, moving slowly toward Snape’s desk. That’s what probably cost me in the last exercise: missing clues hidden right in front of me. I tiptoed across the room, heart hammering as if I were sneaking into the restricted section of the Library.
My wand trembled just a little as I began tracing the Revealing charm over the surface of Snape’s desk. I whispered the incantation, concentrating so hard I nearly forgot to breathe. I scanned the drawers, the quill holder, even the ink blotter. I was sure I’d find something this time.
That was when I felt it. A draft of air behind me.
For a split second, I ignored it, lost in the spellwork. Then realisation slammed into me like a Bludger, and I spun around, heart leaping into my throat.
Snape was right there. Looming. His dark robes billowed slightly from the draft he must’ve caused when he stepped through the door.
I shrieked, tripped over my foot, and slammed my knee into the corner of the desk.
“Ouch—ouch—ouchie—bloody—” I hissed, rubbing my knee and cursing under my breath.
Snape’s voice was low and dry.
“Your situational awareness is nonexistent, Mr. Weasley. We’ll work on that.”
He glided to his desk with that infuriating calm and settled into his chair.
“The essay,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shoved it at him, still massaging my knee. He took it with a faint sneer, but his eyes held something sharper—curiosity, maybe?
Before he even gave me any instructions, he asked,
“Tell me, Mr. Weasley… what’s going on with Mr. Malfoy?”
I blinked, feigning innocence.
“What about him?”
Snape raised a single brow.
“His sudden bout of misfortune this week.”
I had to bite my lip to stop the grin. Poor Draco. Well, not poor, exactly. He’d been having the worst week imaginable, courtesy of the twins and maybe a few suggestions of mine. First, there was the kamikaze quill that exploded all over his pristine robes, then the enchanted self-lacing shoelaces that tripped him whenever he tried to walk. Then, there was the whole day of rainbow-colored puffs of smoke following like a pet cloud. Oh, and then there was the croaking, which was surely caused by the Croaking Elixir prototype they gave me at Christmas.
And, just when I thought it couldn’t get better, for the last two days, he’d been talking in a ridiculously high-pitched, squeaky voice.
I fought to keep my face straight.
“I don’t know anything about it, if that’s what you’re asking, sir.”
Snape’s lips twitched faintly.
“Indeed. Mr. Malfoy is truly… unfortunate this week.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Some people are just naturally unlucky, sir. He’s in dire need of some Felix Felicis.”
Snape smirked —an honest, cruel little smirk that I wasn’t supposed to see. He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. The subject was closed.
I straightened up, suddenly remembering what I’d been dying to ask.
“When will we know if I’m ready to reveal Animagus transformations?”
Snape’s smirk faded into his usual cold mask.
“When you can find every concealed clue in a single room, Mr. Weasley. That will be your test.”
I swallowed hard, glancing around the room filled with cabinets, shelves of dusty vials, and hundreds of potion ingredients. My heart sank. This was going to be worse than the essay.
Snape gestured lazily.
“You may begin.”
I stifled a groan, forcing myself to focus. If I didn’t want to end up writing another essay —or worse, disappointing Snape— I’d have to be sharp. The sheer number of potential hiding spots made my head spin, but I straightened my shoulders and whispered the Revealing charm, determined not to miss a single clue this time.
Chapter 31: BOOK THREE - ADVICE ON FITTING IN
Notes:
TW: Gender dysphoria, mild sexual content
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ADVICE ON FITTING IN
As soon as Harry and I stepped into the Great Hall, Hermione was already waving us over. She was at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by a mess of Daily Prophet pages spread out like a disaster zone.
“Ron! Harry! You need to see this,” she called, her voice tense and urgent, when we reached her.
We hurried over and sat, flanking her, already dreading the worst. The Prophet laid wide open on the table, the fresh ink smelling faint but sharp. Hermione cleared her throat, voice tight.
“‘ In the wake of the shocking revelations about Peter Pettigrew, one can’t help but wonder at the continued silence of young Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Despite the Ministry’s clear statement and the overwhelming evidence of Pettigrew’s betrayal, Mr. Potter has not offered any public comment on the man responsible for his parents’ deaths. One might expect a show of solidarity with the memory of Lily and James Potter. Yet, curiously, Mr. Potter has remained silent on this matter, raising questions about his true feelings toward justice for his family. ’”
I winced, sneaking a glance at Harry. His face had gone pale, jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. Hermione’s voice trembled as she continued,
“And it gets worse. Listen to this: ‘ Adding insult to injury, sources confirm that Mr. Potter has not visited his godfather, Sirius Black, currently recuperating at St. Mungo’s. Many are beginning to wonder: Is Harry Potter, so quick to accept Black’s innocence, equally quick to forget his responsibilities as a godson? Or is this just another example of the Boy Who Lived shirking the burden of his past? ’”
Harry shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, his face flushed with fury.
“She’s saying I’m a bad son now? That I don’t care about my family?” His voice cracked with frustration.
“She’s a vulture, Harry,” Hermione said quietly, folding the paper with trembling hands. “She’s twisting everything for a headline.”
Harry paced back and forth in front of the table, his hands raking through his hair.
“I should release a statement. I should tell them exactly how I feel. I should—”
“Bad idea, mate,” I said quickly, leaning forward on the table. “You’re too worked up right now. She’ll just twist your words into something worse.”
Harry spun on me, his eyes blazing.
“Oh, you would say that, wouldn’t you? Let me guess—go to Snape, right? Because Snape always has the answers.”
I flinched but held my ground.
“Look, it’s literally his job. He’s an adult, he’s the Head of our house, and he knows how this stuff works. You’re in no state to be dealing with Skeeter right now.”
Harry let out a low growl of frustration, pacing again.
“I’m sick of it, Ron. Every time there’s a problem, you want me to go to Snape. It’s like he’s your default solution for everything!”
I shrugged, folding my arms.
“Because he usually does know what to do. And he’s the only one who won’t give you platitudes or tell you what you want to hear. You want to deal with Skeeter? Fine. But it’s smarter to get his opinion first.”
Hermione nodded, her voice soft but insistent.
“Ron’s right. Please, Harry. Let’s just talk to Snape after Potions. At least hear what he has to say before you do anything rash.”
Harry stopped pacing, breathing hard, his face red and his eyes bright with fury. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse outright, but then his shoulders sagged.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll talk to Snape. After Potions. But I’m not promising I’ll listen to him.”
“That’s all we’re asking,” I said, relieved he wasn’t about to storm off and do something reckless.
Hermione gave me a small, grateful look. We both knew this wasn’t over, but at least we had a plan in place.
When Potions ended, the classroom emptied around us. Harry, Hermione, and I lingered by our workstation, waiting for the room to clear. Snape, as usual, was hunched over his desk, shuffling papers with that air of bored disdain he wore like a second robe.
He glanced up as we stayed rooted in place.
“Staying after class again, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley?” His tone was dry enough to crack stone.
Harry squared his shoulders, his voice tight.
“I need to talk to you, Professor. It’s about the Skeeter article and the trial.”
Snape set down his quill with an exaggerated slowness, the faintest arch of his brow suggesting he was already done with this conversation.
“Go on, then. You have the floor.”
Harry’s words tumbled out in a rush, frustration tightening his voice.
“I want to release a statement. I can’t just sit here and let Skeeter call me a bad son and say I don’t care about my parents. I have to say something!”
Snape’s expression didn’t flicker.
“Absolutely not.” His voice was clipped, final. “Engaging with Skeeter is the worst possible course of action. She will dissect your statement, twist your meaning, and paint you in an even more damning light. You’d be handing her the quill to write your own condemnation.”
Harry’s jaw clenched, and his fists balled tight.
“Then what can I do? Just sit here while she drags my name through the mud?”
Snape’s lip curled faintly.
“Precisely. You keep your head down, Mr. Potter. You let the storm pass. You would do well to remember the Slytherin traits you’ve so far neglected: subtlety, patience, and the wisdom to know when silence is more powerful than a thousand words.”
Harry’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t immediately retort. I could see him grinding his teeth, his whole body tense with pent-up frustration. I shot Hermione a quick glance, but she was observing Harry, waiting for his decision.
Finally, Harry huffed out a breath.
“Fine. But I’ll give you my answer for the trial, then: I want to go.” His voice was low but steady, and I could hear the determination under it. “I need to see him. Pettigrew. I want to be there when he faces justice. And Ron should come too. He deserves to see the man who betrayed him.”
Snape’s answer was immediate and absolute.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Harry’s mouth opened, a protest forming, but I stepped in quickly.
“He’s right, Harry. I… I’d rather stay out of it. I don’t need to be there to see him. Keeping my involvement secret is more important than watching justice happen in person.”
No way in hell was I risking everything. Not even for some sort of closure. No, I refused to take such a risk of Pettigrew seeing me and blabbing about my involvement.
Harry turned to me, his mouth tightening into a frown. He looked hurt, but I held his gaze. I wasn’t about to risk everything just for the satisfaction of seeing Pettigrew squirm.
Hermione broke the tension with a soft voice.
“I can go,” she said. “I mean, I don’t have a personal connection to Pettigrew, but I can be there for moral support. It might help you to have someone with you, Harry.”
Harry hesitated, his shoulders sagging a little. He let out a breath and gave a slight nod.
“Okay. Hermione can come.”
Snape inclined his head slightly.
“I’ll discuss it with the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall. For now, this matter is settled. You’re dismissed.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, following Hermione and Harry toward the door. Snape’s eyes lingered on us a moment longer. I looked back and, for some insane reason, decided to give him a subtle thumbs-up behind my friend’s back.
Snape’s brow quirked, a sharp, precise arc that somehow managed to convey both disbelief and condescension. But then… his lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk slipping past his usual mask of disdain.
My stomach gave a funny, unexpected flutter, a mix of embarrassment and something else entirely. I turned away quickly before I could betray anything on my face, my heart doing a strange little skip as we left the room.
I woke up with my heart racing, my body twisted uncomfortably in the too-tight sheets. It took me a second to get my bearings, but then I groaned softly and scrubbed at my face.
Another one. Another dream.
I didn’t even want to think about it, but the images still clung to me. Snape’s smirk from yesterday, his rare laugh at the Christmas feast, and… me. Grown-up me. My skin prickled at the memory, half embarrassment, half something else I didn’t want to name.
I lay there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to will it all away. But it was no use. My pyjama bottoms were damp and uncomfortable, sticking to my skin. I flushed, feeling both sick and humiliated.
For a long moment, I just stared at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning.
I remembered that old book I’d read in the Room of Requirement, The Polyjuice Paradox. The author had written about their journey through transformation, about accepting themselves. I could almost hear the words from one of her diary entries:
“There comes a moment when you realise you can’t keep pretending your body doesn’t exist. Ignoring it isn’t the solution—it just makes the dissonance louder.”
I swallowed thickly. It was true. When I’d first been reborn here, I’d been more bothered by the fact that I wasn’t in an adult body. But now… things were changing. My body was changing. I hated it.
I was getting hairier, and my “downstairs neighbours” were different now—bigger, heavier. I hated the way they felt, the constant weight of them. And now… after that dream, they felt even heavier. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this.
But Alina Greaves was right. I couldn’t keep ignoring my body, acting like it didn’t exist. I had to try.
Swallowing my pride and fighting down the sick feeling in my stomach, I slipped a hand under the covers, feeling my face burn with shame. It felt weird and wrong. I was doing this like a man, but I wasn’t one. How should I do it?
I hesitated, my hand trembling, trying to remember anything from the books, from my fragmented memories. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. Everything was a mystery. The sensations were strange and sharp, surprising in a way that made me gasp softly. There was also discomfort, a gnawing sense that this act was disconnected from me, from who I truly was.
I thought about Snape—his smirk, his laugh, his rare, genuine moments of approval. The warmth I felt when he was near. The way our relationship was changing, deepening. I tried to imagine myself older and stronger. At that moment, I pictured myself as a grown man—grown me—and Snape, together. The thought made my breath hitch, and my heart race.
And then it was over.
My legs trembled, and my whole body felt shaky and light. I lay there, catching my breath, shame washing over me like a cold tide. I couldn’t stand the feel of my pyjamas sticking to me. Quietly, so no one would wake, I grabbed my towel and some clean clothes and slipped out of the dormitory.
The bathroom was cold and empty. I locked the door behind me and peeled off my pyjamas, hating every second of it. I stood under the shower, turned the water too hot, and scrubbed my skin raw. I hated myself for this, for what I’d done. For what I was. For what I wasn’t.
When I was finally done, skin red and aching, I dressed and went to the mirror. I stared at my reflection, taking in the changes I hated. My shoulders were broadening, and my uniform was feeling tighter every day. I adjusted the sleeves of my robe, frowning at how they didn’t quite reach my wrists anymore. My face was pale, scattered with faint freckles, and a dusting of fine hair was starting to darken my upper lip.
I felt a flush of embarrassment and frustration. Slowly, I crept back to the dormitory, grabbed my wand, and returned to the bathroom. I’d seen Dad show my brothers how to shave the wizard way. I hesitated a long moment before awkwardly pointing my wand at my face and scraping away the nearly invisible hair.
When I finished, I stared at the mirror again, feeling regret. It hadn’t made a difference. The shadow was gone, but it didn’t make me feel any more comfortable. I shouldn’t be trying to erase myself.
I sighed deeply, leaning against the sink.
At least, even if it was weird not to have massive breasts anymore, I was glad that they were gone.
Small victory.
Very small.
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling its awkward length. It was too short to tie back but too long to leave alone. I’d started using pins during Potions and Herbology just to keep it out of my face. I couldn’t stand having to shake my head every three seconds to get the bangs out of the way. At least having long hair should help me like myself more. Regain some control over how I looked. Something simple.
I checked the time. It was early, but not so early that I couldn’t sneak a little more rest. I wasn’t about to crawl back into my soiled bed, though. I gathered my things for the day and grabbed my worn copy of The Polyjuice Paradox.
I found a quiet corner of the deserted common room, curling up with the book. I flipped to my favourite passages, rereading them like a balm, a calm voice reminding me that I wasn’t alone. I found the quote I needed, letting the words sink into me like a whisper:
“When you feel disconnected from your body, you must stop fighting it. Sit with it. Learn to breathe again. The answer is not to flee—but to make peace.”
I let out a shaky breath, feeling the tiniest bit less alone in my own skin.
It was one of those crisp, lazy mornings when the chatter in the Great Hall was quieter than usual. Harry, Hermione, and I had drifted over to the Ravenclaw table, where Luna was already sitting, absently poking at her porridge while humming some tune I didn’t recognise.
As soon as we joined her, Harry unfolded a letter he’d just received from the school owls, his face lighting up with a grin. He was beaming like he’d just been handed the keys to Gringotts. I didn’t even need to ask who it was from anymore.
“It’s from Sirius,” he said, his face practically glowing.
I watched him as he read, his eyes skimming over the words with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. He smiled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.
It was strange watching him now. Just two weeks ago, he’d been so hesitant when Sirius first wrote, asking if they could start getting to know each other. I thought he might hold back, worried or cautious. But after just that first letter, he’d thrown himself into it, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for this connection. It made me feel warm inside, seeing him this happy.
And when Sirius had admitted that he was the one who sent Harry the Firebolt… Well, that had sealed the deal. I still remembered Hermione’s muttered: “Sweets and strangers” under her breath when she found out.
This morning, most students were bustling about, excited about the Hogsmeade trip. But we’d decided to skip it. Too many reporters prowling around, and besides, it was Luna’s birthday today.
Luna glanced over at Harry, her pale blue eyes soft and dreamy.
“You look happier these days,” she said quietly.
Harry glanced up, cheeks flushed.
“It’s Sirius,” he said. “He’s amazing. I can’t wait to meet him. He says once things settle down, I might even be able to go live with him this summer.”
Hermione pursed her lips, her brow creasing.
“I’m not sure that’s possible, Harry. He’s… well, he’s still a bit unstable.”
Harry’s smile faltered.
“He’s not unstable,” he snapped.
Hermione sighed at his denial.
“It’s not his fault. Azkaban… It’s done things to him. He needs to focus on his physical, mental, and emotional health before he can take on custody of a teenager.”
I could see Harry’s mouth twisting, ready to argue. Before he could get a word out, I leaned forward and intervened.
“No matter who your legal guardian is, Harry, you’re always welcome at the Burrow.”
That stopped him. His shoulders relaxed, the fight draining from him.
“Thanks, Ron,” he murmured, managing a small smile.
The Great Hall was slowly emptying as students left for Hogsmeade or drifted off with their friends. It was mostly just groups like ours left, people who didn’t fit neatly into one house.
I glanced around the room.
“You know, the school really should have more spaces for friends who don’t share a common room,” I said.
Luna’s face lit up.
“That would be lovely. I’d love to see you all more often.”
I grinned and gave her a half-hug.
“Awww, my sweet little gnome.”
Hermione huffed softly as she started gathering her books, the stack thudding onto the table now cleared of plates and food.
I turned to Luna.
“Hey, birthday girl. Want to help me with something?”
Her eyes sparkled.
“Of course. What is it?”
I grinned.
“I need your hand for my training. Just let me read it while I work through my textbook.”
Luna happily held out her hand, her fingers light in mine as I traced the lines of her palm. I flipped through the pages of my textbook, filling in blanks on my training worksheet while she leaned in to watch.
Hermione sighed loudly. Luna tilted her head.
“What’s wrong, Hermione?”
“Divination is a waste of time. I regret taking it instead of Muggle Studies. I’m considering swapping classes.”
Harry, who was busy scribbling away on a long letter to Sirius, glanced up.
“You only hate it because Trelawney said you were missing your third eye.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed pink.
“That’s ridiculous!”
Luna, ever serene, said:
“Professor Trelawney must be telling the truth. It’s alright if you’re not good at Divination, Hermione.”
Hermione opened her mouth, her eyes narrowing, but I shot her a warning glare. She clamped her lips shut, visibly biting back a retort.
“She didn’t mean it that way,” I said. “And just because you don’t like Divination—or aren’t good at it—it doesn’t mean the subject itself is useless. It’s an old, respected art. Even Muggles have forms of it. That’s why so many pureblood families insist their kids take it. It’s part of our cultural heritage. That’s why all the Slytherins are in this elective.”
Hermione sniffed, crossing her arms.
“That’s not the argument you think it is, Ron. Just because all the purebloods and blood supremacists like it—”
I turned back to my worksheet, flipping to the next page.
“I refuse to rise to the bait,” I said lightly. “And I’m refusing to feel insulted that you’re lumping me in with blood supremacists.”
Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked at me, horrified, realisation dawning in her eyes.
Harry let out a low whistle.
“Looks like Hermione’s the insulting one now. Just like she was scolding Luna for.”
Hermione’s face turned scarlet.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly, glancing between me and Luna. “I didn’t mean it. Really.”
Luna just smiled serenely.
“It’s okay.”
I shrugged.
“No harm done.”
Luna brightened.
“Ron, can you tell me from the lines in my hands if I’ll ever find a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?”
I snorted.
“That’s not exactly how palmistry works, Luna. But for you, birthday girl, I’ll try.”
She beamed as I leaned in to read her palm, a warm glow settling in my chest.
She really was the cutest little munchkin.
The next day started horribly. As soon as we stepped into the Great Hall for breakfast, it was impossible not to notice the buzz of whispers, the flutter of newspapers and pointed stares all aimed squarely at Harry.
Hermione was already reading from the latest Daily Prophet when we joined her at the Gryffindor table, like it had become customary to hear the daily news. The headline made my stomach twist:
“The Boy Who Betrayed?”
I leaned closer to read over her shoulder. Skeeter had outdone herself this time. The entire article was filled with contradictions, half-truths, and wild rumours gathered from the students she’d cornered at Hogsmeade the day before.
According to her “sources,” Harry had been the one to discover Pettigrew and turn him over to the authorities. Others claimed Harry had been helping Sirius the entire time, abetting him even before the truth of his innocence came out. The article was littered with conflicting quotes; some portrayed Harry as a hero, while others called him a traitor, and some even hinted that he might be a criminal.
And Skeeter, in her usual slimy way, left the whole thing unresolved. The last lines read: “Nothing can be said for certain about this tangled web of mystery, as Harry Potter continues to refuse any interviews or public statements. Until the truth comes to light, we can only speculate on the Boy Who Lived… or the Boy Who Betrayed?”
Harry slammed his goblet down onto the table, spilling pumpkin juice. His face was flushed red, his jaw clenched tight.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “How can she just… make all this up?”
Hermione reached out, trying to calm him, but he jerked away. Around us, students were whispering and staring, some with awe, while others looked on with suspicion. It was exhausting just to sit there.
“I should have just given a statement when I had the chance,” Harry grumbled, glaring at the newspaper.
“No,” Hermione said firmly. “That would’ve made it worse. She would’ve twisted your words no matter what you said. Snape was right.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
“Hopefully, this’ll all stop after the trial,” I said quietly. “Once the truth is out in the open, no one’ll be able to twist it around anymore.”
Hermione nodded, though her brow was still furrowed.
“At least wizarding trials aren’t like the Muggle ones. With Veritaserum, they’re over quickly. It won’t take days or weeks for this to blow over.”
Harry let out a huff, crossing his arms and glaring down at the table.
“It can’t come soon enough,” he muttered.
I glanced at him, feeling a mix of frustration and sympathy. It wasn’t fair, any of it. The rumours, the gossip, the whispers behind his back. But we just had to get through it. Once the trial was over, maybe things could finally settle down.
For now, though, I hoped we could make it through the day without Harry punching someone.
My sweet summer child sure had a mean temper.
It was one of those weird, quiet days at school where everything felt just a bit off. Harry and Hermione were excused from classes to attend the trial, along with Snape and Lupin, so Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts were cancelled. They’d even had a meeting yesterday with Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape to go over protocols and lines of conduct during the trial. It all felt so official, so heavy.
I was grateful not to be going there, even if witnessing a real-life trial sounded interesting.
I spent the morning in a fog, barely paying attention in class, my mind constantly wandering to the trial. I imagined them sitting in that sterile courtroom, all those Ministry officials staring down at Harry and Hermione. I hoped everything was going smoothly and that Pettigrew was finally getting what he deserved.
At lunch, I sat alone for a bit at the Slytherin table, picking at my food and lost in thought. But then Fred, George, and Ginny came over from the Gryffindor table, their arms full of plates, and plopped down around me under the disapproving stares and sneers from surrounding Housemates.
“Oi, Ronnikins,” Fred said, nudging my shoulder. “Looking a bit glum there, mate. Thought we’d rescue you from your brooding.”
“Yeah,” Ginny agreed with a grin. “And we brought food. It’s better than that Slytherin rubbish. Can’t mope on an empty stomach.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little as they filled the table with bread rolls, pumpkin juice, and a pile of sandwiches.
We chatted about nothing for a while—Quidditch, the next Hogsmeade trip, and the latest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes test run. Eventually, the conversation turned to the infamous “Malfoy’s Week of Unfortune,” and we were all laughing about it again.
Ginny leaned forward, her eyes sparkling.
“So, how was he in class? I heard he’s still squeaking.”
I grinned, setting down my pumpkin juice.
“You should’ve seen his face when Professor McGonagall asked him a question. He tried to answer in his normal voice, but it came out all high and squeaky. He looked like he’d swallowed dragon dung.” I put on a constipated expression and did a pitch-perfect imitation of Malfoy’s squeaky voice.
Fred and George roared with laughter, nearly falling off the benches. Ginny snorted pumpkin juice through her nose.
“Brilliant, Ron,” George gasped. “You’ve missed your calling as a mimic!”
I basked in the rare moment of easy laughter with my siblings.
After lunch, the others drifted off to their next classes, but Ginny lingered beside me, tucking a stray red strand behind her ear.
“Hey, can I talk to you?” she asked quietly. “Just for a bit? I’ve got a free period now, and I… well, I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about this with the twins or Percy.”
I felt a warm flush of pride.
“Sure, Gin. What’s up?”
She hesitated, then said,
“It’s just… There are some girls in my year who keep teasing me. Saying I’m not a ‘real girl’ because I’m on the Quidditch team. They make stupid comments and snicker behind my back. It’s… It’s been getting to me.”
I felt my fists clench instinctively.
“They’re just pissy little bit—” I caught myself, snapping my mouth shut, but Ginny’s eyes lit up with curiosity.
“What were you going to say?” she asked, half-laughing.
“Can’t repeat it in front of such impressionable ears,” I said smugly.
“You jerk, we’re only one year apart!”
We both chuckled, but then Ginny’s face softened into a fond, teasing smile.
“Remember when you were eight and said ‘fuck’ in front of Mum? She scrubbed your mouth out with soap and sent you to de-gnome the garden. But you were crying so hard about hurting the gnomes that she gave up and let you off.”
“How do you even remember that, you insufferable witch?”
Ginny laughed in my face. I groaned, but I couldn’t help smiling.
“Back to the point,” I said, sobering. “Those girls are just jealous, Gin. You single-handedly won the match against Ravenclaw. Without you, it would’ve been a total shutout—zero to 130. They’re just bitter because everyone’s talking about you. You’re a hero in Gryffindor right now, and they’re nobodies .”
Ginny looked down, her cheeks pink with surprise.
“You think so?”
I nodded.
“One day, you’ll be a national star. And those girls? They’ll still be nobodies. Just bitter little hags while everyone’s chasing after you for interviews and autographs.”
She gave a small, shy smile.
“Has this… ever happened to you? You know, not being considered a ‘real boy’ or whatever?”
I hesitated, feeling the familiar weight of my thoughts.
“Well… Malfoy’s been calling me a girl sometimes because I wear hair clips. But really, he’s just jealous because my hair’s prettier than his.”
Ginny snorted.
“You’re right. Your hair is prettier than his.”
“You’re biased. That doesn’t count.”
“No, I’m not! Your hair’s almost as nice as Bill’s.”
“That’s the plan,” I said with a smirk.
We started chatting about Bill’s latest haircut and how cool he looked with his long hair and earrings.
“No one says Bill’s not manly enough because of the earring,” I pointed out.
“Exactly,” Ginny agreed.
As we talked, I found myself thinking about my discomfort—how I didn’t always feel like I fit the “boy” mould, how my body felt weird and wrong sometimes. I hesitated, then said,
“I’ve been reading this book. It’s called The Polyjuice Paradox. It’s about identity and… other stuff. I think you’d find it helpful. I can lend it to you if you want.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, and she gave me a grateful smile.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Of course,” I said, pulling her into a quick, tight hug. “I’d never make fun of you, Gin. I love you no matter what.”
Her arms tightened around me.
“Love you too, you dork.”
The moment felt soft, like a bubble between us. And for the first time in days, I felt grounded.
“Also, you should learn how to cast the Bat-Bogey Hex. I’m sure you’d be great at it. Just saying”
Chapter 32: BOOK THREE - LIFE-CHANGING REVELATIONS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
LIFE-CHANGING REVELATIONS
The whole castle buzzed like a beehive. Everyone—and I mean everyone —had a copy of the Daily Prophet in their hands, the thick, inky paper crinkling as they flipped through the transcript of Pettigrew’s trial. It was impossible to miss. Even in class, students were sneaking glances at the photos or whispering behind their hands about the courtroom drama.
Hermione, Harry, and I were tucked in a quiet corner of the Library during a break between classes, our heads bent over the paper. I was pretending to study, but really, I was listening to snippets of conversation drifting from the other tables.
There were photos everywhere; Pettigrew sitting pale and shaking on the stand, Dumbledore standing tall with his half-moon glasses, Sirius with his wild hair looking defiant but somehow dignified.
A group of girls nearby were giggling, pointing at the picture of Sirius. “He’s really handsome,” one of them whispered. “So rugged and mysterious. I bet he was a heartbreaker before Azkaban.”
Another sighed dreamily.
“I know. I can’t believe he’s Harry Potter’s godfather. It’s so romantic.”
I snorted softly, shaking my head. Sirius would probably be thrilled to hear this. It was just the kind of thing that would make him puff out his chest and wink at everyone.
Hermione glanced up from the paper and nudged Harry’s arm.
“They’re swooning over Sirius,” she whispered.
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Honestly. He’s just Sirius.”
“Exactly,” I said with a grin. “Bet he’d be flattered as anything.”
They laughed softly, and for a moment, it felt like the tension of the past few weeks had lifted just a little.
Hermione smoothed the paper and pointed to a line near the end.
“The Prophet says Pettigrew’s been sentenced to receive the Dementor’s Kiss in two days. They’re giving the public what they want.”
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
“So it’s really happening.”
Harry nodded, his face set.
“Yeah. They’ll do it, and then he’ll be buried at Azkaban with the others.”
“It’s over,” Hermione said in a quiet but steady voice. “He’ll never hurt anyone again.”
I swallowed, a strange mixture of relief and guilt washing over me.
As we packed up our books and prepared to head to class, Hermione and Harry filled me in on the trial. They described how Dumbledore had spoken with calm authority, how Sirius had looked proud and unbroken, and how the courtroom had been so quiet you could hear a quill scratch.
“And at the end,” Hermione said, her voice brightening, “Skeeter tried to corner Harry as we were leaving. You should’ve seen Snape, he gave her this look, and then he said, ‘I’d sooner subject myself to a thousand poisons than entertain one of your petty insinuations, Miss Skeeter.’”
Harry snorted with laughter.
“She was so furious she nearly tripped over her quill.”
I laughed too, picturing Snape’s sneering face as he dismissed Skeeter like swatting a fly.
“That’s brilliant,” I said, grinning. “Classic Snape.”
As we left the Library and joined the chattering students in the corridor, the weight of everything hung over us, but there was also a flicker of lightness, because justice, for once, had been served.
Two days later, Peter Pettigrew received the Dementor’s Kiss.
The next day, Sirius was officially found not guilty and received a hefty compensation for his twelve years in Azkaban.
I’d been hoping for a quiet start to my birthday, but of course, an owl swooped in during breakfast with a package from Mum and Dad. It was wrapped in cheerful green and gold paper, a little lopsided but tied neatly. I opened it, expecting a new jumper or something practical, like I was used to.
Instead, I found… a shaving kit.
A fancy one, with a silver razor, a thick brush, and a tin of shaving soap that smelled like cedar and lemon. There was a note from Dad, scrawled across the top: “Happy Birthday, Ron. This is a Muggle shaving kit, quite clever. No spells involved! Figured it’d be fun to try this way. Welcome to the club! Love, Mum and Dad. PS: Don’t tell your Mum they’re blades.”
I stared at it, my stomach twisting. The brush felt heavy in my hand, the tin of soap too grown-up, too manly. Was this how they saw me now? Just… a man in the making, no room for confusion or awkwardness.
Before I could react properly, Harry had already leaned over to glance at the contents. “Nice kit,” he said absently, before immediately turning back to the rest of the Quidditch team clustered around him, talking about tactics for the match against Hufflepuff.
I set the kit down, pretending to smile, but my chest felt tight.
Later, just as I was leaving the Great Hall, Fred and George cornered me in the Entrance Hall, Ginny trailing behind them, and Hermione too.
“Happy Birthday, Ronniekins!” Fred grinned, shoving a box into my hands.
George smirked. “A little something for our favourite almost-man.”
I hesitated, feeling my face flush, but opened it anyway. Inside was a charmed comb that automatically styled your hair into “rugged wizard” mode, complete with a faint magical stubble effect and a scent of woodsmoke and pine. There was also a pair of enchanted cufflinks shaped like tiny wands, which would spark dramatically whenever you gestured.
“See?” George said, waggling his eyebrows. “Now you’ll be irresistible.”
I gave a weak laugh, but it felt wrong. Too much. Too masculine.
Ginny handed me a small, wrapped box with a shy smile.
“Happy Birthday, Ron. Mine’s not as fancy as theirs, but it’s from the heart.”
Hermione hugged me, her gift a little book about famous Magizoologists. Simple and thoughtful.
Then Percy appeared from nowhere, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Happy Birthday, Ron. You’re growing up—becoming a man. Make us proud.”
My throat closed up. I mumbled a thanks, feeling more and more like I was shrinking inside my own skin.
I escaped as soon as I could, almost running down the corridor, feeling the gifts in my arms like weights I could barely carry.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I barely spoke in classes, my mind buzzing with thoughts I couldn’t untangle. Harry was off with the team, talking flight formations and game plans, utterly oblivious to my silence.
I felt invisible, like everyone was seeing me through a filter of expectations; “manly,” “strong,” “almost a man”. And none of it felt like me.
When the day finally ended, I escaped to the almost-empty courtyard, feeling more alone than I had in weeks. I hid away under a cool stone arch that overlooked the grounds, the wind ruffling my hair as I sat cross-legged on the cold stone.
The Polyjuice Paradox was balanced on my knees, the worn pages whispering softly as I flipped through them. Ginny had returned it to me with a quiet, “Thanks for letting me read it,” and now, I found myself drawn back into Alina Greaves’s story. Her resilience, her honesty, the way she fought to be herself despite it all.
I was so focused, I didn’t hear anyone approach.
“What are you reading?”
I jolted, nearly dropping the book. Hermione was standing behind me, her head tilted, a curious expression on her face.
My first instinct was to hide the book behind my back, but then I caught myself. There was nothing shameful about it. I straightened my shoulders, trying to act casual as I showed her the cover.
The Polyjuice Paradox: A Wizard’s Journey Through Identity.
Hermione’s brows rose, intrigued. She slid down beside me, tucking her legs under her robes.
“What’s it about?”
I hesitated, but then shrugged.
“It’s about a wizard who was obsessed with perfecting Polyjuice Potion. He made one mistake with the formula, and it changed him permanently. He was trapped in a woman’s body, and had to figure out how to live like that.”
I showed her the back cover, letting her read the summary. Hermione’s eyes scanned the words, her lips moving silently.
“Wow,” she said softly. “That sounds… poignant. Can I borrow it sometime?”
“Sure,” I said, handing it over. She placed it in her lap, tracing the embossed title with her finger.
She turned slightly, watching me more closely.
“You seemed uncomfortable this morning,” she said quietly. “About the gifts, and Percy’s remark. Is something bothering you?”
I swallowed, my mouth dry. Could I tell her the truth? I could barely tell it to myself most days. There was also the fact that I didn’t want it to change how she viewed me.
My feelings were tangled up, and I didn’t know which end to pull.
Eventually, I decided that this conversation might very well be the way to unravel the knots I wasn’t able to by myself.
I took the plunge.
“It’s just… I don’t feel… great in my… body, sometimes,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Things are changing, and it feels weird. Like I’m being pushed into a shape I don’t want.”
Hermione nodded, her expression serious and kind.
“That’s okay,” she said softly. “Lots of people feel that way. Can I ask… what do you feel, exactly?”
I shifted uncomfortably, the words jumbled on my tongue. But she wasn’t judging. She was just there. I took a shaky breath.
“I don’t like the way my body’s changing. It’s like my skin doesn’t fit right anymore,” I said. “I’m changing into… someone I don’t recognise… If that makes sense.”
“It does.”
I sighed in weariness.
“It’s like… everyone keeps acting like I’m supposed to be this boy who’s growing into a man, but I don’t feel that way. And—” I faltered, my throat tightening.
Hermione didn’t press, just nodded gently.
“And it’s not even just about my body,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “It’s everything. How people see me. How I’m supposed to act. Like, I’m supposed to like girls, supposed to get all… flustered about them, but I don’t. I’ve never felt that way about them. And now, I just think about how my parents will wait for me to take a girl home to introduce to them. When that’s not likely to happen at all .” I tried to sound casual, like it was no big deal, but my cheeks flushed hot.
I glanced at her nervously, waiting for her to say something. Hermione blinked once, then tilted her head, studying me.
“Ron,” she said flatly, “everyone who knows you already knows you’re gay.”
I stared at her, heat rushing to my ears.
“I know you know. But I always deny it because people… people like Malfoy will tease me about it. It’s easier to just… pretend.”
Hermione’s eyes softened, and she reached out to squeeze my arm gently.
“I’m sorry you feel like you can’t be open. It’ll get easier with time. And you know what? No one you care about will ever care about that .” She grinned slyly. “They’ll just be weirded out by your choice of men.”
I felt my entire face go up in flames.
“Hermione!”
She smirked, leaning back.
“What? It’s adorable how you look at Snape like he hangs the moon.”
I groaned, hiding my face in my hands.
“Stop torturing me!”
She laughed, her laughter light and warm, echoing off the stone arch.
Desperate to turn the conversation away from me, I blurted,
“What about you, then? You liked Lockhart, didn’t you?”
Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t remind me. I was a fool.”
“And Cedric Diggory?” I teased.
She gave a dramatic shrug.
“Well, he is handsome. And not a complete fraud.”
I laughed, but it faded quickly into a quiet sigh.
Hermione’s voice softened, her gaze gentle.
“You know, one day, you’re going to bring home a boy, and your parents aren’t even going to bat an eyelash. They’re just going to welcome him in, like family. That’s how your family is.”
I gave a dry laugh, shaking my head.
“The problem isn’t that, Hermione. I mean, it would be strange if they were fine with Charlie being attracted to dragons but not me bringing a man home.” I snorted at my joke, but it felt hollow. “No… It’s more about the kind of person I’d bring over.”
“Tall, dark and with a mean streak?” she said, lips twitching, her voice light and teasing “Even if, by some bizarre twist of fate, you brought actual Snape home, it wouldn’t change how your family feels about you. They’d just be a little… perplexed.”
I flushed, my face heating. My laugh came out more like a bitter huff.
“As if,” I murmured.
My mind slipped away, unbidden, to that old vision from first year—the one I saw in the Mirror of Erised. The image of my whole family gathered at the Burrow, celebrating, laughing, toasting me and Snape at our wedding. It had felt so real, so warm and perfect. I could almost hear the clinking of goblets, smell the roast on the table, feel the sun streaming through the marquee.
But now, it felt like a cruel, beautiful dream. A world that couldn’t exist.
I must’ve gone quiet, because Hermione’s voice broke through softly.
“Where were you just now?”
I blinked, startled back into the courtyard. I swallowed, forcing a shaky smile.
“Somewhere beautiful,” I said quietly. “But very sad.”
Her brows knit together in concern.
“What can I do to help you feel better?”
I hesitated, then let out a breath and gave her a crooked grin.
“Distract me. Gimme your hand. I’m going to read your palm.”
She rolled her eyes but held out her hand anyway, her lips quirking into a reluctant smile.
“I still think Divination is nonsense, but… sure.”
Her hand was warm and familiar in mine, her fingers resting against my palm. And I thought, in that moment, how lucky I was to have friends like her, friends who accepted me, even when I couldn’t always accept myself.
I could feel my excitement bubbling up as I stepped into the Charms classroom for the tutoring session. After finally managing to find all the clues in the History classroom last week—and within the allotted time—I was determined to nail it again today.
The usual setup was in place: me with my wand, my textbooks, and the familiar nerves buzzing in my chest. But I wasn’t feeling dread this time. I was ready.
Snape swept in, his robes billowing as usual, his expression impassible. Usually, he’d just say “Begin” and leave me to my work while he hovered over essays at the back. But today, he gave an unexpected instruction.
“Do not use the revealing charm on the desk in the corner,” he said flatly, his eyes flicking to the offending desk.
I snorted before I could stop myself. I knew precisely what crude message was carved there. I revealed it weeks ago.
“Too late, sir,” I said, grinning.
Snape’s gaze sharpened.
“Then you’d best not repeat this language or I’ll personally assign you detention.”
I smirked, leaning back a little.
“Even if it’s in my mind?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and he said in a quiet, biting tone,
“Your mind may not be as private as you think, Mr. Weasley.”
I felt a flicker of understanding. He didn’t know I already knew he was a Legilimens. He probably thought no third-year would have even heard of such obscure magic. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking and went back to work without a word.
Time ticked on. I checked books, scanned surfaces, and whispered the charm, feeling more and more confident with each success. But a question had been tugging at the back of my mind since last session, and eventually, I couldn’t help myself.
“Sir,” I said, glancing up from the desk I was scanning. “Does the revealing charm work on people under Polyjuice?”
Snape’s head snapped up, his dark eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
“Where,” he said slowly, “did you hear of such an advanced potion, Mr. Weasley?”
I shrugged, trying to keep my voice light.
“A book, sir.”
He raised a brow.
“You’re an adequate Potions student, Weasley, but far from a genius. This potion isn’t discussed until N.E.W.T. level. What kind of book were you reading?”
I kept my expression innocent.
“I’m just curious. I like books.”
He studied me for a long moment, suspicion flickering in his gaze. Finally, he said coolly,
“You had better not be planning to use—or worse, brew—Polyjuice Potion. If you are, I’ll make your life hell.”
“That’s not the plan at all, sir,” I said, holding my hands up. “I was just wondering if the revealing charm would work on Polyjuiced people. It seems like as much of a risk as Animagi, if not more.”
Snape exhaled sharply through his nose, returning his quill to the parchment in front of him.
“No, it wouldn’t. The charm is not designed to pierce Polyjuice. Only time or a secrecy sensor could do that.”
“Or the Map,” I said without thinking.
Snape’s eyes snapped back to me, narrowing.
“Give it to me.”
My heart skipped a beat. Whoops. Now he thought I was planning mischief and was going to confiscate the Marauder’s Map forever.
“I don’t have it with me,” I said quickly. “I’ll give it to you after the session.”
He regarded me for a tense moment, sniffing me for a lie, then gave a curt nod.
“See that you do.”
I hesitated, chewing my lip.
“Will you test it? To see if Polyjuice can confuse the Map?”
Snape’s lips twitched faintly, a shadow of amusement or maybe irritation.
“Yes, Weasley, I will. Now, go back to work.”
I bent over the desk again, hiding a grin. So he wasn’t confiscating it. He was just curious.
Cute.
At breakfast the day after April Fool’s, a sudden hush fell over the room like a silencing spell. Heads turned toward the rustling paper, wide eyes scanning the bold headline.
“‘DARK CREATURE IN DISGUISE: HOGWARTS HIRES WEREWOLF AS PROFESSOR!’
By Rita Skeeter
In the wake of recent revelations surrounding Peter Pettigrew, the wizarding world has been rocked yet again—this time by shocking news from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts itself.
Sources reveal that one of the school’s most trusted professors—Remus Lupin, the quiet and unassuming Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher—has been hiding a dark and dangerous secret. Lupin, it turns out, is no ordinary wizard. He is a werewolf.
Yes, you read that correctly. For nearly the entire school year, Hogwarts has been harbouring a werewolf in its classrooms, standing before impressionable young minds, even as his true nature remained concealed from the parents and guardians who entrust their children to the school’s care.
Though some sources claim that Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was aware of Professor Lupin’s “condition,” no public statement has been made by the school. Students and staff alike were kept in the dark, leaving countless children exposed to potential danger.
“Imagine what could have happened if he lost control,” said one concerned parent, who wished to remain anonymous. “The idea that my child was learning Defence Against the Dark Arts from a werewolf is nothing short of horrifying.”
Others suggest that Hogwarts is turning a blind eye to the dangers posed by Lupin, especially in light of recent events. Is it any wonder that Peter Pettigrew, another trusted figure, was revealed to be a traitor? Is Hogwarts, long considered a beacon of magical education, in fact a haven for those who deceive and betray?
While defenders of Professor Lupin point out his “impeccable record” and “dedication to the students’ safety,” one must ask: Can anyone truly guarantee the safety of children when a known werewolf is permitted to teach?
With Hogwarts’ reputation hanging in the balance, the question remains: How much does Albus Dumbledore really know, and how far is he willing to go to protect his staff?
Stay tuned for further updates as this story unfolds.”
I tensed, my stomach sinking as the whispers began. Shocked gasps and incredulous murmurs rippled through every table.
There were photos of Lupin, pale and thin, of Dumbledore looking grave, of Sirius’s defiant expression in court. Students leaned over one another, pointing at the pictures and the text. I saw them turning toward the staff table. Toward him.
Lupin, sitting quietly with his hands wrapped around his tea, had gone still. He lowered his cup slowly, eyes scanning the paper one of the nearby professors was holding. His expression tightened, lips pressing into a thin line.
Then came the loud, unmistakable voice of Draco Malfoy from the Slytherin table.
“A werewolf teaching Defence? No wonder Hogwarts is going downhill! What’s next? A vampire for Transfiguration?”
I felt a hot rush of anger and stood abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Better a werewolf than a slimy coward who hides behind his father’s money, Malfoy,” I said sharply. “At least Professor Lupin doesn’t need Daddy’s gold to get respect.”
The Hall rippled with laughter and murmurs. Malfoy’s face turned blotchy red, and he scowled, muttering something under his breath before slinking away with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind.
I sat back down, my heart pounding, but my anger didn’t fade.
Harry was sitting beside me, stunned.
“He’s… a werewolf?” he muttered, still looking at the paper. “That explains everything. The absences, the sick days…” His voice trailed off as he pieced it together.
Then he turned to me, eyebrows raised.
“What do you think? You’re not surprised.”
I hesitated, then sighed.
“I’m not. I knew.”
Harry’s jaw dropped.
“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?!”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” I said, my voice low and firm.
Before Harry could argue, Hermione hurried over, dropping into the seat beside us, her plate forgotten.
“It’s awful,” she said breathlessly. “Poor Professor Lupin. To be exposed like that, in front of everyone…”
She glanced around, her voice lowering.
“I wonder who blabbed?”
Harry’s mouth fell open again.
“Wait—you knew too?!”
Hermione blinked at him.
“You knew?”
“No, he knew,” Harry said, pointing at me.
Hermione’s brows rose, her gaze flicking to me with a hint of surprise.
“How did you figure it out?”
I shrugged, forcing a casual tone to make my bold lie pass.
“When Snape gave us the werewolf essay in Defence. It just… fit. The absences, the hints. I figured it out then.”
Hermione’s eyes widened.
“That long ago? I only realised it two months back.”
Harry crossed his arms, glaring at both of us.
“So you both knew and didn’t tell me?”
Hermione sighed.
“It wasn’t our secret, Harry.”
I gave him a look— told you so.
Harry groaned in frustration, glancing up at the head table.
“Snape was kind of an arse to tell people this way.”
Hermione nodded.
“It’s awful. He didn’t need to humiliate Lupin like that. It’s not fair.”
I was quiet, staring down at my plate. Harry noticed.
“What, Ron? Doesn’t this… I don’t know, shatter your view of Snape a bit?”
I sighed heavily, running a hand through my hair.
“Look, the way Snape went about it… It’s completely wrong. I hate that. But… It’s also true. Lupin’s condition is dangerous, especially in a school full of kids.”
Harry and Hermione both stared at me, scandalised. I held up a hand.
“I know he’s a good guy. I know he’s an amazing teacher. I’m not saying he deserves to be shunned. Werewolves are treated horribly, and it’s not their fault. He’s careful; he takes precautions. But…” I hesitated, remembering that night in the Shrieking Shack, the fear when Lupin transformed. “ One mistake. One missed potion. And someone could get turned. Or worse, get killed. I just… I see both sides, is all.”
They were quiet for a moment, their expressions conflicted. Harry looked down, frustrated. Hermione’s eyes were sad.
I sighed, feeling the weight of it pressing down on me. The knowledge, the guilt, the helplessness. It was a mess, and there were no easy answers.
Poor Lupin indeed.
The days after Skeeter’s article felt heavier, like the castle itself was holding its breath. Lupin didn’t show up for lessons the day the article was published. Instead, we sat in Defence class without a teacher, awkward and quiet. Word spread that he was in Dumbledore’s office all day, though no one knew for sure.
By the second morning, letters from parents arrived, some expressing concern, others outrage. There were rumours of students being withdrawn, or at least barred from attending Lupin’s classes. The whispers got louder, and before long, it wasn’t just gossip.
Lucius Malfoy himself swept into the castle, flanked by a couple of other grim-faced members of the Board of Governors. They met with Dumbledore behind closed doors, though the whole school buzzed with speculation. I caught sight of Lucius as he left, his pale, smug face twisted into a satisfied smirk.
By the sixth day, the whispers turned into certainty: Lupin was leaving.
That afternoon, we filed into Defence Against the Dark Arts, the air thick with something unsaid. On the Slytherin side, the benches were nearly empty. Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode sat stiffly at the front, while I slipped in behind them with Harry. The rest of the house was absent; some like Parkinson from fear, others like Theodore from being forbidden by their parents and then some like Malfoy who only felt disdain for a half-breed.
In contrast, the Gryffindor side was packed, every seat filled. Hermione sat in the middle, her face tight and anxious.
Lupin stood at the front of the room, his usual calm tinged with something sad and resigned.
“I imagine you’ve all heard the rumours by now,” he said quietly, his voice steady but soft. “They’re true. I’ve submitted my resignation to Professor Dumbledore, and today will be my last lesson with you.”
A wave of protest erupted. Seamus stood up, looking outraged.
“That’s rubbish! You’re the best teacher we’ve ever had!”
Dean nodded fiercely.
“Yeah! You can’t just leave because of stupid rumours!”
Brown and Patil exchanged anxious glances.
“We’ll miss you so much, Professor,” Parvati said softly.
Lupin’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile.
“Thank you. That means more than you know.”
The rest of the period was less of a lesson and more of an outpouring. Students shared their favourite memories from his classes: funny mishaps with Boggarts, the thrill of real, practical magic, and offered their thanks and best wishes.
Harry spoke up, his voice firm.
“You’re a brilliant teacher, Professor Lupin. We’ll miss you.”
Lupin’s expression flickered, a mixture of pride and sorrow. I found it heartbreakingly unfair how a man who had given us so much could be pushed out just because of fear and prejudice.
As the hour ended, we lined up to leave, each student pausing to say something: a quiet “thank you,” a murmured “sorry,” a hopeful “good luck.”
When I reached him, I hesitated, searching for something that wasn’t just hollow words. Then I found it.
“You know,” I said quietly, “I wasn’t the only one who knew. Hermione did too. And… neither of us told anyone. We minded our own business. Just… maybe there are more people on your side than you think.”
Lupin’s eyes softened, and for the first time all week, he gave a genuine smile.
“Thank you, Ron,” he said quietly, sincerely. “That means a great deal.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, and followed Harry and Hermione out into the corridor. We walked in silence, the weight of the goodbye pressing down on all of us.
Chapter 33: BOOK THREE - DISILLUSION
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DISILLUSION
I was already waiting at the back of the Transfiguration classroom when Snape swept in, his robes flaring dramatically as usual. I stood quickly and fished the small vial of dittany and silver from my inner pocket, holding it out.
“Here,” I said. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Snape arched a brow but took it smoothly, slipping it into his robes with a simple “I see.”
Without missing a beat, he produced some folded parchment and handed it back. The Marauder’s Map. I took it carefully, trying not to show how much I’d missed its reassuring presence.
“Did you succeed? With the test?”
Snape’s mouth curved just slightly, the ghost of a smirk.
“Your hunch was correct. The Map shows the true identity of someone under Polyjuice Potion.”
A warm glow spread through my chest. A compliment, from Snape. But almost immediately, guilt gnawed at me. I hadn’t figured it out myself, not really. I’d read it in the books during my other life. It felt like I was cheating.
Still, I managed a small smile.
“Glad to hear it,” I murmured.
Snape nodded once.
“You have one more test tonight. After that, this will be your last session.”
My heart sank. The last session? I knew this was coming, but I couldn’t help the disappointment flooding through me. I swallowed it down and set to work.
I focused hard, scanning the room, casting the revealing charm on surfaces, shelves, and behind the teacher’s desk. My wand flicked smoothly now, the spell coming to me with ease. I uncovered every hidden object one by one, feeling a quiet sense of accomplishment.
But then, near the window, I felt something… odd. The magic there felt alive, pulsing faintly. I hesitated, then cast the spell.
With a faint pop, a real goose materialised, flapping its wings and honking loudly.
“EEP!” I yelped, jumping up onto the nearest desk, cheeks burning as I scrambled for balance.
The goose honked again, strutting around in triumph.
Snape’s dry voice floated from the front of the room.
“Rest assured, Mr. Weasley. I shall not breathe a word of this... performance to anyone. Provided, of course, you compose yourself with more dignity in future encounters with poultry.”
I groaned, my face turning scarlet.
“Please—get rid of it before it attacks me!”
Snape’s lips twitched.
“Inspiring. The embodiment of courage—unless confronted by an actual goose.” With a flick of his wand, the conjured goose vanished in a swirl of feathers.
I climbed down from the desk, trying to regain what little dignity I had left.
Snape stood, crossing his arms.
“You’ve mastered the Revealing charm. You no longer require tutoring on it.”
I pouted, feeling the loss like a punch to the gut.
“Oh. Right…”
Without answering, Snape handed me a folded parchment. I unfolded it to find a list of chapter numbers, but no titles were included. I squinted at it, confused.
Then Snape spoke, his tone brisk but not unkind.
“You’ll find the necessary texts in the Library. Review them. Come prepared. My office. Same time.”
I blinked.
“Wait—my office? Same time?” My voice rose in surprise.
Snape arched a brow, clearly amused by my reaction.
My lips split into a grin I couldn’t control.
“You mean… more tutoring? You’re not… done with me?”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
“I believe I made myself clear. Come prepared.”
I beamed so wide I thought my cheeks might crack and clutched the parchment like it was the most precious thing in the world.
“Thank you! I—I mean, thanks for the lesson. And, uh… everything.”
Snape inclined his head, already turning to gather his materials.
I left the classroom practically bouncing on my toes, the Map secure in my pocket, the parchment gripped in my hand, my mind buzzing with questions and a radiant, unstoppable smile stretching across my face.
The Library was unusually quiet, even for a Sunday evening. I sat across from Hermione, who was scribbling furiously into her Arithmancy notebook, her lips moving silently as she calculated something complicated for extra credit. Beside her, Harry was slouched over his parchment, groaning softly as he tried to make sense of his neglected Potions essay. He muttered darkly to himself about Quidditch practice devouring all his time.
I stretched, pushing aside my Ancient Runes homework with a satisfied sigh. Done. Finally. I reached into my bag and pulled out the folded parchment Snape had given me. I glanced around, stood, and went off in search of the books.
Ten minutes later, I returned, arms laden with four thick tomes, each looking like it could knock out a troll if dropped from the right height. I dumped them onto the table with a heavy thud, drawing both Hermione’s and Harry’s attention.
Hermione blinked at the pile.
“Those are fifth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts texts. You’re not even in those classes yet.”
I shrugged, flipping through the top book to find the correct page.
“Snape’s going to teach me a new spell.”
Harry let out a whine, his quill scratching across the parchment.
“You’re doing extra lessons? I can barely stay afloat with normal homework and practice.”
Hermione, her tone a little smug, replied,
“We all have different priorities, Harry. I want top grades, so I take extra credit. You push yourself for the Quidditch Cup. And Ron—” Her voice softened in a way that made me frown. “Ron wants to… learn.”
I glared at her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just… you know. Curiosity.”
I wasn’t sure I liked her tone, but I turned back to the book, flipping it open to the page listed. My eyebrows rose.
“It’s the Human-Presence-Revealing Spell,” I said, intrigued. “That’s what Snape’s going to teach me next.”
I was about to start reading when Hermione’s voice cut through.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit strange? That Snape wants to keep tutoring you even after you mastered the Revealing Charm?”
I froze, then slowly looked up.
“Strange how ?”
Hermione hesitated, glancing at Harry.
“It’s just… Ron, I know you… like him. But are you sure this is just about magic? What if you’re… reading into things?”
Harry chimed in, frowning.
“Or what if Snape has ulterior motives? I mean, it’s Snape. He’s not exactly a fan of students in general. Why would he suddenly take an interest in helping you?”
I felt a prickle of irritation rising.
“I’m not seeing signs that aren’t there,” I snapped, louder than intended. “Snape’s a teacher, not a… pervert.”
Hermione winced.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“And as for ulterior motives,” I continued, voice hardening, “I already know what they are.”
Both of them stared at me, wide-eyed.
“What do you mean?” Harry asked.
“It’s none of your business,” I said flatly, heart racing. “Not even my business. I’m not supposed to know, and Snape would hate it if he found out I did.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her curiosity flaring. Harry’s eyebrows shot up.
“You can’t just say that and expect us to drop it!”
I crossed my arms.
“I can and I will. Leave it alone.”
They exchanged a glance, clearly frustrated, but I wasn’t going to tell them. I wasn’t about to betray what little trust Snape had in me, even if he’d never admit it.
I sighed, slumping back in my chair.
“And for the record, can you both stop reading every one of my interactions with Snape like I’m some lovesick idiot? I respect him, okay? For real reasons. I’m not starry-eyed over him. I know he’s a jerk. I just accept it. Just like I mostly assume my own jerkness.”
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Harry beat her to it, snorting.
“You’re not a jerk, Ron.”
Hermione’s lips twitched.
“Well… maybe a little sometimes. But not always.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
As they bickered lightly about whether I was a jerk or not, I flipped the book open to the right page, trying to hide the grin tugging at my lips.
The tension in the Defence classroom was thicker than treacle as we all filed in. Whispers bounced around the room.
“That’s John Dawlish, right? An actual Auror?”
Harry sat beside me, arms crossed, his face already set in a scowl. Hermione was there too, clutching her quill and parchment like they were her weapons of choice.
The door banged shut, and Dawlish strode in like he owned the place. Tall, broad-shouldered, with an Auror’s bearing and a faintly smug smile that made me want to hex something. He looked us all over with a sharp, calculating gaze.
“Good morning,” he said briskly. “I am Auror John Dawlish, and I have been assigned to fill the vacancy in this post for the rest of this term.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. I felt my stomach clench.
“You are undoubtedly aware of the recent staff changes,” he continued, his tone dripping with condescension. “The Ministry believes it prudent to ensure your education is handled by a competent and responsible authority, one who will not expose you to unnecessary dangers.”
Harry’s fists clenched against the desk. I could feel the heat radiating off him. Hermione’s lips tightened until they were nearly invisible.
Dawlish’s smug smile didn’t falter.
“From now on, the curriculum will follow strict Ministry standards. We will focus on practical defensive spells, drills, and protocol. There will be no improvisation, no deviation from the approved program. You are here to learn, not to take risks.”
I grimaced. This is going to be a nightmare, I thought.
“Now,” Dawlish said, turning back to the blackboard. “Open your Defence texts to page three hundred and ninety-four.”
Werewolves? What the actual fuck.
There was a rustle of pages, but when we reached the page, a wave of disbelief rippled through the room. Hermione shot her hand up.
“Excuse me, Professor Dawlish, but we’ve already covered werewolves this year.”
Dawlish’s smirk turned condescending.
“Ah, but given recent revelations, it’s clear your previous instruction was biased. You deserve to understand the true danger you were exposed to.”
Seamus at the back piped up,
“But it wasn’t even Lupin who taught us that. It was Professor Snape.”
Dawlish’s expression didn’t waver.
“Nevertheless, it is necessary to correct any misconceptions. Now, let’s proceed.”
And proceed he did, droning on and on about werewolves; their uncontrollable transformations, their violent natures, how hiring one as a professor was beyond reckless. Every few minutes, he’d remind us that the Ministry was there to protect us now.
I sat there stiffly, fists clenched in my lap, my teeth grinding together. Across the room, Seamus and Dean were glaring at him like they wanted to hex him into next week. Lavender and Parvati were whispering furiously, their faces flushed with anger. Hermione’s quill was practically gouging holes in her parchment, her lips pressed thin.
Harry was seething, arms crossed tightly, his glare boring into Dawlish’s back.
When the bell finally rang, it was as if a dam had broken. Everyone gathered their things in a rush, muttering under their breath.
“That was absolute rubbish,” Harry snapped as we spilt into the corridor.
“Absolute rubbish,” Hermione echoed, her cheeks flushed.
I trailed after them, quiet but fuming. Dawlish was an ass, and his lessons were going to be a nightmare. Still, I thought bitterly, at least he’d teach us spells. That was more than I could say for Umbridge. Small victory, I supposed.
As we made our way toward Ancient Runes, the Gryffindors around us were still muttering angrily. When we arrived in front of the Runes classroom, where some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were already waiting, I caught Parvati warning her sister Padma in a low voice.
“Just wait till you see this prick,” she hissed.
Padma raised an eyebrow.
“He can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, just you wait,” Parvati snapped.
When we reached the classroom, Professor Babbling greeted us with a too-cheerful smile.
“Pop quiz today!”
A collective groan went up, some students wailing dramatically as they slumped into their seats.
I sighed, sinking into my chair as Hermione rolled her eyes. Well, at least this day can’t get much worse. Probably.
I stepped into the dungeon classroom, clutching my neatly organised, colour-coded notes to my chest. Snape was already there, seated at his desk, parchment spread out before him. His dark eyes flicked up briefly when I entered, then back down to his papers.
I swallowed and made my way to the front of the room, placing my notes on the workstation across from his desk.
“Evening, sir,” I said, trying to sound confident.
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tapped his quill lightly against his parchment, then set it aside.
“We will begin with a quiz,” he said smoothly. “Your preparation for this session will determine the pace at which we proceed.”
I nodded, standing straight as he fixed me with a pointed look.
“Explain the magical theory behind the Human-Presence-Revealing Spell,” Snape prompted.
I took a breath, recalling my notes.
“The spell creates a magical resonance with the unique magical signature of living beings. It doesn’t directly reveal them but places a marker in the caster’s mind or vision, indicating the target’s presence and location. The marker pulses slightly if the target is moving.”
Snape’s eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.
“The wand movement is a sharp upward flick, then a small loop, and a final downward point,” I continued. “It’s meant to trace the boundary of the hidden presence.”
“Qualifications?” he asked, voice soft but expectant.
I gripped the edge of the workstation.
“The spell can only detect beings with magical cores strong enough to resonate with the spell’s frequency. It doesn’t work on goblins, centaurs, or house-elves because their magic is fundamentally different from wizards. But it does work on werewolves and vampires—when they’re in a transformed or magical state.”
His lip curled slightly, but it wasn’t quite a smirk.
“Practical uses?”
“Well, it can be used to detect someone hiding under an invisibility cloak, or using a Disillusionment charm,” I said. “And, uh… if you think someone is lurking behind your shower curtains.”
Snape’s lips twitched faintly.
“Charming. That will suffice.”
Relief washed through me, though I tried not to show it. Snape set aside his quill.
“The sessions will proceed as follows. First, you will cast the spell on me while I am visible. Then, you will attempt it when I am concealed. Lastly, we will attempt nonverbal casting. Though I suspect you will fail at this stage, we will attempt it regardless.”
I blinked.
“Nonverbal? Really?”
Snape folded his hands.
“Your performance with the Patronus demonstrated a capacity for mental discipline. And your progress in previous sessions has shown me that you are determined, if nothing else. We will attempt it.”
I felt a warm flush of pride, even though I tried to keep my face neutral.
“Why… why are you teaching nonverbal, though?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Answer that yourself.”
I hesitated.
“Um… surprise. It’s good to know where someone’s hidden so I can prepare the right spell, aimed in the right direction.”
Snape inclined his head slightly.
“Correct. Now, listen carefully.”
He launched into a detailed lecture about the spell’s magical underpinnings, nuances, and limitations. I focused hard, scribbling notes and committing his words to memory.
Finally, he settled back into his chair and waved me forward.
“Begin.”
I drew my wand and faced him.
“Homenum Revelio”, I muttered, flicking my wand in the practised motion. Nothing happened.
I tried again. And again. Still nothing.
Frustration coiled in my chest, but I kept going, determined not to give up. The minutes ticked by, Snape’s quill scratching faintly as he marked essays at his desk.
Finally, just as the clock’s minute hand inched toward the end of the session, I felt a twinge of magic connect. A faint, pulsing outline appeared over Snape’s form.
“Ha!” I yelped, almost dropping my wand. “I did it! I can see you!”
Snape’s lips curved just slightly.
“Good. Practice during the week. The session is over.”
I collected my things, beaming despite the sweat trickling down my back. As we left the dungeon, Snape’s long strides leading the way, a couple of older students passed us in the corridor. Now that Sirius was no longer a threat, more students were lingering in the halls.
Once we passed them, I lowered my voice.
“Sir, should I… should I try the Revealing Charm nonverbally on my own this week?”
His head tilted faintly.
“No. Never attempt nonverbal spells without supervision at your level. Wait for our next session.”
I nodded, heart racing.
“Right. Got it. See you.”
He gave the barest hint of a nod before sweeping down the corridor, leaving me grinning behind him.
I scribbled one last sentence on my essay and finally finished. I stretched with a satisfying groan, flexing my fingers. Hermione was still furiously working through her Arithmancy, her quill scratching as if her life depended on it. Harry, on the other hand, was slumped over his parchment, mumbling about how he’d never catch up if Quidditch practice didn’t ease up.
I leaned back and flipped through one of the thick DADA books Snape had recommended, idly reading ahead while I waited for them.
“Nonverbal!” Hermione suddenly exclaimed, her voice a little too loud for the Library. A few students glared in our direction, and she flushed before lowering her tone. “That’s really advanced! Only students above O.W.L. level usually learn that.”
I shrugged, trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal, even though I felt ridiculously pleased she was impressed.
“Well, he said I’d probably not manage it anyway. I think he’s just laying some groundwork for later years. Who knows? Maybe I’ll manage it.”
Harry perked up, a grin stretching across his face.
“Hey, you remember when we tried nonverbal spells in first year? A prefect thought we were dying or something.”
I chuckled, remembering the chaos we’d caused, while Hermione huffed out a soft laugh.
Then Hermione dug into her bag, her determined expression making me glance up. She pulled out something thick and neatly folded, dropping it in the middle of our table. Harry groaned dramatically the moment he saw it.
I peered over, then grinned.
“Yaaay!” I said, maybe a little louder than necessary. “You made our study plans!”
Harry whined,
“It’s too early for that, Hermione. It’s only mid-April.”
I smirked.
“Given how much you’re struggling with homework because of Quidditch, you need all the help you can get. Starting now is the best plan.”
Harry slumped dramatically into his arms, muttering something about being trapped between two crazy people. Hermione and I just shared an amused look.
“Thanks, Hermione,” I said earnestly, flipping through the pages. The plan was so neat, colour-coded, and it even had little checkboxes. But what caught my attention was when I noticed a section marked “Practice: Revealing Charm & DADA.”
I blinked, surprised but pleased.
“Hey, you even made time for me to practice the spells Snape’s teaching me.”
Hermione smiled, her cheeks pink with pride.
“Of course. You’re doing well with the tutoring. You deserve the support.”
I gave her a thumbs-up, grinning.
“Thanks, Hermione. This is brilliant.”
She beamed, clearly pleased that I appreciated the plan, while Harry just groaned into his arms like he wanted to disappear. Once he was finished with his dramatics, he suddenly straightened up a little, glancing between us.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter and more thoughtful. “I got a letter from Sirius today.”
Hermione and I both perked up. Harry never even mentioned Sirius’ letters anymore, except when there was some noteworthy info to share.
“He said he wants to meet me,” Harry continued, his voice tightening with emotion. “Properly. Like, in person. He asked if I could meet him during the Hogsmeade trip next month.”
I blinked, leaning forward.
“That’s brilliant, mate!”
Harry gave a little laugh, but his smile was wobbly.
“Yeah. It feels… weird, you know? I mean, I’ve been writing to him, and he’s been so—so kind, and I feel like I know him, but…” His voice faltered, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “But meeting him face-to-face? It’s like it’s finally real. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act, or what I’m supposed to say.”
Hermione softened, leaning forward.
“Just be yourself, Harry. He’s your godfather. He already cares about you. This isn’t some test.”
“Yeah,” I added, grinning. “He’ll probably just be happy to finally meet you without, you know, being chased by Dementors or the Ministry.”
Harry gave a small, grateful smile.
“I know. But I’m nervous. It’s…a lot.”
I tilted my head.
“Do you want us to come with you? Or would you rather it just be the two of you?”
Harry hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the corner of his study plan.
“I’m not sure. It might be nice to have you there for backup, but maybe it should just be him and me. The first time. You know?”
Hermione nodded, though her brow was pinched.
“That makes sense. Just be careful. Even though he’s exonerated now, the press is still going to be watching. You don’t want Skeeter spinning some nonsense story about him or you.”
I snapped my fingers. Well, what passed for it anyway.
“We can get a private room at the Three Broomsticks! That way it’s just the two of you, no press, no nosy onlookers.”
Harry’s face brightened.
“That’s a brilliant idea, Ron! I’ll write to him and suggest it. That way we can talk properly without worrying.” He let out a breath and grinned widely. “I can’t wait for May. Finally getting to meet him properly, like family. It’s—it’s going to be amazing.”
Hermione’s smile was soft and warm.
“It will be. He’ll be so proud of you.”
I clapped Harry on the back.
“And we’ll be right there in Hogsmeade if you need us. But it’s your moment. Make it count.”
Harry gave a determined nod, his eyes bright with excitement and nerves.
“Thanks, guys.”
Then we each returned to our work. Harry scowled down at his Charms essay, Hermione resumed her scribbling about Arithmancy, and I finally cracked open the thick DADA book Snape had recommended.
But even as I tried to focus on the text, my thoughts kept drifting.
I tapped my quill against the parchment, glancing at Harry’s determined face as he scribbled, and Hermione’s steady focus as she flipped a page. Everything felt so… different.
All these changes.
No Peter to run off and bring Voldemort back. Meaning no Harry getting dragged into that nightmare Triwizard Tournament. No graveyard. No resurrection.
And after that, Sirius wouldn’t be stuck in that horrible old house, pacing like a caged animal, taking risks that got him killed in the end. He was free. He was going to meet Harry in Hogsmeade. He was part of Harry’s life now, properly.
I swallowed hard, the quill trembling slightly in my fingers. I had no control over anything anymore.
It was like a line of dominoes had tipped over somewhere, and now everything was falling differently.
Everything from Before was already wrong. Some things were the same, sure, but so many weren’t.
Without Pettigrew, so many things changed. He wouldn’t find Voldemort in Albania, sure, but he also wasn’t going to find Crouch Jr., so no Crouch posturing as Moody. No Portkey. No murdered Cedric.
Meaning… no smear campaign against Harry and Dumbledore. No Umbridge. No Ministry Battle. No Prophecy.
How would Harry even learn about the prophecy?
How much more was going to change?
I wondered, with a sharp pang in my chest, how it was all going to work out.
I was still half lost in my thoughts about how everything was changing when Padma Patil and Lisa Turpin appeared out of nowhere at our table, each clutching a thick Arithmancy textbook like it was trying to bite them.
“Hey, Hermione,” Padma said, breathless. “Could you help us with this problem for next week’s homework? We’ve been at it for an hour, and it’s just impossible!”
Hermione immediately perked up, eyes lighting with interest.
“Of course. What’s the question?”
Lisa leaned in, pointing to a mess of equations I couldn’t make heads or tails of. The words ‘Runic trajectory ’ and ‘incremental magical flux’ popped out at me, and I knew I was doomed.
As Hermione launched into a complicated explanation, I leaned back in my chair, deciding this was way above my pay grade. Even Harry, bless him, looked like he was staring at an ancient hieroglyph.
After a few minutes of rapid-fire equations and Hermione drawing diagrams on scrap parchment, the Ravenclaw girls finally seemed satisfied.
“Thanks so much, Hermione! You’re a lifesaver,” Padma said. They waved and made their way back to their table, heads together, murmuring.
I let out a long-suffering groan.
“Arithmancy looks like such a pain. I don’t know how you can possibly like it so much.”
Hermione turned, arching a brow.
“Well, I can’t comprehend how you can like Divination so much.”
I gasped dramatically, clutching at my chest like I was clutching at my metaphorical pearls.
“How dare you!” I said, in a theatrical whisper. “You wound me deeply!”
Harry snorted into his arm, and even Hermione fought a smile.
“It’s just–” Hermione said, tilting her head, “I suppose it makes sense you don’t like Arithmancy. You never really went to school before Hogwarts, did you?”
I frowned. She didn’t mean it as an insult, but it stung a little.
“I did have school,” I grumbled. “Mum taught me at home. We did maths, reading and all that. I can count just fine, thanks.”
Harry’s eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Okay, Ron, what’s twelve times four?”
I pulled an exaggerated thinking face, tapping my chin and squinting into the distance like I was consulting the cosmos. Then I gasped.
“Forty-eight!” I said with a flourish.
Harry clapped silently, his face bright with laughter.
“Genius!” he whispered, barely containing himself.
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might pop out of her head.
“Don’t be jealous of my mathematical prowess,” I said, grinning.
Chapter 34: BOOK THREE - FAILURE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY
FAILURE
It was the day of the Hogsmeade trip, and Harry was practically bouncing off the walls. Even before we made it through the gates of Hogwarts, he was chattering non-stop about meeting Sirius, what he’d say, how it might go, what he’d wear if he’d thought to pick out a special shirt. Hermione and I exchanged a few amused glances as we let him ramble.
By the time we reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade, he was vibrating with so much energy he was practically running ahead of us.
“Harry, mate,” I said, grabbing his sleeve before he could disappear into the crowd. “Breathe. You’re going to give yourself a fit before you even see him.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, bouncing on his heels. “I just—I can’t wait.”
“I know,” Hermione said kindly. “But we still have an hour to wait. Let’s find something to distract you before you wear a hole in the cobblestones.”
I suggested the Quidditch shop, and it worked… for about twenty minutes. Harry perked up at the sight of the new brooms and the wall of brightly colored gear, but he kept glancing at the clock near the register like it might speed up if he stared hard enough.
Finally, we made our way to the Three Broomsticks. Harry kept wringing his hands until we reached the private room Madam Rosmerta had set aside for him and Sirius. But just as we approached the archway that led to the private rooms, Skeeter materialised from nowhere, blocking Harry’s path.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Harry Potter!” she said, her quill already floating nearby, ink shimmering dangerously. “Care for a word about your long-awaited reunion with Sirius Black?”
Before Harry could even think of a reply, Madam Rosmerta stepped in with a smile that was more sharp than sweet.
“I’m afraid these rooms are reserved, madam. Private property. You’ll have to stay in the public area.”
Skeeter tried to argue, but Rosmerta was firm, her voice like silk-wrapped steel. Hermione and I slipped to a table near the archway, close enough to keep an eye on the scene.
“I know the plan was to go to the bookshop,” Hermione whispered, “but now we need to stay here. She’s too interested.”
“Agreed,” I murmured, watching Skeeter as she plastered on a fake smile and tried to wheedle her way into a private room. But Rosmerta wasn’t having it.
“If you don’t leave now, I’ll be forced to call the authorities,” Rosmerta said coolly, folding her arms.
Skeeter’s lips twisted into a sneer, but she backed down, turning toward the door. Then her sharp eyes landed on us.
“Ah, Hermione Granger, isn’t it?” she cooed, her voice sugary-sweet but dripping with venom. “I remember you from the trial. Always by Harry Potter’s side, aren’t you? What brings you here today?”
Hermione stiffened, her face flushing pink.
“That’s none of your business, Ms. Skeeter.”
“Oh, but I think the public would love to know what Harry Potter’s closest friends think about his sudden reunion with his dangerous godfather,” Skeeter purred.
I felt my temper fraying. Seeing Hermione harassed like this brought a sharp edge to my voice. I channelled my inner Snape, low and dry and cutting.
“Mind your own business before you get yourself thrown out of here for good.”
Skeeter’s gaze snapped to me, her eyes narrowing. “And who might you be?”
I smirked, cool as a cucumber.
“Roonil Wazlib. And I suggest you leave before we fetch a professor to explain the concept of privacy to you.”
Her nostrils flared, but she turned on her heel with a huff, muttering under her breath as she stormed toward the door.
Hermione looked at me, startled, then let out a quiet laugh.
“Roonil Wazlib?”
I shrugged, grinning.
“My favourite alias.”
We settled back into our seats, keeping watch on the archway where Harry had disappeared into the private room to finally meet his godfather. Both of us glanced around like we were on lookout duty.
“I can’t believe Skeeter,” Hermione muttered, glaring at the door where the woman had disappeared. “She’s like a vulture circling a wounded deer. Hopefully, she won’t find anything interesting to write about now that she can’t eavesdrop on Harry and Sirius.”
A chill ran down my spine. No, not a vulture.
I glanced around, lowering my voice.
“Hang on.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed as I slipped my wand discreetly from my pocket and rested it on the table, hidden under the edge of the wood. I murmured the revealing charm softly, then followed it with a quiet Homenum Revelio, focusing on the space around us. My heart thumped a little faster, waiting to sense any hidden presence.
Nothing. Just the low hum of voices from the other tables, the clink of mugs and cutlery. No telltale flicker of a concealed Rita Skeeter beetle form.
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“What was that?” she asked, her tone curious but not pushy.
I let out a soft breath, keeping my wand ready.
“Just making sure Skeeter didn’t sneak back in as an actual vulture, you know.”
“I think we would notice her if she transformed into a literal vulture, but the idea is still smart,” Hermione said, her eyes glinting with amusement. “How’s the tutoring going, by the way?”
I leaned back, letting my wand rest but not fully pocketing it.
“Pretty good. I can track Snape’s presence in a room even when he’s under a Disillusionment Charm. I can already tell roughly which direction he’s in. Next session, he’ll probably hide before I even get there just to scare me half to death.”
Hermione’s lips twitched.
“I bet he will. It sounds like your dynamic is… interesting.”
I grinned.
“Yeah, he’s still the same snarky guy, but it’s more teasing now. Less mean-spirited.”
She gave me a knowing look.
“Just remember what we talked about. The whole seeing signs that aren’t there thing.”
I rolled my eyes and shot her a look.
“Yeah, yeah, I remember. And I still stand by what I said.”
She let it drop with a small smile.
“Do you know if Snape’s going to keep tutoring you next year?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know, but I hope so. It’s been… helpful.”
The conversation drifted into talk of summer plans. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.
“The plan was for Harry to come to the Burrow after a couple of weeks at the Dursleys, but now he’ll probably go straight to Sirius’s place.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, Sirius might still be… recovering from everything.”
I shrugged.
“If they’ve got permission and they both want it, then it’s their choice. But yeah, it might be a lot for Sirius. Still, Harry needs his family. Who are we to say no?”
Hermione nodded thoughtfully, and for a few moments, we just sat in companionable silence. I kept casting the Revealing charm every so often, just to be safe. Hermione didn’t comment, just took it all in stride, like it was perfectly normal for me to be on high alert for sneaky Animagus journalists.
Eventually, my stomach rumbled loudly enough to make Hermione laugh.
“I’ll get us some tea and apple pie,” I said, standing and stretching.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said with a grin as I made my way to the counter.
I came back to our table, balancing a teapot, two mugs, and a plate of flaky apple pie. I set them down, and Hermione gave me a grateful smile.
Just as I was about to pour, the thought gnawed at me again. I gripped my wand under the table and whispered the spells almost automatically, by now.
But this time, the charm didn’t stay quiet.
A sudden flare of magic bloomed in the corner of my vision, near the wall by the entrance to the private rooms. My pulse jumped.
There was something there. Something small, scuttling fast.
I froze for half a heartbeat.
Fucking hell.
It worked.
I shot out of my seat, my wand clutched tight as I stumbled after the beetle.
“Hey— wait!” I scrambled, banging my thigh against a table, making some startled patrons jump. The beetle crawled up the wall, just out of reach.
“Come here, you—” I hissed under my breath, but it was too fast, slipping out through a crack and disappearing back into the main room and out the wide-open doors.
I stood there, breathing hard, while half the pub stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
I muttered, “Sorry,” to no one in particular and slumped back into my seat.
Hermione looked alarmed.
“Ron, what’s wrong? What happened?”
I leaned closer, my voice low.
“There was an Animagus. But it got away.”
Hermione’s eyes widened, her face paling.
“That actually happened? I thought we were just joking around! I can’t believe it! An Animagus? Here? Do you think—do you think they were after Harry? Or—” She stopped, her mind racing. Then her eyes lit up with a realisation. “It could be Skeeter!”
I couldn’t help but feel a jolt of pride at how quick she was. I nodded.
“Yeah. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Hermione bit her lip.
“What should we do? Should we tell Madam Rosmerta? Go to McGonagall?”
I shook my head, trying to think.
“If she’s gone, she’s gone. But we can’t just leave. We’ll wait here until Harry’s done. Then we’ll go straight to Snape and tell him.”
Hermione hesitated, then nodded resolutely.
“Right. You’re right.”
We sat there, trying to focus on our tea and the warm, buttery pie, but my eyes kept darting to the walls, to every corner. Skeeter had gotten away.
And next time? She wouldn’t be so lucky.
That utter bitch.
Harry emerged from the private room looking flushed with excitement, his hair even messier than usual. He paused mid-step when he spotted us sitting by the archway, still at our table.
“Wait, you guys are still here?” he asked, half-surprised, half-teasing. “I thought you were off to the bookshop for hours, like the little bookworms you are.”
Hermione gave him a tight smile, but didn’t answer. I caught Harry’s glance flicking to her pale face, and his teasing stopped.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
I exchanged a quick look with Hermione.
“We’ll tell you later,” I said, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
Before Harry could press the issue, Sirius appeared behind him, grinning. His hair was still a bit shaggy, and he was still severely emaciated, but his eyes were bright and his smile easy.
“You must be Ron and Hermione,” he said warmly. “Harry’s told me loads about you two in his letters. It’s great to finally meet you.”
Hermione flushed, managing a polite smile.
“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Black.”
“Please, Sirius,” he said with a wave of his hand.
I gave him a nod, feeling a bit tongue-tied. I didn’t know how to act around a man who was practically family to Harry, but still a complete stranger. If you ignored the fact that I already knew so much about him, both from Harry and from Before.
Before we could exchange more words, Madam Rosmerta’s voice called from the entrance.
“The carriages are lining up! Best not to miss them if you want to get back before curfew!”
“We should go,” Hermione murmured.
Sirius glanced toward the door, then gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
“Take care of yourself, and we’ll talk more soon, yeah?”
Harry beamed.
“Yeah, definitely.”
Sirius gave us both a quick nod of farewell.
“It was good meeting you. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”
“Always,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
As we turned to leave, heading toward the exit, I couldn’t help glancing back at Sirius, standing tall and waving us off like an old friend seeing us on our way.
Once we were outside, the three of us exchanged quick glances. Harry’s expression shifted, curiosity shining in his eyes.
“All right,” he said. “Now, what happened?”
I took a deep breath.
“Let’s find a carriage first. Then we’ll explain everything.”
Hermione and I pulled Harry along, weaving through the clusters of students climbing into the carriages. Harry was bewildered, but let us guide him.
“What’s going on? Why are you two acting so weird?”
“Just wait,” Hermione said firmly.
We spotted an empty carriage and climbed in quickly, shutting the door behind us. The carriage lurched forward, creaking along the path back to the castle.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione cut him off, her voice tense.
“Ron, cast the spell again. Please.”
I nodded, took out my wand, and quietly cast the Revealing charm. The spell shimmered, but there was nothing there. I cast the Homenum Revelio too. Still nothing.
“Nothing,” I said, sitting back.
Hermione let out a breath she’d been holding. Then, finally, she turned to Harry.
“Someone was there, Harry. An Animagus. We saw them sneaking around outside the private rooms while you were with Sirius,” she said quietly.
Harry’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide.
“For real? Someone was trying to spy on us? But—who?”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, her mind clearly racing.
“It could be Skeeter. Think about it—she was at the hospital when Sirius was there, she somehow managed to take pictures of him and Pettigrew in their Animagus forms at the Ministry. And she found out about Lupin’s secret, too! She’s always where she shouldn’t be. How else would she know so much? She must have been an Animagus this whole time!”
She was practically word-vomiting now, rattling off every clue she could think of.
“The hospital incident, the photos, the overheard conversations—it all fits. She’s everywhere! And she always knows just the right things to write to cause the most damage. She’s probably been spying like this for years!”
“Calm down,” I said gently, reaching out to touch her arm.
Hermione stopped, taking a shaky breath, her frustration and anxiety etched across her face.
“Sorry. It’s just—it makes me so angry! How can she get away with this? How can she keep invading people’s lives?”
Harry looked furious too, his fists clenched.
“It’s not right. She’s been spying on Sirius and me for who knows how long. What do we do now?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off with a sigh, already guessing.
“You’re going to say we should go to Snape, aren’t you?”
I shrugged, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
“Well, yeah.”
Harry groaned softly, running a hand through his hair, but for once, he didn’t argue.
“Fine. Let’s just go straight to his office when we get back. We can’t let her get away with this.”
Hermione nodded determinedly, and I felt a quiet surge of resolve settle over the three of us as the castle loomed closer through the window.
We reached Snape’s office just as the last of the carriages clattered back to the castle. The air was cool in the dungeons, but my palms were sweating by the time we stood outside the door.
I hoped he would believe us. Logically, there was no reason for him to either not believe our story or ignore the problem.
But still. I had trust issues.
Harry looked uncertain. Hermione fidgeted, her expression tense. I took a deep breath and rapped on the door.
Snape’s voice drawled from within, sharp and cutting. “Enter.”
We stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, shadows flickering against shelves of potion ingredients. Snape looked up from a stack of parchment, his quill poised mid-air. He eyed us; his gaze flicking between Harry’s tense shoulders, Hermione’s pale face, and me, standing there like a statue.
“Well?” he said dryly, folding his arms. “I assume this is not a social call. Has Black already managed to involve you in one of his ill-conceived plans?”
Harry flushed.
“No. It’s not that.”
Snape’s frown deepened.
“Then what?”
Hermione hesitated, glancing at me. I stepped forward, my voice shaky but determined.
“There was an Animagus in Hogsmeade. I cast the revealing charm. I saw it.”
Snape’s eyebrows rose sharply, though his expression remained guarded.
“You… saw an Animagus? Where?”
I explained about the pub, the private rooms, the creeping beetle on the wall, and how it slipped away before I could catch it. My heart was pounding, reliving the moment when it had slipped through my fingers.
I failed. Utterly failed. I knew she was an Animagus. I knew her animal form. I highly suspected she would try to pass by us.
And still.
I failed.
When I finished, Snape’s lips thinned, his gaze unreadable. But there was something… a flicker of surprise, maybe even grudging respect. But what for? I had not caught her.
“Impressive, Weasley. You’ve accomplished what most Aurors wouldn’t attempt in a crowded public space. An unregistered Animagus revealed by a third-year student.”
For a second, my feelings of inadequacy diminished and pride spread through me, but it curdled quickly as Snape’s following words cut in, cold and precise.
“But without proof, there’s nothing to present to the Ministry. The creature escaped. It’s your word against nothing.”
I felt my chest cave in, the fragile pride crumbling into dust. My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms.
“We think it was Rita Skeeter,” Hermione said quietly, standing beside me. “Who else would it be? She was there, lurking, and she tried to convince Madam Rosmerta to give her a private room too. She’s the only one who’s been around all these places where she shouldn’t be. And the photos—the Animagus photos—how else could she have gotten them? It makes sense.”
Snape’s face tightened, his brow furrowing deeply.
“Rita Skeeter? You’re suggesting a gossip columnist is an unregistered Animagus?”
“She’s always where she shouldn’t be,” I added quietly, “and she always knows too much. I mean… you’ve seen what she’s written. It fits.”
For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the quiet hiss of parchment settling on the desk. Snape’s gaze flicked between us, his mind probably racing through the implications.
“While this theory remains circumstantial,” he said at last, his voice low, “the pattern is too coherent to ignore. If it is Skeeter, then this extends far beyond today.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, we do not have clear proof. She got away.”
“I should’ve caught her,” I said bitterly, my voice trembling. “I should’ve grabbed her right then. I was right there. I—I messed up.”
Hermione stepped closer, her hand on my arm, but I barely noticed. The thoughts spiralled, twisting tighter.
“What’s the point if I couldn’t even hold onto her? Now she’s out there, probably laughing at how easy it was to slip away from me. I can’t believe I just let her go—”
“Enough,” Snape’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding.
I froze, blinking at him. He stepped closer, his tone lower, calmer, but firm.
“What you accomplished today, Mr. Weasley, is more than the Ministry has managed in decades. Skeeter’s methods have eluded detection for years. To catch even a glimpse of her true form in a crowded establishment is no small feat.”
I swallowed hard, my breath shaky.
“But she got away. That’s—”
“That’s irrelevant,” Snape interrupted, his gaze pinning me. “Consider this not a failure, but a warning shot. She now knows you’re watching. Which, I suspect, she will find… unsettling. You won’t be alone in this.”
I felt the tight knot in my chest loosen, just a bit. But the weight of my failure—of almost catching her, nearly being the one to stop her at last—still sat heavy on my shoulders.
“I will inform Dumbledore,” Snape continued, gathering a few parchments and setting them aside. “The staff will be warned about an unknown Animagus. We’ll increase vigilance. But for now—” he met my eyes, the faintest, rare hint of approval flashing there, “—go back to your dormitory. Rest. You’ve done enough for today.”
Hermione nodded, tugging Harry toward the door. I lingered a moment longer, watching Snape as he returned to his desk, his quill scratching against the parchment.
I wasn’t sure what startled me more. The rare words of respect or the fact that, for once, I believed them.
I entered the Potions classroom with my wand already in hand. There was no way I was going to let Snape get the drop on me again, not after last time.
“ Homenum revelio,” I murmured toward the left corner of the room, then pivoted to the right. I almost thought I was being paranoid—until the spell flared, faintly marking something just ahead of me.
My heart jumped into my throat, and I nearly dropped my wand as Snape shimmered into view, dropping his Disillusionment charm with a quiet ‘ hm’ that I didn’t even try to interpret. I groaned inwardly, embarrassed at how jumpy I’d been.
Snape gave me a subtle nod, as if my reaction was expected, then said,
“Let’s begin by evaluating the incident in Hogsmeade.”
He walked to the front of the room and leaned on the corner of his desk, before looking at me again, arms crossed.
“Tell me, Mr Weasley, what precisely did you do, in detail.”
I swallowed, then launched into my account. I told him how I’d noticed the spell flare, recognised the Animagus, tried to catch her, failed, and chased her until she escaped. I left nothing out.
“Why did you hesitate? What made you freeze?” he pressed.
I hesitated, my face burning.
“I just… I was surprised I was right.”
Snape’s brow arched slightly.
“Even while casting the spell, you were surprised by the result?”
“Yeah,” I admitted sheepishly.
“What would you have done differently, if given another chance?”
I thought hard, determined not to give a lazy answer.
“I would’ve tried the same thing people do with insects—grabbed a cup or jar and caught her like that.”
Snape regarded me coolly.
“Would that have been efficient? What else could you have done?”
I grimaced.
“Maybe a Sticking Charm or a Body-Bind, but she was so small, I don’t think I’d have hit her.”
Snape’s voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp.
“You should have anticipated her escape. What barriers could you have used to block her flight?”
I hesitated.
“Um… maybe conjure something to block the path? Or a containment spell?”
Snape nodded faintly.
“Adequate. Though not ideal with your current skill level. What else?”
I shifted on my feet, thinking hard.
“I could’ve—could’ve called for help, quietly. Got a professor’s attention.”
“Discreetly,” Snape echoed, voice low. “Without drawing attention or alarming her into a transformation. A signal spell, perhaps, or sending a message charm to alert someone without escalating the situation.”
I blinked.
“Right… yeah. That makes sense.”
Snape’s expression stayed impassive, but his tone softened—just barely.
“And next time, Weasley, remember—subtlety and control. Those will save you far more than flailing and volume.”
His voice was low and sharp, but he wasn’t mocking me. It felt more like a strange kind of guidance.
“Why did you react that way, Weasley? Freeze, when you were being prepared for that exact scenario?”
I fidgeted.
“I was surprised by my luck.”
“It wasn’t luck, Weasley,” He replied, eyes narrowed.
I bit my lip, then blurted,
“I guess… it felt different. With Pettigrew or Lupin, I wasn’t right in the middle of it, you know? But this—Skeeter was right there. Like with Quirrell and the jinxed broom. I didn’t wait for anyone else, I just—”
“Tackled the problem out of the way,” Snape finished dryly. “A thoroughly Gryffindor strategy. Reckless. And you’ve done this before, with Lockhart, too, haven’t you?”
I flinched, remembering the disastrous moment when I’d tried to stop Lockhart from ‘healing’ Harry.
“So, Weasley,” Snape continued, crossing his arms, “tell me. With Quirrell. What could you have done differently that wouldn’t have painted a target on your back and nearly gotten you killed later?”
I thought hard, biting the inside of my cheek.
“Maybe… maybe I could’ve whispered to someone else to get help. Or distracted him instead of tackling him. I don’t know. I just acted.”
He didn’t scold me for not knowing, just nodded slightly, and then we went through the same with Lockhart.
When we circled back to Skeeter, Snape leaned forward, his voice low.
“Now, using what we just discussed about Quirrell and Lockhart, tell me: what could you have done with Skeeter?”
I hesitated, thinking back. He continued:
“Suppose Skeeter had transformed back into human form in the alley. What would your next move have been? Would you have restrained her? Tackled her? Alert a professor? Aurors? Or… would you have gathered proof, discreetly, rather than confronting her?”
“But how? I couldn’t possibly follow her home.”
Snape’s lips curved faintly.
“There are ways to track an Animagus without confronting them directly. And ways to collect proof without immediate capture. You lacked subtlety, Weasley. And your reaction under pressure, while instinctive, left you vulnerable.” He straightened, giving me a hard look. “You have two major weaknesses to improve: lack of subtlety and response under pressure. We’ll address both.”
He outlined exercises for me to do between sessions—mental discipline, meditation before bed to keep my reactions calm, and focusing on control during surprises.
“Non-verbal casting will be crucial, but you’re not ready yet. It’s unreliable and weaker than spoken spells for now. In a real situation, speak your spells.” Then he added, almost offhand, “Notably, Skeeter has not written a word about Black’s meeting with Potter last Sunday. Which only confirms, to me, that it was indeed her—and she’s frightened of being discovered.”
His voice dropped slightly, his gaze locking with mine.
“Your instincts were correct. Your execution was… predictably sloppy. You have potential, Weasley, but potential alone is insufficient. Control, planning, and a willingness to adapt; those will serve you far better than wild lunges and good intentions.”
I swallowed, a flush of pride warming my cheeks.
Then, unexpectedly, Snape’s tone shifted, softening just slightly.
“When I was young, about your age, I faced a similar situation. I acted on impulse. I failed. Miserably. And it cost far more than I was willing to pay.”
I stared, speechless. He’d never shared something like that before.
“Learn from my mistake,” he said quietly. “Don’t let your instincts outrun your mind.”
Something inside me surged. A weird mix of pride and humility. I nodded fiercely, promising myself I’d prove I could do better.
Snape’s gaze lingered a moment longer, then he gestured toward the bookshelves.
“We begin with the next step. Now, start your preparation.”
And I dove into the lesson, my mind still buzzing from his rare, almost human moment of honesty.
Chapter 35: BOOK THREE - OF HEROES AND FUTURE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
OF HEROES AND FUTURE
Then, one day, exams began.
Transfiguration was easily the most complex subject in the universe, but I still managed to answer everything, and the Animagi essay was a breeze. For the practical, my cat-turned-cauldron was solid, with fancy runes decorating the lid. I was quietly proud, and McGonagall even awarded me an extra point for “talent at recognising unregistered Animagi.”
Awesome.
Charms went smoothly, both theory and practical. Flitwick had me perform the Banishing Charm and General Counter-spell, supposedly the hardest this year, but they felt easy compared to the Revealing Charm. Speaking of which, Flitwick, let me demonstrate it for an extra point. One point’s a point, and I wouldn’t miss it.
Runes were just basic fact regurgitation, so I focused on making my runes look perfect. Easy peasy.
Care of Magical Creatures was pure fun. I got to pet and feed a hippogriff. Hagrid beamed at me, so I figured I’d done well.
Then there was Potions. Theory was simple enough, but the practical nearly drove me mad. My caterpillars weren’t hairy enough, the wormwood was under-shaken, and “a splash” of an ingredient? What does that even mean? Still, my goose shrank to cat size, so I was satisfied, even if Snape wasn’t. Well, I wasn’t impressed with his choice of a goose, knowing how much I fear them.
So we were even.
Astronomy? I probably scraped by. I could only suppress my yawns for so long.
History of Magic was as tedious as ever, but I should pass, even if just barely.
Herbology went okay. I got nicked once while defanging my vampiric begonia, which cost me a point, but at least I didn’t bruise the plant. Sprout seemed pleased, even if I wasn’t, especially with my sunburnt neck and ears.
And then…
Then came Defence Against the Dark Arts.
During the practical exam, each of us faced a timed drill; a nerve-wracking minute where we had to cast all the spells we’d learned this year in quick succession. Nine spells in sixty seconds. Six seconds per spell. Mess up your timing, fumble your wandwork, and you barely pass. And that was before facing a boggart, all in front of the entire year.
Some students cracked under the pressure. A few even left crying when their spells misfired or their boggart revealed something deeply personal.
I was lucky to be at the tail end of the list, waiting while everyone else struggled. By the time it was my turn, only Blaise and I were left.
I stepped forward, heart hammering. I launched into the drill, managing to cast all nine spells within the time limit, but they were sloppy and weak. Each spell felt like it was made of treacle, barely forming as I rushed through them. I winced at my performance, knowing I could have done better if I hadn’t been so rushed.
Then came the worst part: the boggart.
The wardrobe trembled before me, creaking ominously. My palms were slick with sweat. I had spent the entire wait trying to think of something funny, something clever, because Snape in Neville’s grandmother’s clothes didn’t feel funny anymore. It was cheap, and I needed something new.
The door cracked open.
There was a terrible scream.
A spurt of blood from a mangled carotid.
Snape fell to the floor. Blood was gushing from the wounds. He fell against the wardrobe, bloody hands grasping at his throat. A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from him.
“That’s excessive, Weasley. Compose yourself,” Dawlish barked behind me.
Asshole.
I lifted my wand, teeth gritted.
“Riddikulus!”
The boggart burst forth. One second, it was Snape, pale and grave and—
Then it shifted.
Blaise let out a startled laugh.
Snape, wide-eyed and uncharacteristically panicked, was being chased by a chaotic mob of honking geese, their beaks snapping at his trailing robes as he flailed and tried to outrun them.
I couldn’t help but laugh, even as my cheeks burned. Snape was trying to fend them off with exaggerated swats of his hands, but the geese only honked louder, flapping their wings triumphantly.
The boggart dissolved into smoke, leaving me feeling accomplished and on the verge of more laughter.
As soon as I left the exam room, Harry and Hermione were waiting just outside, hovering near the doorway with anxious looks.
“You okay?” Hermione asked immediately. “How did it go with the boggart?”
I gave them a crooked grin, still feeling the remnants of adrenaline.
“I made Snape into being chased by a bunch of honking geese.”
Harry burst out laughing, the tension in his shoulders easing instantly. Even Hermione let out a soft snort of amusement.
We headed toward the Great Hall for lunch, the three of us walking in step, our voices low and hushed as we discussed the exam.
“Nice work,” Harry said, still grinning. “That’s a way better idea than Neville’s gran outfit.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t perfect,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm. “But at least it got the job done.”
By unspoken agreement, we made our way to the Slytherin table instead of Gryffindor’s. It was quieter, and we needed the peace to cram in some last-minute studying for our final exam: Divination.
Hermione was already pulling out her flashcards and reference charts, muttering about palmistry lines and star alignments. I sighed, but played along, spreading my chart on the table.
Harry leaned in, half-heartedly flipping through the cards.
“Do you think Trelawney’s going to ask us to reread each other’s tea leaves?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Hermione said, her tone sharp. “Or maybe she’ll throw crystal balls at us and ask us to interpret the cracks.”
I rolled my eyes.
“If you hate it so much, why don’t you just drop it next year?”
Hermione huffed, but then her expression softened.
“I will. I asked Professor McGonagall if I could, and she said yes. She doesn’t seem to like Divination much either.”
I gave a satisfied nod and went back to my palmistry chart, tracing the lines with my finger.
“Can’t say I blame her,” Harry muttered. “Divination’s just guessing with extra steps.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, and the three of us bent over our study materials, the quiet hum of the Slytherin table around us.
After we finished lunch, we packed up our flashcards and headed for the seventh floor. By the time we got there, our yearmates were already gathering outside the Divination classroom, sitting along the spiral staircase and chatting nervously.
We joined them, squeezing into a spot on the steps. Hermione was flicking through her notes with a grim expression, muttering to herself. Harry, on the other hand, looked almost cheerful.
When the trapdoor at the top of the ladder creaked open, Trelawney’s misty voice floated down.
“I will be seeing each of you separately. Please wait for your turn.”
Harry grinned, nudging me.
“No written part,” he whispered happily.
Hermione’s lips tightened into a thin line.
“That means a practical demonstration,” she muttered, her voice full of dread.
The line crept forward slowly. Each time a student climbed down the silver ladder after their test, the rest of us would lean in, whispering, “What did she ask? Was it okay?” But they all refused to say a word, shaking their heads with tight-lipped expressions.
“Looks like she put the fear of Merlin in them,” I murmured, trying to inject some humour into the tense atmosphere.
Harry huffed a laugh.
“More like she cast a memory charm to keep them quiet.”
Hermione just sighed, her shoulders slumping.
“This is going to take forever,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s probably twenty minutes each.”
Harry let his head thump lightly against the wall, groaning.
“This is going to be the longest afternoon of my life.”
We settled into an uneasy wait, listening to the murmured conversations and the occasional creak of the ladder as another student returned to the staircase. I glanced at my friends, Harry tapping his foot impatiently and Hermione staring fixedly at her notes, and realised that, no matter what happened in that classroom, we were all in this together.
When it was finally my turn, I climbed up the silver ladder and stepped into the Divination classroom, my heart pounding. The room was dim, cluttered with chairs, tables, and shelves filled with dusty crystal balls and random trinkets. I picked my way through the mess to where Professor Trelawney sat waiting, her hands folded theatrically before a massive crystal ball that glowed faintly in the semi-darkness.
“Good day, my dear,” she said softly, her voice breathy and mysterious. “If you would kindly gaze into the Orb... Take your time now... then tell me what you see within it….”
I took a steadying breath, my palms damp, and glanced around. There was a small box nearby, filled with candles and matches. I took one of the candles, struck a match, and lit it, placing it carefully beside the crystal ball. The tiny flicker of light cast strange shadows on the walls, adding to the already eerie atmosphere.
I placed my hands flat on the table, one on each side of the crystal ball, and leaned in, trying to keep my expression neutral. I wasn’t about to let her see what terrible stage fright I felt. I stared into the swirling depths of the crystal ball, forcing myself not to look away.
“I see… shifting shapes,” I began quietly, speaking aloud as soon as I noticed anything. “Mist… turning into… an insect? No…”
Surprised, I realised what it was. Was I truly Seeing, or was I seeing what ate away at me every day? No way to know.
“No, a beetle… I… It’s strange… I think it’s wearing a hat? A bowler hat… There’s another moving shape incoming… I don’t recall the name… A Lyrebird, maybe? Or…Oh. It’s a peacock… A white one… ”
I kept my gaze fixed, words tumbling out as I tried to keep up with the images. “A shadow… They’re shifting back and forth. There’s fire… Huge… and a castle… with tall towers. There’s… something in the window of the tower. A shape. Someone waiting… but I can’t see their face…”
The images blurred, and I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. My head was starting to ache. With a quiet breath, I reached forward and draped a dark cloth over the Orb, blocking the vision. I sat back and took a moment to collect my thoughts before giving my summary.
“I saw a beetle with a bowler hat, while I know that this beetle in particular represents someone I’m… worried about… The bowler hat could very well represent Cornelius Fudge, but I have no idea what he would be doing here.”
I felt stupid giving my explanation. Even though I saw these images genuinely, I couldn’t help but think that they originated from my subconscious, not from any third eye.
“For the peacock, it means something to me, but I can’t remember what. I know I should recall what it means, but for the life of me, I just can’t right now. Then there is the fire. According to Unfogging the Future, it could either be a good or a bad omen. Given that the beetle is a bad one, I guess the fire must be, too. So here, it might mean… revenge.
And wasn’t that a wonderful thing to say out loud when I knew Skeeter could very well do a lot of damage if she ever came to me for revenge? Great.
“The castle must be Hogwarts. And I couldn’t see the face of the person waiting for me, but they didn’t feel threatening, compared to the rest, so maybe they are a friend I haven’t met in a while. Or a friend I won’t see in a while.”
Professor Trelawney’s eyes gleamed as she nodded, her voice low and mysterious.
“Ah… very perceptive, my dear. You have the gift of double vision, indeed… Two paths, two lives… You walk both at once, and the veil between them grows thin….”
I swallowed, feeling a shiver run down my spine. I wasn’t sure how much of that was her showmanship and how much she meant. However, the fact was that, despite people calling her a fraud, her vision of me was remarkably accurate. I was Ronald Weasley, and I was somebody else, too.
“Thank you, Professor,” I said quietly, rising from the table.
She inclined her head, hands still folded, as though blessing me as I made my way back down the ladder.
As soon as I stepped foot back on the landing, Hermione and Harry stood up, nervous and expectant.
“How’d it go?” Harry asked.
“Good… good,” I replied mechanically, still lost in thought. “I need to go to the Library. I’ll see you at dinner.”
With that, I left.
A peacock… Why did it sound awfully familiar?
I needed to check, and for that, there wasn’t a better place on earth than the Library.
It was Sunday, two days after our last exam, and everyone was eager to blow off steam. A trip to Hogsmeade was arranged to help us unwind. Predictably, Harry and Sirius had set up another meet-up in a private room at the Three Broomsticks. Hermione and I, of course, weren’t about to leave Harry to handle it alone. Not with Skeeter still lurking around.
As soon as we stepped into the pub, Sirius grinned and waved us over.
“You two are coming in too,” he insisted when we hesitated at the doorway, as though guarding it.
Hermione shifted uncomfortably.
“Are you sure it’s wise for us to be inside instead of keeping watch? Just in case Skeeter’s about.”
Sirius waved a hand, dismissing her concerns.
“No worries. I’ve taken extra precautions after Harry’s letter. No beetles sneaking in here today.”
We all entered and took our seats in the comfortable armchairs. There was already an appetising spread of scones and pies on the coffee table. I helped myself to one with relish.
“Now,” Sirius said, as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity, “what happened last time? I want all the juicy details.”
Hermione launched into the explanation, telling him everything that had happened. I sat quietly, feeling a little twitchy as I thought back to how close we’d been to catching Skeeter.
When Sirius raised an eyebrow and asked,
“How and why does a third year even know a spell like that?”
I shrugged.
“I just… wanted to be ready. Pettigrew made me a little paranoid about unregistered Animagi, that’s all.”
Sirius laughed.
“Paranoid? Over what? It’s not like anyone’s going to target you, mate!”
Hermione and Harry didn’t laugh. Harry’s expression tightened.
“Pettigrew was Ron’s pet for years before he found out the truth.”
Sirius’s face froze, eyes wide.
“What? But… Dumbledore said the staff found Pettigrew when they were investigating me. What are you talking about?”
I shot Harry a sharp glare, and he winced a little.
“Sorry,” he muttered. Then, to Sirius, he said, “Actually, Ron didn’t have a big role in this. He just gave Scabbers to Snape when he asked.”
Sirius barked a laugh, loud and unkind.
“Snivellus? You’re telling me Snape’s the hero in this? Merlin, that’s rich.”
My stomach clenched, and my fists curled. My voice was cold, sharper than I intended.
“Snape literally saved your life, dude. Even though he hates you for the way you bullied him at school—and we saw the records, by the way—, he still chose to reveal the truth about Pettigrew. He could’ve gotten revenge by saying nothing. You owe him your freedom, your life, and your soul, which was saved from the Dementors.”
Sirius grinned wider, clearly amused and not taking me seriously.
“Ohhh, someone’s got a crush on Snivellus,” he said, teasing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
My jaw locked, my teeth grinding together. I felt heat crawl up my neck, and my fists trembled. Without a word, I pushed back my chair, scraping it loudly against the floor.
“I’ll be at the bookstore if you need me,” I said stiffly, my voice flat.
Without waiting for a response, I turned and left, the door clicking softly shut behind me.
When I reached the door of the Three Broomsticks, the hot air of the breeze outside made my red cheeks even worse. I felt someone catching up with me. Hermione’s warm hand slipped around my arm, linking us together.
“I want to see the bookstore too,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was too busy clenching my jaw, too busy trying to push down the boiling frustration that Sirius’s words had left behind.
We walked in silence to Tomes and Scrolls, our steps echoing lightly on the cobblestones. Once inside, the familiar scent of parchment and ink should’ve been comforting, but it barely registered. Hermione was already moving through the shelves with practised ease, gathering a small stack of books in her arms.
I tried to distract myself, scanning the nearest shelf, but the words on the spines blurred together. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. The longer I stood there, the tighter my fists clenched, until one of them accidentally jerked a page as I flipped it too hard.
Realising I was one second away from wrecking a book in a fit of frustration, I let out a sharp breath.
“I—I need to get out of here,” I said, my voice tight.
Hermione glanced up from her books, her brow creased with concern. Without hesitation, she placed her little stack back on the shelf. “I’ll come with you.”
I tried to wave her off.
“No, I’ll be fine. Stay. You were looking forward to this.”
She shook her head, stepping closer.
“You’re not fine, Ron. I’m coming with you.”
And I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. I just let her walk with me, her presence steadying me a little as we stepped back out into the stifling air of Hogsmeade.
We stepped out into the sunlight, but I hardly noticed. My fists were clenched and unclenched at my sides as we walked down the main street. I could feel Hermione watching me, her worry almost tangible. Before I could protest, she gently tugged at my sleeve and led me into the little communal garden off the side of the street. She found a bench, sat down, and patted the space next to her.
“Ron,” she said quietly. “Please. Just say something. I can tell you’re angry about Sirius. Tell me, so I can help.”
I shook my head, glaring down at the grass under my feet.
“There’s nothing you can help with,” I muttered. “I just need to learn how to chill, because I should be used to people finding it hilarious that anyone could like Snape.” My voice grew sharper with every word. “Everyone finds it so funny, like he’s just a character everyone loves to hate. But he’s not. He’s a real person, with feelings too. They just refuse to see it.”
Hermione placed a hand lightly on my arm.
“Then help me see it, Ron,” she said softly.
I hesitated, my jaw tightening. But then the words just tumbled out.
“Everyone sees an arsehole who doesn’t care about anything, but he’s not. He saved Harry’s life in our first year, when Quirrell was cursing his broom, Snape was the one who stopped it. And after that, he didn’t stop. He spent months following us around discreetly, making sure we weren’t in danger of another attack. In our second year, he saved me. My legs, my magic, my life, when that disaster with Lockhart could have ruined me. And that same year, he saved Ginny’s life too, though I can’t even tell you what happened.”
Hermione’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. I pressed on.
“And this year, he saved a life again. And it’s the life of someone who’s supposed to be his enemy. Does that sound like the attitude of an arsehole?” I glanced up at her, my voice thick with frustration. “In first year, we read those detention records, remember? How Sirius and Harry’s dad bullied Snape relentlessly. And yet, everyone thinks Sirius is this handsome, funny, charming guy. But when they look at Snape, all they see is this ugly, mean git. Yeah, he can be mean, but that doesn’t define him. When it counts, he’s always there. Dependable.”
I ran a hand through my hair, my fists tightening again.
“And when Harry needed Sirius the most, after his parents were killed, he wasn’t there. He ran off to murder Pettigrew instead of protecting Harry like he was supposed to. Harry spent years with the Dursleys, neglected and abused. And now Sirius is free and just laughs everything off, acting like it’s not a big deal.”
I took a shuddering breath, my voice quieter but no less fierce.
“I don’t like Sirius. I get that he’s been through hell, but he needs to step up and make it up to Harry. He doesn’t get to just act like it’s all fine now.”
Hermione was silent for a long moment, her hand still on my arm.
“You’re right,” she said finally, her voice soft but certain. “You’re absolutely right.”
I exhaled slowly, the tension easing just a little, but the anger still simmered under my skin. Hermione stayed quiet for a moment, then gave my arm a gentle squeeze.
“You’re right,” she said again, her voice firmer now. “Sirius… he’s had it rough, but that doesn’t excuse everything. It doesn’t make it okay to laugh about things that aren’t funny to you. Or to Harry. Or to me. He’s trying, I think, but he needs to do better. Especially if he wants to be a real part of Harry’s life.”
I sighed, staring at the ground. Hermione sat back a little, folding her arms and looking thoughtful.
“And you know,” she added, her tone shifting to something a bit more teasing but still kind, “as for Snape… you’re probably the only person I know who actually sees him. Not just the mean teacher, but the whole person underneath. I don’t know anyone else who can do that.”
I felt my cheeks heat up a bit, and I gave a half-hearted scoff.
“Well, someone’s got to, don’t they? Someone’s got to remember he’s not just ‘Snape the git’.”
She smiled softly.
“Yeah. Someone does.”
For a moment, we just sat there in the quiet garden, the soft rustle of leaves and distant sounds of Hogsmeade filling the silence between us. It felt… strange, but in a good way. Like we were finally saying things we’d been keeping to ourselves for too long.
“Thanks, Hermione,” I said quietly.
“Anytime, Ron,” she said. “Anytime.”
I finally felt a bit of the tightness in my chest loosen. Maybe I couldn’t fix everything. Perhaps I couldn’t make everyone understand how much Snape mattered. But at least, sitting there with Hermione, I wasn’t carrying it alone. Someone finally got it.
And that was something.
We stayed there on the bench for a while, not saying anything at first. I shifted, tapping my fingers lightly against the wood of the seat, feeling the tension slowly ebb away like sand through my fingers. Hermione sat next to me, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her brow furrowed thoughtfully.
“You know,” she said quietly, almost as if she were speaking to herself, “sometimes I think we all focus too much on the idea of heroes. Like they’re supposed to be perfect. But they’re just people. They’re complicated, and they mess up, and… well, they aren’t always what we imagine.”
I glanced at her, catching the faraway look in her eyes.
“You talking about Snape?”
She gave a soft laugh.
“Yes. But also you. And me. All of us.”
I stared at her, then huffed a laugh.
“I’m no hero.”
She turned to me, her expression serious but gentle.
“Ron, for all that you can easily list Snape’s many accomplishments, you sure can’t see yours. The jinx in first year? You tackled Quirell out of the way so that Snape could save Harry. The incident with Lockhart? Snape had to save you because you saved Harry first. I don’t know what happened with Ginny, obviously, but I can easily guess that Snape didn’t just divine that she was in whatever danger she was in. Am I right? The information came from you, didn’t it?”
I didn’t answer.
“And more recently, it was you who stopped Skeeter from spying on Harry and Sirius. She was undoubtedly going to write something awful about them again. That’s not nothing. Surely you can see my point. Can you?”
I looked down at my hands, the tips of my ears burning. Yes, I did all of this, but it was easy with foreknowledge. Anyone else could have done it.
“It doesn’t feel like much,” I muttered. “Especially when I mess things up or let people get away like Skeeter.”
“You tried,” Hermione said, her voice steady. “You did more than most would have. And you’ll do better next time, because you learn from it. That’s what matters.”
For a long moment, I let her words settle in, feeling the warmth of them push away the chill that had wrapped around me since Sirius’s stupid joke.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
She smiled faintly.
“I usually am.”
I huffed a small laugh, finally feeling the corners of my mouth twitch into something resembling a smile.
A breeze stirred the leaves around us, and I tilted my head back, feeling the sun on my face. I let the silence stretch between us for a moment longer, the breeze lifting the hair off my forehead.
“We’ll probably all have plenty of opportunities to be heroes in the coming year,” I said softly. “Things are… tense. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”
Hermione turned to look at me, her expression tilting toward exasperation.
“Is this about your Divination exam again?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah. I just can’t put my finger on it, but I’m sure I was supposed to understand something, but couldn’t. Especially because of that stupid peacock.”
Her lips twitched, though she tried to hide it.
“Did you check the textbook for the significance of the peacock?” she asked, her voice lightly teasing but still gentle. She was letting me talk, even though she didn’t buy into it.
“I did,” I said, fiddling with a loose thread on my sleeve. “It’s not very clear. It could mean a new life, prestige, or success. Something about it being time for self-care, rather than just focusing on responsibilities. But that doesn’t feel right. It feels… I’m not convinced that’s what the message was.”
Hermione tilted her head, watching me with a thoughtful frown.
“Well, what do you think it means, instinctively? After reading the entry?”
I sat back, tapping my fingers lightly on my knee.
“Constant vigilance,” I said at last, the words slipping out quietly but with weight.
Hermione didn’t say anything immediately, but her lips pressed together in a small, thoughtful line.
And we sat there, side by side, letting the breeze carry away the heaviness of the conversation, though the weight of my thoughts still lingered.
Chapter 36: BOOK THREE - SUMMER BREAK
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SUMMER BREAK
The exam results had come out that morning, filling the school with a mixture of groans, laughter, and relieved cheers. Harry, Hermione, and I had passed every subject, though Harry had nearly faceplanted onto the table when he saw his Potions score, grumbling something about ‘miracle passes.’ Percy had been understandably proud of his top-grade N.E.W.T.s, puffing up like a rooster. Fred and George, on the other hand, were busy celebrating their handful of scraped O.W.L.s, claiming they were “exactly enough” for their career plans.
Of course, Slytherin had won both the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup for the tenth year in a row. Snape was practically glowing with smug satisfaction, wearing a constant smirk during the entire end-of-year feast. His face, usually so composed, had taken on an almost celebratory gleam. I kept glancing his way, unable to stop myself. The sight of that rare, genuine smirk made something flutter in my chest. I’d gotten so used to our tutoring sessions—to his sharp remarks, his cool guidance, and yes, his subtle, sometimes exasperated pride when I managed something unexpected.
I was going to miss him.
Yesterday evening had been our final tutoring session of the year, and for once, I’d felt like I was getting the hang of things. I’d located him under a Disillusionment Charm with only one spell instead of two or three. His nod of approval—barely perceptible—had felt better than any house points. We’d ended the session with a quiet discussion about the year, about my progress. He’d warned me not to become complacent over the summer, to keep my mind sharp and my skills practised. I’d promised I would. Before leaving, I’d asked, somewhat hesitantly, if there would be more tutoring next year. He hadn’t given me a straight answer—just that it was ‘likely.’
I’d gone to bed happier than I’d been in weeks.
But now, as I sat at the feast, surrounded by the laughter and cheer of students excited for the summer, a nervous weight gnawed at my chest. My gaze flicked back to Snape at the staff table. Despite his smugness over Slytherin’s wins, he looked composed, as always. But my mind kept circling back to what had happened just a few days ago.
Fudge had announced the formation of a task force to review all ex-Death Eaters who’d gotten off by claiming they were under the Imperius Curse. At first, I’d thought it was a brilliant idea—finally, people like Malfoy might get what they deserved. But then it hit me like a punch to the gut.
Snape was one of them.
For the first time, I realised that his past was still hanging over him like a shadow. If the Ministry decided to drag him back into that mess, what could he do? What could any of us do?
I clenched my hands under the table, staring down at my barely touched plate of pudding. The thought of two whole months away from Hogwarts, away from Snape’s sardonic guidance, filled me with an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and dread.
“Don’t get complacent,” he’d said.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
I glanced up one more time, watching him. Whatever was coming next, I hoped he’d make it through.
And I hoped I’d be ready.
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels beneath us was almost comforting as I sat wedged into the corner of our compartment. Harry was leaning forward, eyes bright with excitement, practically vibrating with energy.
“It’s going to be brilliant,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’ll have to invite you both to Sirius’s place at some point.”
Hermione smiled, though she was trying to appear more restrained.
“That sounds… exciting.”
I plastered on my best happy face and leaned my head against the window.
“Sounds fun,” I said lightly, though a part of me twisted at the thought of being at Sirius’s house. Not because of Harry, but because Sirius had a way of making me feel small and out of place. But I wasn’t about to tell Harry that.
Harry grinned, oblivious.
“Oh! And it’s the Quidditch World Cup this summer! Sirius said he’s already gotten tickets for us. For bonding, he said.”
I perked up a little despite myself.
“Dad’s getting tickets too, from work. He mentioned it last week. We’ll probably run into each other.”
“We’ll have to organise something then!” Harry was practically bouncing on his seat now. Hermione and I let him ramble on, enjoying the rare sight of him so animated and cheerful.
But the mood shifted in an instant as the door to our compartment slammed open with a loud bang.
Draco Malfoy stood there, his pale face flushed with anger. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Ever since Fudge’s announcement about the task force to review former Death Eaters, Malfoy had been more irritable than usual, snapping at everyone and directing pointed glares at Harry whenever he could.
“You think you’re so clever, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, his voice tight with suppressed fury. “Think you can ruin everything for my family and get away with it? We’ll see who wins in the end.”
Before any of us could respond, he turned on his heel and stalked off down the corridor, his footsteps echoing.
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Then Harry let out a long, exhausted sigh.
“When will people stop blaming me for Pettigrew? He’s gone. Dead and gone. And all this mess with the Ministry isn’t my fault. It’s because they’re useless and can’t clean up their disasters.”
Hermione reached over, patting his arm.
“People always need someone to blame. You’re just an easy target because of everything that’s happened. But hopefully, it’ll all blow over during the summer.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t as convinced. My stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought of everything spiralling further. I couldn’t help but think more and more that I should have taken the credit for Pettigrew’s arrest, rather than bringing all eyes to Harry, making him their favourite scapegoat.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “And then we’ll come back in September, and maybe—just maybe—it’ll all be a little calmer.”
I wondered if, given the chaos at the Ministry, they would still organise the Triwizard Tournament. At least, with Pettigrew gone, I knew that Harry would be saved from competing.
Big win, in my eyes.
We all sat back, staring out the window as the countryside sped past. For a moment, the world felt as though it were holding its breath, waiting for something else to break.
But for now, at least, we were going home.
I sat on the familiar worn sofa, feeling the comfortable chaos of home settling around me. Ginny was perched on the armrest, the twins sprawled dramatically across the carpet, and Percy was at the kitchen table, trying to look important while reading the evening Prophet.
The clock ticked loudly in the Burrows’ kitchen, hands slowly crawling toward eight, when we heard the front door creak open.
Dad stepped in, and all of us froze. His face was peppered with tiny cuts and nicks, and there was an awkward plaster on his jaw. His glasses were slightly askew.
“Dad!” Ginny’s voice shot across the room, worried. “What happened to you?!”
Mum heaved a big sigh. More exasperated than furious. She bustled over, hands on her hips.
“Your Father has been experimenting again with a Muggle razor.”
Dad gave a sheepish smile, adjusting his glasses.
“Just a little… trial run. Those Muggle razors are fascinating—so simple, so practical!”
I couldn’t help the snort that escaped me.
“Dad, you look like you wrestled with a garden gnome and lost.”
The twins burst into laughter, and even Percy’s severe face cracked with an amused twitch.
“That’s barbaric,” Mum huffed, but she still kissed his injured cheek. “You’re banned from using those contraptions, Arthur! And don’t think I don’t know you sent one to Ron for his birthday! He’s not trying that nonsense either.”
I grinned and shrugged, catching Dad’s embarrassed glance.
“Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll stick to spells for now. Maybe later, though.”
Dad’s face lit up with his signature puppy-eyed look.
“It’s just so fascinating, Molly! All those little blades… and the design—”
“You’re not getting away with that excuse, Arthur.”
She flicked her wand over his face, sealing a minor bleeding cut with a quick spell.
When she stepped back, I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around Dad. He squeezed me tightly, and one by one, the others followed. Ginny gave him a fierce hug, and even the twins looked half-sincere. Percy gave him a stiff, quick embrace, then cleared his throat loudly.
“Welcome back home, children,” Dad said in a watery voice.
It was nice—just being together again, despite everything happening outside these walls. I didn’t even care that the twins were already plotting some prank in the corner or that Percy was back to his pompous self.
I stuck close to Mum and Dad for the rest of the evening, feeling like a limpet clinging to a rock in the sea. Safe. Home.
After months of chaos, it was exactly what I needed.
The next morning, we were all lounging in the living room after breakfast when Mum and Dad called us together. It wasn’t often that both of them looked this serious, and even Fred and George stopped their wrestling match to plop onto the couch.
Again with this nonsense like last summer… Great. What were we going to talk about this time?
“All right, everyone,” Dad said, clearing his throat. “We need to talk about something important. It’s about Scabbers.”
I groaned quietly. Not that nonsense.
“What about Scabbers?” Fred asked lazily, glancing around. “Where is that rat anyway? Did we leave him at school?”
Mum gave Dad a look and he nodded, his mouth tightening.
“It’s about Scabbers, yes. But not in the way you think.”
Percy shifted uncomfortably, casting me a glance. Dad continued, his voice low and measured.
“There’s something we’ve kept quiet, for the family’s sake. It’s… delicate. You all know there’s been a lot of talk in the papers about Peter Pettigrew.”
“The one Sirius Black was after?” Ginny piped up, her brow furrowing.
“Yes,” Mum said, her voice trembling slightly. “That Pettigrew. But what the Prophet didn’t say is… he was here. Living with us. As Scabbers.”
The room went utterly silent.
Fred and George’s jaws dropped. Ginny’s eyes were wide.
“WHAT?!” Fred finally exploded. “You’re saying that mangy rat was actually—”
“Peter Pettigrew, yes,” Dad confirmed grimly.
“How did you find out?” George asked, leaning forward.
All eyes turned to me. My stomach twisted, but I knew it was better to tell them straight than let half-truths fester.
“I—” I started, but Percy jumped in, his voice brisk.
“Ron figured it out. He realised something wasn’t right about Scabbers and went to Professor Snape for help. That’s how it all came to light.”
I flushed but managed to nod.
“Yeah. Snape helped me take it to Dumbledore. They figured out it was Pettigrew.”
“Blimey,” Fred whispered. “First Ginny and the Diary, now you with Scabbers? You’ve got a knack for uncovering dark secrets.”
I ducked my head.
“I wouldn’t have done it without the twins,” I said.
“The twins?” Percy frowned.
I grinned a little, catching Fred and George’s curious expressions.
“Yeah. Let’s just say… we had a little help. But that’s a trade secret, right, guys?”
Fred and George exchanged a look, realisation dawning. “ The Map? ” George mouthed.
I nodded subtly.
“The Map?” Ginny asked, puzzled.
“Trade secret,” Fred said quickly, shooting me a conspiratorial wink.
“The important thing,” Mum said firmly, “is that it’s over now. Pettigrew’s gone, and we’re safe. But Dumbledore advised us to keep this quiet. It wouldn’t reflect well on the family if it were to get out that we’d unknowingly harboured a criminal. It could have damaged our reputation badly.”
Fred and George groaned in unison.
“So much for being able to brag about it.”
I sighed.
“Honestly, I feel bad about it. Everyone thinks Harry had something to do with Pettigrew being caught. They’re blaming him for everything, but he just found out in the papers like the rest of us.”
Mum’s face softened.
“That’s not fair to Harry. But you did what you had to do, Ron. You told someone. You did the right thing.”
Dad nodded seriously.
“And all of you should remember that. If something seems wrong, you go to a professor, especially Professor Snape. He might not be the easiest to approach, but he’s proven himself to be… reliable.”
Fred made a face. George groaned dramatically.
“Snape? Ugh.”
“If we’re ever in danger, we’ll just send Ron. He’s the family mystery solver.”
Ginny giggled, and Percy looked faintly impressed for once.
I groaned, my ears turning pink.
“Oh, shut it.”
But I couldn’t stop the embarrassed grin tugging at my mouth.
What a bunch of dorks. I loved them so much.
The kitchen smelled faintly of soap and fresh bread, and the soft flapping of laundry filled the space. Mum had strung up lines near the window, where school uniforms fluttered gently in the breeze. I stood there, hands at my sides, as she measured my height against the doorframe with an old tape measure.
“Merlin’s beard,” she muttered, pulling the tape tight. “You’ve shot up like a weed, Ron. How are you even fitting into your robes?”
I gave her a sheepish grin.
“I’ve been hemming them on weekends,” I admitted, gesturing to the clothes drying near the window.
She blinked, moving over to inspect the stitches on my robes. After a moment, she let out a surprised sound.
“You did an excellent job. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
I beamed, warmth blooming in my chest.
“Thanks, Mum.”
She smiled back, then glanced at the rest of the laundry.
“Well, we’ll move the twins up to Percy’s robes next year, and you’ll move into theirs—if they’re still in good shape, with all their antics,” she added darkly, squinting out the window toward the chicken coop where the twins were clearly up to something.
Her gaze shifted to me again, frowning thoughtfully.
“And what’s going on with your hair? It’s getting quite long, isn’t it?”
I stiffened slightly.
“I’m growing it out. Like Bill’s. Bill looks cool.”
Mum made a sound of disapproval.
“Honestly, Ron. Why would you want hair like Bill’s? It’s impractical. I’ll just trim it a bit; it’ll look much tidier—”
“No!” I blurted, stepping back, hands on my head to protect my hair from her scissors. “I want it long. Bill looks awesome! I want to look like him.”
Mum’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“But it’s getting in your eyes, and it’s so hard to keep clean—”
Hands still grabbing my head stupidly, I spoke up in my firmlier voice.
“No.”
“Molly, dear?” Dad’s voice drifted from behind his newspaper at the table, where he’d been quietly reading through Ministry reports. He lowered the paper just enough to peer over the top, his glasses slipping down his nose. “I think Ron should have his hair the way he likes it.”
Mum’s mouth opened in protest, then closed again. She huffed, turning toward the window as a loud clucking rose from the garden.
“What are those two up to now?” she muttered.
Without another word, she bustled outside, the screen door creaking shut behind her as she marched toward the chicken coop.
I stood there, feeling a small victory hum through me, and glanced at Dad. He gave me a subtle wink before disappearing again behind his paper.
I grinned to myself, feeling more like Bill already.
I stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Dad sat back down with his paper. Percy was still at the table, hunched over a thick letter, his quill scratching busily. I glanced between them, the silence settling comfortably until I finally broke it.
“Dad… how are things really at the Ministry?” I asked quietly.
Dad lowered his paper with a sigh, his face suddenly looking more tired than before.
“It’s chaos,” he admitted. “Fudge’s task force has everyone suspicious of everyone else. People are paranoid—some because they’re guilty of something, but most because they’re just afraid of being accused. They’re desperate to find someone to blame for Sirius’s lack of trial all those years ago. Someone who can take the fall so the Ministry doesn’t look as incompetent as it’s been.”
Percy cleared his throat, his quill still moving, though his voice was eager.
“Well, they’ll change once I start working there,” he said firmly.
I blinked, curious.
“Is that what your letter’s about? Are you writing to the Ministry for a job?”
Percy shook his head, not looking up.
“I already sent my application. With my N.E.W.T. scores, the day before yesterday. This is just… something else,” he mumbled, a bit distracted.
“Wow,” I said, impressed despite myself. “You’re really going for it.”
“I’ll make a difference,” he replied with a slight nod. “It’ll be better with people who care about proper order and justice.”
I hesitated, then admitted,
“I wish I had your ambition. I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do after school.”
Dad set his paper aside entirely, and Percy finally glanced up from his parchment.
“You’ve got time,” Dad said warmly. “And you’ve done brilliantly this year, Ron. You’ll have plenty of opportunities, whatever you decide.”
“With your knack for noticing things—like finding Pettigrew and that whole business with the Diary—you’d make a fantastic investigator. The Ministry would be lucky to have you.”
I flushed, feeling a strange mix of pride and embarrassment. It felt a bit like an impostor’s praise, like I didn’t deserve it. But it still made me smile.
Before I could think twice, I stepped over to Percy and hugged him from behind, squeezing his shoulders.
“Thanks, Perce,” I murmured, feeling his stiff surprise through the embrace.
Percy sat frozen for a moment, his quill hovering awkwardly over the parchment. Then, slowly, he relaxed, though he didn’t quite return the hug.
“Er… you’re welcome,” he said, clearly unsure what to do with himself.
Dad let out a chuckle, his eyes warm behind his glasses.
“Look at you two,” he said fondly. “I’ll have to take a picture—you don’t see this every day.”
I laughed a little, letting Percy go and turning to hug Dad too. He hugged me back without hesitation, his arms strong and reassuring around me.
“I love you, Dad,” I said, my voice soft but certain. “You’re the best dad I’ve ever had.”
He laughed, low and gentle.
“Well, I should hope so,” he teased. “But I love you too, son.”
I held on a moment longer, feeling the comfort of home wrap around me like a worn blanket. He couldn’t understand that my declaration wasn’t meant as a joke, but it was not important. What was important was that he knew that I loved him. My sweet little Muggle-loving dork.
It was an ordinary evening at the Burrow, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting warm light over the mismatched kitchen. Mum was bustling about, clearing the dishes, while Dad read The Evening Prophet. The twins were swapping stories about their latest experiments, and Ginny was doodling something at the kitchen table.
Percy entered the room, his expression as solemn as ever, but there was a hint of excitement in his eyes. He cleared his throat, causing the room to quiet.
“I have an announcement,” he said, straightening his shoulders.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“I’ve been offered a position at the Ministry,” he said, his voice steady but unable to hide the pride underneath. “In the Department of International Magical Cooperation, working under Mr. Crouch himself.”
Mum gasped in delight, her hand flying to her chest.
“Oh, Percy! That’s wonderful news!”
Dad put his paper down, looking up with a proud smile, though there was a shadow of concern in his eyes.
“That’s quite an accomplishment, son. Congratulations. Though… things at the Ministry are a bit chaotic right now. Are you certain?”
Percy nodded sharply.
“I’m certain. It’s a foot in the door, and I’ll make a difference. I want to be part of fixing things.”
There was a moment of silence, then the twins exchanged glances, their lips twitching.
“Oh, brilliant,” Fred drawled. “Look at you, joining the Ministry while it’s falling apart. Proper little rebel, aren’t you?”
George snickered.
“The Ministry’s last hope, and he’s a Weasley. Merlin, help them!”
“Don’t you two start,” Mum said sharply, shooting them a glare.
I frowned, feeling a twist of annoyance at their teasing. Percy might be pompous sometimes, but this was his moment.
“Leave him alone,” I said, my voice firm. “He worked hard for this, and he deserves it.”
Percy glanced at me, surprised but grateful, and I gave him a nod.
“Thanks, Ron,” he said, his voice quieter, less stiff than usual.
Fred and George exchanged a glance but said nothing more, though George did mutter something about needing to brew something strong to celebrate.
Dad leaned back in his chair.
“Well, Percy, we’re proud of you. Just… be careful. The Ministry’s not exactly stable right now. Keep your head down, and don’t get caught up in any nonsense.”
“I will, Dad. I promise,” Percy replied with a solemn nod.
Mum wiped at her eyes.
“I can’t believe it. My boy is working at the Ministry. I knew you’d do great things, Percy.”
Ginny clapped softly, and even the twins gave a begrudging applause.
I grinned, stepping forward to clap Percy on the back.
“Congrats, Perce. You’ll do great.”
For a moment, it felt like we were a team, a family united. And even though shadows were looming over the Ministry and the world beyond, for that one moment, Percy’s achievement shone bright in the Burrow’s warm kitchen.
The morning after Percy’s first day in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Barty Crouch Sr was arrested.
That evening, the mood at the Burrow was tense. The aroma of Mum’s cooking filled the air, but it didn’t mask the nervous energy that clung to the family. Dad and Percy were more than an hour late.
The clatter of cutlery was momentarily silenced as the front door creaked open.
Dad and Percy entered, both looking drained, their faces pale with exhaustion and worry. The rest of us turned immediately, worry etched on our faces.
“Dad? Percy? What happened?” Mum asked, her voice trembling as she set down her spoon.
They both slumped into chairs around the kitchen table. Percy’s Ministry badge was slightly askew, and he didn’t even bother fixing it.
Dad sighed deeply.
“On Percy’s second day, no less… Crouch Sr. was arrested. His son was found hidden in his house, under the Imperius Curse. It’s a mess. An absolute disaster. The whole Department of International Magical Cooperation is in chaos. The Ministry’s scrambling to manage the fallout.”
Percy’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his usual confidence gone.
“Everyone’s whispering, the press will have a field day. Daily Prophet’s probably already preparing a dozen articles.”
Mum gasped softly, pressing her hands to her mouth.
“Oh, Merlin… My poor Percy! Will this affect your position?”
Dad tried to sound reassuring, though there was a slight tremor in his voice.
“It shouldn’t. Percy’s a fresh face, untainted by any of this. A Weasley from a family known for standing against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. That should count for something. They’ll need clean names more than ever.”
Mum didn’t look convinced.
“But… Fudge? Will he step down? After this, surely—”
Dad shook his head, glancing down at his hands.
“There are rumours, but nothing’s certain. He’s stubborn, and this Ministry isn’t exactly known for swift, decisive action. Still, the public’s getting restless. This could be the tipping point. We’ll have to wait and see.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft clinking of cutlery against plates. The food felt cold now, unappetising in the shadow of the news. Percy looked utterly defeated, and even Fred and George, usually quick with a quip, were uncharacteristically subdued.
I glanced at Percy, feeling a mix of sympathy and frustration. This was supposed to be his moment, his first real job, his first steps into the world he’d always dreamed of. And now… this.
“Well,” I said quietly, trying to inject a little optimism, “at least you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ll be fine, Percy.”
Mum nodded, though her eyes were still wide with concern.
“He’s right. We’ll get through this. We always do.”
Dad gave Percy a tired but affectionate smile.
“And you’re not alone in this, son. We’re all behind you.”
The heavy atmosphere lingered, but the weight of family solidarity was there, silent but strong.
By mid-July, the wizarding world was in chaos. Rumours swirled daily about Fudge’s resignation, fueled by public outrage over Crouch Senior’s disgrace and the sudden scrutiny of ex-Death Eaters who’d escaped justice by claiming the Imperius Defence. Crouch Junior, meanwhile, was locked up under heavy Auror guard at St. Mungo’s, and the public was screaming for him to be sent back to Azkaban. Each edition of the Prophet seemed to add more fuel to the fire. Dad and Percy would always come home with new whispers to share, their faces tight with worry.
But honestly? Home wasn’t less chaotic.
I climbed the stairs to the bathroom, and there was Dad, hunched over the sink with his Muggle razor in hand, trying to shave the stubble from his chin.
“Mum’s gonna be mad if she catches you doing that,” I said, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to laugh.
Dad looked over, a bit guilty but mainly just determined.
“I know, I know. But there’s something so fascinating about the simplicity of it, Ron. No magic, just a blade and a bit of shaving cream. Ingenious, isn’t it?”
I shook my head, a grin tugging at my lips.
“You’ve cut yourself again.”
He dabbed at a nick with a bit of tissue, sighing.
“I’ll get it right eventually. It’s all about patience and precision. Muggles do this every day. It’s… well, it’s like a little ritual.”
I watched him for a moment, something twisting in my chest. The familiar comfort of it all settled over me, but then something else bubbled up. A question.
“Do you think it makes you… I dunno, more of a man, doing it the Muggle way?”
Dad paused mid-stroke, blinking at me.
“Why would you think that?”
I shifted uncomfortably, picking at the cuff of my sleeve.
“I dunno. There’s all this stuff about being a man. Percy’s so perfect. Bill’s cool. The twins are loud and confident. And me? I’m just… me. Mum’s still trying to cut my hair. You’re experimenting with razors. It just makes me wonder if I’m supposed to be different.”
Dad set the razor down, turning fully toward me. His eyes were kind, his voice low and steady.
“Ron, being a man—or anyone, really—isn’t about the hair on your face or the way you shave. It’s not about being cool or loud or fitting some mould. It’s about kindness. Integrity. Standing up for what’s right. It’s about making mistakes and learning from them. And it’s about being comfortable in your own skin, no matter what anyone else says.”
My throat felt tight, like something was lodged there.
“But what if I’m not sure what ‘comfortable’ means?”
Dad’s eyes softened even more.
“That’s okay. It takes time to figure that out. It’s not a race. There’s no one right way to be you. You’re already doing fine, just by being yourself. And I’m proud of the man you’re becoming.”
Something inside me cracked. I stepped forward and hugged him tight, pressing my face into his shoulder.
“Thanks, Dad,” I muttered, my voice thick.
He chuckled, hugging me back just as fiercely.
“Anytime, son. Anytime.”
I held on for a while, feeling the weight of the future lift slightly. For that moment, it was just me and Dad, and it was enough.
I hadn’t even stepped through the front door of Sirius’s new house before I heard Harry’s voice call out,
“Come on in, guys! It’s finally finished!”
Hermione, dragging her trunk behind her, followed me into the hallway, her face lighting up as she glanced around. Sirius had done a great job; this was a warm and welcoming place. A real home. The walls were painted a soft, calming green, and the air smelled like fresh paint and lemon polish.
Harry grinned at us from the staircase.
“I’ll show you everything!”
He led us up to his bedroom, which was just as I’d imagined it would be, full of moving posters of Quidditch players, a few Slytherin banners (which made me laugh), and right there on his shelf, the little cobra statuette I’d gotten him in Egypt last summer. My heart gave a weird little squeeze seeing it still there.
“This is brilliant, mate,” I said, genuinely happy for him.
Harry’s grin faltered a bit as he mentioned, almost in passing,
“The Dursleys are on a brutal diet for Dudley. It’s a nightmare. But at least I’m here with Sirius and real food. Even if it’s mostly take-out.”
“Anything’s better than your aunt’s boiled cabbage,” I said, clapping his shoulder. “Let’s check out that cake you promised.”
He led us outside to the garden, where Sirius was setting up a casual gathering; plenty of snacks, butterbeer, and a massive birthday cake that looked like it could feed an army. A Wizarding Wireless hummed quietly in the background, playing something upbeat. Hermione let out a little laugh, her trunk abandoned by the garden wall.
Sirius, in a particularly good mood, had a magical camera slung around his neck. He kept snapping photos of us, and we even posed for a few. But the best moment came when I made some crass joke—something about Professor Trelawney’s Inner Eye—and Hermione, mid-sip of butterbeer, snorted it right out of her nose. Sirius caught it perfectly on camera, his laugh echoing around the garden.
“Hope you didn’t forget your swimsuit like I asked,” Harry said, motioning toward the magical pool Sirius had installed. It shimmered with faintly enchanted light, its surface reflecting the bright summer sky.
I grinned, pulling off my trainers.
The afternoon melted into a scene filled with splashing and laughter. We played with the pool’s bizarre, magical settings, including a ridiculous feature that made the water bubble and fizz like soda pop. When we finally tired out, we lounged poolside with dripping hair and towels wrapped around us, butterbeer in hand.
“It’s good to see you like this, Harry,” Hermione said softly, stretching her legs out on the grass. “Really happy.”
Harry flushed a little, but his smile didn’t fade.
“It feels like… family. Like, I finally got one.”
The moment hung there, warm and soft. But then Sirius clapped his hands together and said, “All right, who wants another slice of cake?” breaking the spell.
“Me!” I called, leaping to my feet. “Hermione, save me a seat, will you?”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. It wasn’t a grand party, or fancy, or full of noise. But it was perfect. It was Harry’s first real birthday party, and it felt like home.
On August 3rd, Barty Crouch Junior escaped Ministry custody.
I spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, pondering. About fate. About the future. About scheming in the dark and boiling cauldrons in a cemetery.
And I hoped. And I prayed.
Please, protect Harry.
Chapter 37: BOOK FOUR - THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP
Chapter Text
BOOK FOUR: RON WEASLEY AND TOURNAMENT BACKSTAGE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP
The orchard behind the Burrow was buzzing with chatter and laughter as we celebrated Ginny’s and Percy’s birthdays. Bill and Charlie had managed to get a few days off work to come home for it and, of course, for the Quidditch World Cup. The whole family was gathered, and it was one of those rare, chaotic but cosy days that made me remember why I loved being a Weasley.
Hermione had been staying with us since Harry’s birthday, and she and Ginny were thick as thieves now. I caught them at one point, heads bent together over something—probably a book or an inside joke—and felt an odd swell of pride. They were both family in different ways, and I wanted them to get along with each other. Seeing them laugh and chatter made me feel like things were right in the world.
I spent as much time as I could talking with Bill and Charlie, soaking up all the stories they had from work and pretending I wasn’t hanging on every word. Charlie told me about his latest dragon escapades. Bill teased me relentlessly about wanting to copy his style.
The twins were showing off some of their new prototypes for “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” their grand scheme for a joke shop. Mum was still a bit miffed about the big row they’d had a few days ago, where she’d insisted they should work for the Ministry like Dad and Percy. Dad had tried to mediate, pointing out that the twins deserved to follow their own path, and eventually, Mum had calmed—until I’d muttered something about the Ministry being a joke itself this year. She hadn’t found it funny, but the twins had laughed themselves silly.
Of course, Mum was also spending half the day scolding Bill about his new fang earring and what “they” must think of him at work. She kept trying to convince him to let her cut his hair, too, and I had to suppress a laugh when she admonished him for “putting ideas into Ron’s head.” Bill just grinned and called me “Mini-Bill” every chance he got, which made my ears go bright red.
As the sun started to set, we all ended up gathered around the wireless to listen to the day’s match at the Quidditch World Cup. Even though I wasn’t exactly a die-hard fan —and Hermione was even less interested than I was— we sat with the rest of the family and listened as they lost their minds over every foul and score. Hermione and I kept exchanging amused glances while the rest of them practically shouted at the radio.
For all the tension and chaos this year had brought, for most of the summer, it felt like everything was simple and normal. And I couldn’t help but feel grateful for that. For I was sure that some new drama would surely unfold at Hogwarts.
“However,” Percy sighed heavily, draining nearly half his glass of elderflower wine in one go, “we’re absolutely swamped over in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, what with the World Cup and all. Frankly, it’s enough without trying to navigate the scandals. And as you know, we’ve got another... significant event to organise right after the Cup.” He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully down the table toward where Dad was sitting. “You know the one I’m referring to, Father.” Then he raised his voice just a notch, clearly for our benefit. “The top-secret one.”
I gave him my most casual, innocent smile.
“You mean the Triwizard Tournament?” I said, voice light and breezy. “Oh yes, very top-secret indeed, brother.”
Percy spluttered and turned beet red, his glass clinking sharply against his plate as he nearly dropped it.
“Ron! How—how do you—?”
Before he could get more words out, the entire table erupted in chaos. The twins leaned in with wide grins, shouting over each other.
“No way! The Triwizard Tournament’s coming back?”
“That’s brilliant!”
“Are you serious, Percy?”
Fred and George were practically bouncing in their seats. Ginny, looking equally thrilled, glanced between us all, eyes widened with confusion and excitement.
Hermione, looking a bit overwhelmed by the sudden explosion of conversation, leaned closer to me.
“The Triwizard Tournament?” she whispered, curiosity lighting her face. “What’s that?”
Before I could answer, Bill, who was sitting nearby, chimed in.
“It’s an old magical competition between the three biggest wizarding schools: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang,” he explained, his voice carrying over the chatter. “Champions are selected from each school to compete in three dangerous tasks. Dangerous,” he emphasised, eyeing Hermione, “because they’re meant to push a champion’s magical skill, courage, and cleverness to the limit. People have... died in the past.”
Hermione’s expression shifted from curiosity to shock.
“Died?” she echoed, her voice low. “And they’re bringing it back?”
Percy, having regained his composure—at least trying to—pointed an accusing finger at me.
“Ron, how on earth do you know about this?”
Before I could reply, Fred cut in, grinning ear to ear.
“No secret is ever safe from our Ronnie,” he teased.
“Yeah,” George agreed with a laugh. “He’s practically Hogwarts’ very own mystery-sniffer.”
I gave them a mock-glare but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
Mystery-sniffer. I liked that very much.
The 25th of August finally arrived, and with it, the day of the Quidditch World Cup final. We were all up at the crack of dawn, though some of us had the luxury of a lie-in. Bill, Charlie, and Percy—the traitors—would be Apparating directly to the site, while the rest of us had to haul ourselves out of bed at an ungodly hour to make it to the Portkey.
I said an exaggerated, teary goodbye to Crookshanks, throwing in a sniffle or two for good measure as I patted his head. Hermione just rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a fond smile before she turned away.
Mum was in full general mode, bustling around the house and shouting orders to anyone who wasn’t moving fast enough. “Go, go, go! You’ll miss the Portkey!” she yelled, shoving us out the door like a herd of stubborn Hippogriffs.
During the walk, Hermione edged up beside Dad, peppering him with questions about Portkey. I half-listened at first, but the more she asked, the more I tuned out. Ginny and I were walking side by side, both of us so bleary-eyed and wobbly it was like we’d been on an all-night bender. I leaned against her, and she leaned back, and we shuffled along like a couple of drunks trying to navigate a straight line.
We finally reached the Portkey and were joined by the Diggorys. Hermione and Ginny giggled at each other, their heads tilted toward Cedric, and I gave an internal sigh. Sure, Cedric was a good-looking bloke, but giggle-worthy? Hardly.
Once we arrived at the campsite, we were stuck with the Muggle regulations. No magic allowed. So Hermione and I helped Dad sort through the Muggle money, which was about as confusing as trying to read runes upside down. After we got the tent up—which was more effort than it had any right to be—I went with Hermione to fetch water from a tap.
On our way back, a familiar voice called out.
“Oi! Over here!”
It was Harry and Sirius, making their way through the throng, grinning from ear to ear. We met up, exchanged hugs and hearty backslaps, and began catching up on everything since Harry’s birthday.
Harry was wearing a strange expression, somewhere between amusement and mild worry. Sirius had a similar look, as if they were keeping a shared secret.
“You remember Dobby?” Harry asked.
Hermione and I both nodded, and my stomach gave an uneasy lurch.
“Yeah, the crazy elf. What about him?”
“He came to me again,” Harry replied, visibly annoyed. “Said I was in grave danger and shouldn’t come back to school this year.”
What.
Hermione’s mouth dropped open.
“Again? Really? Is he planning to do this every two years now?”
“He didn’t say what the danger was,” Harry said with a shrug. “And he disappeared before Sirius could corner him.”
What.
Sirius crossed his arms and scowled.
“Next time that blasted elf shows his face, I’ll give him a few choice words. Maybe shake him a bit until he spills the real danger.”
What. The. Hell.
As we made our way back to the tent and settled down for lunch, I found myself tuning out the chatter around me. My mind kept spinning over Dobby’s warning. I’d completely forgotten about him after second year. His story arc had never really closed in this timeline. And now, out of the blue, he was back with another ominous warning.
Was this tied to the investigations into the former Death Eaters? Did Lucius Malfoy think it was all Harry’s fault that Pettigrew was caught and his reputation was in shambles? Could this be about revenge?
Everything was shifting, and I hated it. It felt like the story I’d known was slipping away from me, becoming unpredictable and dangerous in new ways. I didn’t know how to protect Harry this time.
A loud, triumphant shout from the twins pulled me out of my thoughts. They were gleefully betting their entire savings with Ludo Bagman. My gut twisted, and I couldn’t help but think, That’s a bad idea. A very bad idea. Poor blokes were practically signing away their Galleons. Serves them right for being this foolish, I thought. The words sounded suspiciously like something Snape would say, and I couldn’t help but chuckle softly to myself. I was definitely beginning to think like him.
The air was buzzing with excitement as we climbed into the top box of the stadium. My heart was hammering from the sheer size of the place, and the roar of the crowd outside filled my ears. But as we stepped into the luxurious box, the hair on the back of my neck prickled.
There they were.
The Malfoys.
Given their current shaky political and judicial standing, I hadn’t been expecting them.
Lucius, pristine and icy as ever, stood at the front, his arms folded and his pale gaze sweeping over us like we were dirt on his shoes. Narcissa was perched elegantly beside him, her posture rigid and regal, her icy blonde hair twisted high on her head. Draco lingered behind them, arms crossed tightly and scowling, looking like he’d chewed something bitter.
For a beat, no one spoke. Then, Sirius, his hands shoved casually into his pockets, stepped forward with that signature effortless swagger.
“Narcissa,” he drawled, his voice both smooth and cutting. “Cousin.”
Narcissa’s lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile.
“Sirius,” she murmured, her voice crisp and cold. “What a surprise. I wasn’t aware you were…free to attend such events.”
“Miracles happen, don’t they?” Sirius said lightly, though his smile was razor sharp. He tilted his head, his eyes glittering with a dangerous sort of amusement. “Funny, isn’t it? Seeing family again, after so long. I even heard Bellatrix’s voice echoing through the walls of Azkaban, calling out my name. Such sweet music.”
Narcissa’s lips thinned into a tight line, and for a fleeting second, a flash of discomfort crossed her face. Lucius’s jaw clenched visibly.
Draco couldn’t hold his tongue. He stepped closer, glaring directly at Harry.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Getting Pettigrew caught? Starting all this chaos at the Ministry? My father’s under investigation because of you!”
Harry’s fists clenched, but Sirius raised a hand.
“Oh, let’s not pretend that rat’s capture wasn’t well overdue,” he said smoothly. “And as for the chaos, Lucius—” he turned his attention to the elder Malfoy, his tone silk over steel, “—it’s quite something, isn’t it? To see how swiftly the Ministry turns when their precious secrets are uncovered. I wonder how many skeletons are rattling in your closets.”
Lucius’s lips curled into a mocking smile.
“Be careful, Black. You may be a free man, but you’re no less a disgrace than before.”
Sirius stepped forward, his expression darkening just slightly.
“Careful yourself, Lucius. You’re not as untouchable as you think. The walls are closing in, and I’d wager even you can feel the squeeze.”
Narcissa’s voice cut sharply through the tension.
“Enough. This is neither the time nor the place for such a conversation.” Her gaze flicked disdainfully over Sirius before landing, icy, on Harry. “Enjoy the match… while you can.”
I stood there, silent, watching it all unfold. My fists were clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. Hermione was as tense as a bowstring beside me, eyes darting between the adults. I was too busy analysing every word, every sneer Lucius gave us, trying to find some hint of what was behind Dobby’s warning. His gaze was calculating, his smile sharp, but no clear threat surfaced.
I caught a subtle glance Lucius sent Draco, who stood glowering behind him. Was it a signal? A warning? Or just the weight of expectation from a father under scrutiny? I couldn’t tell, but I didn’t dare stop watching.
Eventually, Sirius let out a breath, forced a smirk, and clapped Harry on the shoulder.
“Come on, kid. Let’s find our seats.”
We slid into the row opposite the Malfoys, keeping as much distance as possible, though it wasn’t much in the confines of the box. Hermione kept her head down, her hands tight around her program. Harry’s jaw was clenched so hard his teeth must have hurt. Sirius sat casually, but his shoulders were tense, and I knew he was ready for a fight if Lucius so much as looked at us wrong.
And me? I sat rigid, eyes flicking constantly between Lucius and Draco, heart pounding in my throat.
If there were a hint, a clue, a flicker of Dobby’s warning hiding in their expressions or gestures, I’d find it.
Because someone had to.
As we settled into our seats, I could feel the tension still humming in the air between our group and the Malfoys. Harry leaned toward Sirius, frowning, his voice low enough for only us to hear.
“What was that about… cousin?”
Sirius gave a short, humourless laugh.
“Ah, yes. Narcissa’s my cousin. The Black family’s a tangled web of pureblood madness. My mother was obsessed with keeping the bloodline ‘pure.’ Narcissa is the daughter of my mother’s sister. Bellatrix—her sister—is my other cousin.”
Harry’s eyes widened in shock.
“You’re related to Malfoy’s mother?”
“Unfortunately,” Sirius said with a smirk, though his eyes were sharp. “And if you thought Narcissa was cold, wait until you hear about Bellatrix.”
Hermione, curiosity lighting up her face, leaned in.
“Who’s Bellatrix?”
Sirius’s expression darkened, his tone dropping.
“Bellatrix Lestrange. She’s a Death Eater. Loyal to Voldemort, through and through. Even in Azkaban, she never renounced him. She and her husband tortured Alice and Frank Longbottom into madness.”
Hermione gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Longbottom? As in… Neville’s relatives?”
“His parents, yes,” Sirius said grimly, his voice rough with old bitterness.
I swallowed hard, the weight of the conversation sinking in like a stone in my stomach. But before we could tumble further into the shadows, Sirius shook his head sharply, as if shaking off the gloom.
“Enough of that,” he said briskly. “This is a day for fun, for the World Cup! Let’s not darken it with memories of old horrors. The game’s about to start.”
I caught Harry’s worried glance, his face pale beneath his usual sunburn from the walk up. Hermione sat back, biting her lip. I felt the knot in my chest loosen just a bit, and I nudged Harry’s knee under the seat.
“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s enjoy it. We’re here, aren’t we? And the game’s going to be epic.”
Sirius grinned at that, though the shadows hadn’t quite left his eyes.
“You’re right, Ron. Let’s focus on the match. And maybe on seeing Krum fly circles around the Irish team.”
I grinned back, grateful for the return to something lighter, and we all turned toward the pitch, waiting for the first flash of brooms to streak into the sky.
The match ended how I knew it would, but it was still delightful.
By the time we made it back to our tents, none of us felt remotely ready to sleep. The whole campsite was still buzzing with noise –laughing, singing, shouting– and Dad finally shrugged and said we could all have one last cup of cocoa before turning in.
The match dominated our conversation as we sipped from our mugs, with everyone talking over one another and arguing about the best plays. Dad and Charlie got drawn into a particularly heated disagreement over cobbing, and Harry was halfway through making his case for Krum’s excellent Seeker tactics when Ginny, who’d been nodding off at the table, spilt her hot chocolate all over the floor.
That finally made Dad put his foot down. He called a halt to our bickering and replaying the match, sending us all to bed before Ginny could pour any more cocoa. Hermione and Ginny disappeared into the next tent, and I joined Harry and the rest of my brothers in clambering into our bunks after pulling on our pyjamas.
Even as we lay there, I could hear the sound of laughter and singing drifting from the rest of the campsite, punctuated by the occasional loud bang that echoed through the night. The air inside the tent felt heavy, too warm, too close. I shifted restlessly, pulling the blanket tighter around me even though I wasn’t cold.
I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing, replaying every glance Lucius had thrown our way in the Top Box, every twist of his mouth, every subtle tightening of his jaw. Dobby’s warning echoed in my head, louder than the leftover cheers from the match.
What was Lucius scheming? What danger was lurking in the shadows that no one else seemed to see? I hated feeling this way.
Powerless.
Suspicious.
Waiting for the worst to happen.
It was like being stuck in a nightmare where the monster was lurking just out of sight, and I couldn’t even warn anyone.
I thought about how much easier it would be if I could just go to Snape, like I always did when things spiralled beyond what I could handle. Snape wouldn’t laugh it off like Sirius did. He wouldn’t call me paranoid or dismiss me as a kid. He’d listen. He’d help me figure out what Lucius was planning—he always did.
I shifted again, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep. But my ears stayed sharp, straining to catch any hint of screaming of terror outside. I lay there waiting, heartbeat thumping against my ribs, for the chaos to break loose.
But it didn’t.
No screams. No shouts of panic. Just the quiet hum of the campsite, a distant burst of laughter, the creak of the tent settling in the breeze.
I must’ve dozed off at some point because the next thing I knew, dawn was creeping through the seams of the tent. I felt heavy with exhaustion, my mind still caught in the webs of worry, but the night had passed without a single cry. No disaster. No terror.
Nothing at all.
Only one thing.
I suddenly remembered why the silver peacock reminded me of something.
The last week before we returned to Hogwarts, we all headed to Diagon Alley for school shopping. Sirius and Harry tagged along, and it was a relief not to be as squeezed financially this year with Percy gone and no longer draining Mum’s nerves or wallet. Even the twins, despite having thrown all their savings at Ludo Bagman, somehow managed to buy themselves brand-new dress robes. I, on the other hand, figured I’d have to trawl some thrift stores before finding something halfway decent for the Yule Ball.
As the family scattered for their errands, it ended up just Sirius, Harry, Hermione, and me wandering down the busy streets. The last item on our list was the dreaded dress robes.
“Wait, what’s with the robes?” Harry asked, puzzled, as we hovered near a shop window.
Hermione and I exchanged a look.
“We forgot to tell you about the Triwizard Tournament,” she admitted.
“The what?”
Hermione and Sirius explained to a bewildered Harry what the Tournament was about. He looked perplexed that anyone would want to participate in something deadly.
“So… Dress robes?” He asked reluctantly. “How do I even pick those?”
“Ask the clerk,” I suggested. “They’ll know.”
“And I’ll know too,” Sirius said. “Let’s go, folks!”
What followed was a blur of Hermione and Harry disappearing into changing stalls, emerging, twirling, adjusting, and seeking opinions. Hermione turned down at least three dresses before emerging in a flowing, familiar periwinkle blue one that made her look stunning.
“That’s the one,” I said immediately. “You look perfect in it.”
Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she smiled at me.
“Thanks, Ron,” she said, smoothing down the fabric.
I grinned back. When her back was turned, Sirius stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I noticed you’ve been a little… cold with me.”
I froze, glancing at him.
“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry for teasing you at our second meeting. I was out of line,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s start over?”
I eyed his hand, then his face.
“Don’t insult Snape in front of me,” I said quietly. “And stop with the nicknames.”
He hesitated for a second, then nodded.
“Agreed,” he said, and we shook.
As he clapped me on the back, he grinned.
“Now, go pick some dress robes. My treat.”
I blinked at him.
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
He shrugged, his grin widening mischievously.
“Does it work?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Cliché,” I muttered, but turned toward a rack I’d been eyeing since we walked in. The robes were a deep bottle green, cut in a modern and sleek style with a sharp waistline.
“Go on,” Sirius encouraged. “Try them on.”
I ducked into a stall and emerged to check myself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric.
“Ron! You look fantastic,” Hermione said, appearing in her blue dress.
I felt my ears turn pink, muttering a thanks as she turned back to her reflection. Sirius, standing behind her, raised his eyebrows at me with a teasing smirk. I scowled at him and rolled my eyes.
Harry came out of his stall, dressed again in his regular clothes, holding a set of dark green robes draped over his arm.
I might have turned him into the same Slytherin-obsessed walking cliche as I. Worth it, though.
“I’m done,” he said, looking exhausted. He gave me a once-over and a thumbs-up. “We match.”
We all got changed back into regular clothes and headed to the counter. Sirius insisted on paying for everyone, waving off protests.
“Consider it a birthday gift to all of you,” he said with a grin.
“Thanks, Sirius,” we chorused.
And just like that, we were ready for another year at Hogwarts. And the Yule Ball, even if my friends didn’t know it yet.
With all the shopping done and our bags loaded, we joined the rest of the family. We unfortunately had to say goodbye to Harry and Sirius. They were staying in Diagon Alley a bit longer, and we were heading back to the Burrow. As we got off the Floo, Mum looked a bit embarrassed about Sirius buying my robes.
“It wasn’t charity,” I said quickly before lying to her face. “He said it was a thank-you for Pettigrew.”
Mum’s face softened.
“Oh, well then,” she said, pulling me into a quick kiss on the cheek. “That was kind of him. Now, go join your siblings. They’re in the living room.”
I headed into the lounge, where everyone was sprawled about. Ginny, Fred and George were cross-legged on the floor, mending textbooks with Spellotape, while Percy sat in a chair, looking unusually focused as he enchanted his quill to jot down notes in a fresh notebook. Hermione was sitting by the window, trying to get her cat to leave her stack of books alone.
I grabbed a chair near Mum and started helping her hem and sew the school robes. It was slow, peaceful work, the kind that didn’t need much thinking, and after the chaos of shopping and Sirius’s unexpected gift, it felt good to do something so ordinary.
After some time, Crookshank came and sat on my lap. I turned to see Hermione curled up in an armchair nearby, nose deep in a textbook, completely engrossed. Every so often, she’d make a soft “hmm” sound or flip a page with delicate care.
I felt the tension that had been coiled in me for days finally start to ease. Mum and I worked steadily through the pile of robes, and while my stitches were not as perfect as hers, despite that, she claimed the contrary; she never once complained, just murmured her thanks and patted my hand.
The quiet sounds of Spellotape tearing, the rustle of pages, and the occasional meow from Crookshanks filled the room. It was peaceful and nice. The kind of evening that made everything feel just a little bit more manageable.
Chapter 38: BOOK FOUR - THREATS AND ANNOUNCEMENT
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THREATS AND ANNOUNCEMENT
Bill and Charlie came to see us off at King’s Cross station. And while the twins were already plotting mischief for the new year, it was Charlie who leaned down and said with a grin, “See you all soon,” as though he thought he was being mysterious. I shot him an unimpressed look. Charlie really thought he was slick and all, but I had an unfair advantage. I knew exactly why he’d be back—and it wasn’t for a friendly chat. He was going to help put three poor sods into mortal peril during the Tournament. Typical.
On the Hogwarts Express, we settled into a compartment, just the three of us, while Luna was who knows where. Hermione pulled out a book, Harry was poking at his Chocolate Frog collection, and I was leaning against the window, half-listening to the train rumbling along.
Suddenly, the compartment door slammed open, and in strutted Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. His usual smirk was firmly in place, but there was something brittle about it today.
“Well, well,” he drawled, looking directly at Harry. “Potter. Still basking in your little victory over Pettigrew, I see. Think you’re something special, don’t you?”
Harry tensed, but before he could speak, I jumped in.
“A bit rich coming from you, Malfoy. How’s your dad holding up these days, with the Ministry breathing down his neck?”
Draco’s smirk twitched, his lips thinning.
“He’s doing just fine. Thanks for your concern. Unlike certain people, we don’t need to scramble to prove our innocence.”
I cocked my head, trying to sound casual.
“Oh? You sure about that? Seems to me like Fudge is getting desperate, what with the task force and all. Wouldn’t want the wrong names turning up, eh?”
His nostrils flared.
“You’re just jealous because my father’s important. Unlike your pathetic family.”
“Jealous?” I repeated with a shrug. “Please. I was just wondering if you’ve heard anything... Say, about a certain competition at Hogwarts this year. The one where you’re supposed to be at least seventeen to enter?”
Draco’s eyes flashed.
“What, the Triwizard Tournament? Of course, I know about it. It’s not exactly a secret among the right people.”
Harry, frowning, cut in.
“Wait, how do you know about that? It wasn’t even supposed to be announced yet.”
Draco’s smug look faltered as he realised he’d slipped.
“My father—” He stopped abruptly, his mouth snapping shut.
I seized the moment.
“Your father? Planning something, is he? Going to pull a few strings for you, maybe? Or is it Harry he’s targeting again, seeing as you seem so obsessed with him?”
Draco’s face flushed red with anger.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Weasley!”
I grinned.
“Don’t I? Seems like you know more than you should. Bit careless, slipping up like that. Must be hard keeping all those plots straight, especially when you’re desperate to be Daddy’s little informant.”
Draco’s face twisted with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. He snapped, “You’ll regret that, Weasley,” before storming off with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him.
The compartment was quiet for a moment, and then Harry let out a heavy sigh.
“When will people stop saying I’m at the centre of everything?”
Hermione shook her head, looking thoughtful.
“They’re just afraid. And desperate for someone to blame.”
I leaned back, my heart still racing.
“He knows something,” I said quietly. “Something’s brewing. We need to be ready.”
Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, and for the first time that day, all three of us were united by a shared, uneasy understanding. Dobby was right; the year ahead was going to be anything but ordinary.
Harry and I said goodbye to Hermione in the Entrance Hall and headed for the Slytherin table. There were already a few familiar faces there, Theodore and Blaise among them, and we shared casual greetings as we sat down.
“Welcome back,” Theodore said, his tone light but cautious. “Any exciting stories this summer?”
I gave a noncommittal shrug, letting Harry handle most of the chit-chat. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk, but I nodded politely. It wasn’t long before Theodore’s gaze shifted to the staff table. “Look,” he said quietly, nodding toward the new face among the professors.
We turned to look. Sitting among the familiar faces was the new hire, Alastor Moody. He was hard to miss, with his scarred face, twisted nose, and the rolling blue eye darting around. The sight made my stomach churn. I’d seen him once before when he visited the Burrow late one night to deliver news to Mum that Death Eaters had killed her brothers. Not the best memory to associate with someone.
I stared at him now, narrowing my eyes. Was this Moody? Or was this Crouch Junior? I swallowed hard and hoped very, very hard that it was the real Moody. I had enough problems on my plate to worry about without that.
Resolving to check the Map tonight, hidden beneath my covers in the Slytherin dormitory, I turned my gaze away from the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. My eyes found Snape instead. He was seated at the far end of the staff table, as usual, with his dark robes impeccably buttoned and his expression unreadable. My heart gave a little flutter—annoyingly—and I tried to ignore it. But, as if sensing my stare, Snape’s eyes flicked toward me. His face remained stoic, but he gave me the subtlest nod of acknowledgement.
My ears burned, and I quickly turned my attention back to my classmates. Theodore and Blaise were still murmuring about Moody, but the conversation shifted to the scandal at the Ministry, the whole mess with Crouch Junior, the Aurors investigating old cases, and the Daily Prophet publishing about it nonstop. I didn’t say much. I just sat there, listening and hoping the food would arrive soon.
Once the Sorting was done, the tables filled with steaming dishes. I wasted no time digging in, enjoying the familiar, comforting food of Hogwarts.
Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice with a grin.
“Not that I didn’t enjoy take-out at Sirius’s place, but nothing beats Hogwarts food.”
I grinned faintly and nodded, stuffing my mouth with shepherd’s pie.
Finally, the feast drew to a close, and Dumbledore stood to give his traditional speech. The Hall fell silent.
“Welcome back, everyone. I have several announcements to make,” Dumbledore began, his voice echoing warmly. “As you may already have heard, this year, the Quidditch Cup has been cancelled.”
Harry made a strangled noise of outrage beside me. I gave him an unimpressed glance. He knew this was coming. What an odd little fellow.
Dumbledore continued, explaining the Tournament, the three schools, and the champions. The excitement in the Hall was palpable.
“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive in October,” Dumbledore concluded, “and the selection of champions will occur on Halloween.”
I resisted the urge to groan. Halloween, again. Something always went wrong at Hogwarts on Halloween. But this year, with Crouch Junior actively hunted down by Aurors and Lucius under scrutiny from the Ministry, maybe—just maybe—we’d get through the term without a disaster.
Still, I wasn’t taking chances. I’d keep a close eye on the Map. Whether it was Skeeter, Malfoy, or Crouch, I wasn’t letting anyone slip through the cracks and cause harm. Not on my watch.
I slipped into bed quietly, drawing the curtains tight around me to muffle the rustle of parchment. My hands fumbled a bit, clumsy with sleep, but soon I was smoothing out the worn folds of the Map.
I tapped it lightly with my wand.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
Inky lines blossomed across the parchment, and I squinted in the dim light, carefully scanning each panel. I checked the staff table area—there, clear as day: “ Alastor Moody ”, alone. No Barty Crouch Jr., no Lucius Malfoy, no suspicious tags lurking near the castle or creeping about under Disillusionment Charms. And definitely no Skeeter.
I exhaled slowly, feeling a weight lift off my chest. Everything was as it should be. For now.
Before folding the Map away, I hesitated, my finger hovering. I glanced toward the dungeons. Might as well check. I watched the ink swirl and reform into the lower corridors. “ Severus Snape” . There he was, a tiny ink dot drifting toward his quarters. Probably scowling at the world in general. I felt a grin tug at my lips, stupidly pleased just to see his name in its proper place.
With a flick of my wand, I tapped the Map.
“Mischief managed.”
The lines vanished into blank parchment. I tucked it under my pillow, safe and secure, and finally let myself drift into sleep.
On the first day of term, we met in the Great Hall for breakfast, bleary-eyed but glad to be back into a routine. As Harry and I checked our schedules, I nudged him with a grin.
“Hey, six classes with Hermione. That’s good.” I glanced at the empty bit of the afternoon before Astronomy. “And we’ve got some time to nap before the nighttime stargazing. Not bad.”
Harry gave a small chuckle.
“Yeah, just hope we don’t get bogged down in essays.”
We finished breakfast quickly, eager to grab our supplies for the day. As we hurried back to the entrance Hall, Hermione was already there, waiting for us with her bag neatly packed and an expectant look on her face.
Together, we set off for Care of Magical Creatures, chatting lightly about the holidays and the new term. When we arrived, Hagrid greeted us with a booming laugh that echoed through the grounds. His eyes twinkled, and he clapped Harry on the back so hard he nearly knocked him over.
But then I noticed the wooden crates on the ground—rattling, shifting, and now and then emitting a faint pop or crackle. My stomach sank a little.
“That doesn’t sound very… pettable,” I said dryly.
Hagrid threw his head back with a laugh.
“Aye, Ron, if yeh wan’ ter keep all your fingers, you’ll avoid petting these lot!”
Hermione winced at the sight of the creatures, and even Harry looked dubious. The rest of the class filed in, Gryffindors and Slytherins, muttering and shooting uneasy glances at the rattling crates.
Hagrid beamed proudly.
“Everyone, meet the Blast-Ended Skrewts!”
A collective wave of Eurghs and a few shrieks rippled through the group as Hagrid opened the crates. Around a hundred of the weirdest creatures I’d ever seen scuttled and snapped, shooting sparks and small flames from their ends. Even I felt my stomach twist in revulsion, which made Hermione and Harry share a glance of relief.
“I was beginning to think you had no limits when it came to loving magical creatures,” Hermione whispered to me.
I shuddered.
“Not these. The Blast-Ended Skrewts don’t deserve my sweet and close lovin’,” I said, deadpan, earning a quiet giggle from Hermione.
Hagrid continued, explaining with far too much enthusiasm how we were going to raise these things. The lesson was tense, full of dodging sparks, avoiding getting nipped or burned, and trying to keep the Skrewts from exploding all over the place.
By the time Hagrid finally called it a day, we were all more than relieved. Hermione was brushing soot off her robes, Harry was inspecting a singed sleeve, and I was just glad I’d made it through with my fingers and eyebrows intact.
“Brilliant start to the year,” I muttered as we trudged back toward the castle for a well-deserved meal.
After lunch, I was buzzing with anticipation. Potions was next. And yeah, I knew Snape was probably going to be in his usual charming mood, but I couldn’t help it—I was still excited.
Of course, as soon as we stepped into the dungeon classroom, the atmosphere dropped like a stone. Snape stood at the front, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Today,” he said, his voice like the snap of a whip, “we will be brewing the potent poison Weedosoros. Take great care to keep this concoction away from your hands and mouth. If you do swallow some of this poison, immediately proceed to the Hospital Wing. The rest of us shouldn’t have to be bothered with your convulsing.”
I knew I shouldn’t laugh, but the way he said it—so dry, so perfectly sarcastic—I couldn’t help snorting. Hermione shot me a sharp look, and I quickly covered it with a cough, focusing on setting up my cauldron.
The lesson was tense, the air thick with the scent of acrid herbs and sharp vinegar. We all spent the hour carefully slicing and measuring, Snape gliding around the room like a vulture, correcting our techniques with clipped words and disdainful glances.
As I worked, I realised with relief that despite the dramatic name, Weedosoros was basically a highly potent weedkiller—the kind of thing you’d use to clear an overgrown garden, not poison a person. Still, it was tricky stuff, and more than one student yelped as their potion bubbled and spat dangerously.
By the end of class, I’d managed to brew a deep purple liquid —instead of a dark purple one— that Snape pronounced “acceptable” with the faintest lift of an eyebrow. I’ll take it.
When the bell rang, the rest of the class packed up their cauldrons and made a quick escape. I hesitated. My hands hovered over my bag, my mind caught in a tug-of-war. Finally, I decided to come back later, before dinner. There was too much to say to do it between two classes.
I waited outside the Potions classroom while the upper years filed out, their faces pale from whatever nasty concoction Snape had made them brew today as a welcoming party. Once the room was empty, I slipped inside, feeling the familiar chill of the dungeon wrap around me.
Snape was at his desk, head bent over a parchment, scribbling something with his sharp, angular handwriting. When he noticed me, he lifted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t say a word—just beckoned me over with a subtle tilt of his fingers.
I approached, standing in front of his desk while he finished whatever he was writing. After a moment, he laid down his quill, folded his hands together, and fixed me with that sharp, unreadable stare.
“Well, Mr Weasley?”
I cleared my throat.
“I… I wanted to ask about the tutoring.”
His brows rose a fraction, and he gave a faint nod, then said crisply,
“Join me here Tuesday evening. We will continue.”
I felt a flicker of relief and excitement at his words, but before he could dismiss me with his usual wave of the hand, I hesitated, fidgeting awkwardly.
“That’s… not the only reason I came.”
His head tilted, curious but guarded.
“It’s about… my, err, primary mission?” I said, feeling like an idiot.
Snape’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened with interest. I pushed on, determined to make sense.
“Do you remember Dobby? The house-elf from second year? The one who warned Harry?”
Snape’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”
“Well… he came back. This summer. To warn Harry again. About danger. But he didn’t say what, just like last time.” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling heat rising up my cheeks. “And… there’s something else. Could be nothing, but…”
I hesitated, but Snape didn’t interrupt, just waited.
“I wouldn’t usually come to you about something Draco Malfoy said,” I admitted, “because he’s full of hot air most of the time. But Lucius Malfoy made threats to Harry this summer. Real ones. And with all the strangers coming to Hogwarts for the Tournament…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “I’m worried someone might sneak in. You know, like Pettigrew or Skeeter. I checked the Map last night—everything looked normal. But still. I thought you should know.”
For a long moment, Snape said nothing. His fingers tapped lightly against each other as he considered my words.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than I expected.
“The elf’s warning, though vague, cannot be dismissed lightly. And you are correct to be wary of Lucius Malfoy’s threats, especially in the current political climate.” His gaze pinned me, sharp as ever. “You did well to check the Map. Continue to monitor it, and report any anomalies to me immediately. As for anyone sneaking into the castle—rest assured, Weasley, I will be watching closely.”
A wave of relief washed over me. He hadn’t laughed me off or dismissed my concerns. He was taking me seriously.
“Thank you, sir,” I said quietly.
Snape inclined his head just slightly, then returned his gaze to the parchment he’d been working on.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, I suggest you get to dinner.”
I nodded, feeling a lot better than when I’d walked in.
“See you Tuesday, Sir.”
And I turned and left, feeling the weight of my worries lighten just a little as I made my way back up to the Great Hall.
On Tuesday, I stepped into the potion classroom after dinner. The room was lit dimly by the flicker of enchanted sconces along the walls, shadows crawling like cautious cats.
Snape was already seated at his desk, quill scratching against parchment. He glanced up at me with that familiar raised brow and beckoned me over without a word. I crossed the room and stood awkwardly in front of his desk, feeling the weight of the silence.
He set his quill down with a precise flick of his wrist, steepling his fingers together, and regarded me like a chess piece he was evaluating.
“Mr Weasley,” he said, voice low but even, “this year will test you. Beyond charms that merely reveal, we will refine your focus and discipline. Your capacity for quick analysis and reaction will be expanded. We will also—” his lips curled faintly into a smirk “—introduce subtlety to your skill set. Consider this an investment. Your potential, however surprising, merits development.”
My cheeks warmed at the almost-compliment.
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.
“Good. Now, let’s revise.”
I pulled out my wand, and we ran through the spells from last year. First, the Revealing charm on parchment, walls and objects I had to find by myself. With that done successfully, we moved on to the Homenum Revelio. He disappeared, and I quickly discovered his location. I could tell he was grudgingly satisfied.
“Adequate,” he murmured, nodding once.
Then his lips twisted into that sharp, faintly amused smile I was starting to recognise as trouble.
“Now we move forward.”
With a flick of his wand, he Disillusioned himself again, fading from sight until only the faintest shimmer gave away his movement.
“Locate me,” he instructed.
I swallowed hard. This was no simple textbook drill. I raised my wand and cast Homenum Revelio. The charm lit up the room, but Snape was already moving, silent and deliberate. I felt a tug of triumph as I pinpointed him near the shelves—but just as I released the spell, the shimmer shifted. He was already somewhere else. I spun, tracking the vague sensation of presence, and cast again. This time, I caught him near the cauldron stand.
He stayed one step ahead, flitting around the room like a shadow. My arms ached from the repeated spellcasting, my forehead damp with sweat. Every time I thought I had him, he slipped away, leaving me spinning on the spot.
By the end of the hour, my wand felt like lead, and my legs wobbled from turning so many times. I finally slumped against the table, panting.
Snape reappeared in full, his expression as impassible as always.
“That will do for tonight.”
I barely held back a groan of relief.
“Before you leave,” he continued, stepping closer, “you will begin a nightly discipline. Every evening, before sleep, practice controlled breathing, focusing on clearing your mind of stray thoughts. Begin with five minutes. Gradually, increase it. Your goal is to discipline your mind against distraction. Consistency is key.”
I blinked at him, breath still coming fast. Controlled breathing? Clearing the mind? That sounded suspiciously like the start of something else. I couldn’t help but wonder if Snape was laying the groundwork for Occlumency, even if he hadn’t named it. Was he really… planning to train me long-term? My heart did a stupid little skip. That meant he thought I was worth investing in. That I wasn’t just a temporary project.
I squared my shoulders.
“I’ll do it, sir,” I said firmly.
Snape gave the faintest nod of approval.
“See that you do.”
When he dismissed me, he didn’t escort me as he sometimes did after our sessions. There was still plenty of time before curfew, but as I stepped into the corridor, my legs felt like jelly. I’d never been so tired. Or so determined. As I made my way back to the Slytherin common room, I promised myself I’d do those mental exercises every night. I wasn’t going to let him down.
Not after all the time and effort he had been investing in my training.
The room was buzzing softly with chatter as the class waited for Moody to show up. Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. No Hermione at my side, and Harry was already deep in a whispered conversation with Ernie Macmillan about Quidditch or something.
I sat at my usual seat, tapping my wand on the edge of the desk, and glanced around. No Moody. Everyone was staring at the door like he would just sweep in dramatically, but something told me that wasn’t his style. My gut tingled with suspicion, the kind that had me pulling my wand out under the desk and murmuring, “Homenum Revelio.”
There. A flicker in the far corner, like a shimmer I could almost smell. My heart stuttered, and I turned my head subtly in that direction. Then—
“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”
I nearly fell off my chair. The entire room jumped and gasped as Moody stomped out from the shadows, his magical eye spinning wildly and his scarred face twisting into a grin that wasn’t entirely friendly. My pulse was thudding against my ribs as he paced to the front of the room.
“Always be ready,” he growled. “Never sit on your laurels waiting for danger to announce itself.”
He turned on his heel, and his spinning eye landed right on me.
“Speaking of,” he said, his voice dropping into a low rasp, “what’s your name, boy?”
“Ron Weasley, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
“Five points to Weasley for finding me.” His gnarled finger jabbed at me.
The entire class turned to stare, half of them slack-jawed. Except Harry, who just shot me a grin. I sat a little straighter, trying not to show how flustered I felt.
Moody barked a sharp laugh.
“Right. You lot are soft. All of you. I’ll be putting you through your paces this year. You’ll be tested until you can think on your feet and react faster than your own shadow. This isn’t about scores on a parchment—it’s about surviving when someone wants to take you down.” His voice rumbled through the room like thunder. “We’ll be covering shield charms, disarming spells, hex deflection, and, for those of you ready for it, some offensive manoeuvres. You’ll be duelling. Practising under pressure. Real-world stuff.”
I caught Harry’s eye, and we both nodded subtly. This wasn’t like Dawlish last year, spouting ministry nonsense and puffing himself up. Moody was rough, sure, but it was the kind of rough that made you stronger.
“Let’s see what you can do,” Moody barked. “Wands out. Pair up. Show me what you’ve learned.”
The rest of the class was a whirlwind of activity. We cast the spells we were supposed to know: shield charms, jinxes, disarms. Moody stalked around, correcting, criticising, and growling when spells went too wide or fizzled out entirely.
“Pathetic,” he snapped at one point. “By the end of this year, you’ll be more likely to survive the real world. Or you’ll wish you had.”
By the time he dismissed us, my arms were shaking from holding my wand up so long. I was sweaty and exhausted, but I couldn’t help feeling satisfied. At least with Moody, we were going to learn something that mattered.
We filed out of the classroom in a rush of mutters and tired groans, everyone talking at once. Some were wide-eyed, already spouting exaggerated tales of how Moody’s magical eye seemed to look right into their souls. Others, like Ernie, were loudly grumbling about the pressure, the unfairness of being judged for three years of magic in one afternoon.
“Merlin, he’s terrifying,” Hannah Abbott whispered to Susan Bones as they hurried ahead.
“I think he’s brilliant,” said a Hufflepuff boy whose name I didn’t know, his voice bright with excitement. “Finally, a teacher who’s not afraid to put us through it. We’ll be ready for anything!”
I stayed back, matching Harry’s pace, my wand still in my hand as if the lesson wasn’t quite over.
“What do you think?” I asked him quietly.
Harry grinned, wiping a bit of sweat off his forehead.
“It’s what we need, isn’t it? No coddling. I mean, yeah, he’s intense, but… better to be ready than to be sitting ducks.”
I nodded, feeling the same mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.
Ahead, the usual suspects were chattering, but something felt… off. Malfoy, who usually would’ve been strutting about, making snide remarks about the lesson, wasn’t saying a word. He was keeping close to Crabbe and Goyle, his head down, jaw clenched tight. It wasn’t like him to stay quiet when he had the chance to sneer about how the rest of us were “pathetic” or “half-trained.”
That’s when it hit me. Moody. Moody wasn’t just some grizzled old Auror—they called him a Death Eater hunter. The real deal. And Lucius Malfoy? Well, he might’ve escaped Azkaban with that convenient “Imperius curse” excuse, but he was still tangled up in the mess the Ministry was trying to clean up. Moody would have no patience for the likes of him, and Draco had to know it.
I elbowed Harry lightly, nodding towards Malfoy.
“Notice how quiet he’s been?”
Harry followed my gaze and arched an eyebrow.
“Huh. That’s weird.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Weird. Or maybe he’s just realised his father’s old… club… isn’t exactly welcome anymore.”
Harry let out a quiet breath, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“You think he’s worried about Moody coming after him?”
I shrugged.
“Or about what Moody might already know. Either way, I bet he’s not feeling as smug as usual.”
We shared a knowing glance, both of us inwardly acknowledging that the stakes this year were higher than ever. The students scattered down the corridor, some still buzzing with excitement, others subdued. But my thoughts stayed fixed on Malfoy’s unusually tight expression and the fact that the game was changing, even if most of our classmates hadn’t quite realised it yet.
Chapter 39: BOOK FOUR - THE CHAMPIONS
Notes:
TW: Mental breakdown
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE CHAMPIONS
At breakfast, Theodore, lounging at the Slytherin table with his usual bored look, suddenly looked up from his copy of the Daily Prophet and said:
“Potter, you’re in the news again.”
Harry and I both froze mid-bite.
“What?” Harry spluttered, his fork clattering onto his plate.
Theodore held out the paper, folded neatly to the right page, and I leaned over to see the headline. It wasn’t huge, just a small article tucked into a corner of the page, but it was unmistakable: “The Boy Who Competed?” Skeeter’s latest speculation about the Triwizard Tournament.
Since the announcement, she’d been churning out articles every few days, throwing around her usual theories like confetti. This one was no different, insinuating that Hogwarts might put Harry’s name into the Goblet as a “symbol of Hogwarts’ reckless choices” and hinting at the dangers involved.
Harry groaned and rubbed his forehead.
“I didn’t even do anything,” he muttered. “Why do they always pull me into this?”
I shrugged.
“Because you’re Harry Potter. You could trip over your shoelaces, and Skeeter would turn it into a front-page scandal.”
Blaise, sitting across from us, snorted.
“It’s ridiculous. I mean, yeah, there’s glory and a huge prize, but it’s not like it’s worth it.”
“That prize is a thousand Galleons,” Theodore pointed out, tapping the paper. “That’s not chump change.”
“But the death toll,” I countered. “People died in that Tournament before they banned it. And now they’re bringing it back? Madness.”
Harry sighed.
“And it’s not even like we’re old enough. Fourth years can’t enter. Right?”
“They said there will be an age line,” Blaise said thoughtfully. “But… even if someone did get past it, the Tournament’s meant to be brutal. Not just some school competition.”
“Still…” Theodore said with a widening smirk. “Imagine the fame if someone our age got in. You’d be famous forever.”
Harry looked exasperated.
“I am already famous, thanks. And it’s not as fun as you’d think.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of the discussion.
“Honestly, it’s not worth it. Not at our age. Like Moody said in class—we’re soft, not ready for the real world. Whoever gets chosen… it’s not going to be a walk in the park.”
“Exactly,” Harry replied with a grateful look in my direction.
Blaise leaned back with a lazy grin.
“Still, wouldn’t it be something if the Hogwarts champion was a Slytherin?”
“We’re the best house, after all,” Theodore added smugly.
Everyone nodded, including me and Harry. Even if we weren’t planning to throw our names in, the idea of a Slytherin champion was something we could all get behind.
September and October had flown by, and as I sat in the Great Hall, flipping through my star charts for Divination, I realised life had been good so far. DADA was nerve-wracking, sure, but it was useful; Moody didn’t pull any punches, and that felt like something we’d need in the future. I hadn’t fought with Harry or Hermione, or even with my siblings, though I’d given Fred and George a proper earful when they announced they were going to try entering the Tournament despite the age limit. They’d just laughed me off, but I’d made my point.
Tutoring with Snape was going great, too. Each session left me exhausted, but it was worth it. I could tell he was teaching me things that mattered. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were some dark clouds on the horizon. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were one. Those things were a nightmare. Then there was Divination, where we’d started working with star charts, and I just couldn’t get the hang of it. I was going to have to study harder, and that didn’t exactly thrill me.
But the thing that bothered me the most was Snape’s behaviour around Moody. It was one thing to see Snape cold or sharp—that was just how he was—but the wary, almost fearful glances he shot Moody at meals, the way he avoided looking in his direction entirely, that was different. It made my stomach twist. Moody was a former Auror and no doubt suspicious of Snape’s past, but I wished he’d let it go. Seeing Snape looking cornered, like a trapped animal, made me feel this ridiculous urge to step in between them and shield him. I knew it was absurd, and I felt a little embarrassed just thinking about it, but there it was.
Harry’s sudden, exaggerated groan broke me out of my thoughts.
“I wish Quidditch wasn’t cancelled,” he whined. “I need it.”
I snorted and leaned back in my chair.
“At least this year, you’ll be able to focus on your studies instead of your silly broom.”
“My Firebolt is not silly,” Harry retorted with a scandalised look.
I laughed outright.
“Sure, mate. It’s a wonderful broom. Still, the teachers have been piling on the homework lately. It’s good you can finally focus on that.”
Harry groaned louder.
“You sound just like Hermione. Have you already read the extra material Flitwick gave us?”
“Of course. It’s fascinating stuff. I love magic, and I don’t want to miss a chance to learn more. I don’t get why you always seem so put out by it. You’ve got this chance to learn all this amazing stuff, and you just… take it for granted.”
Harry went quiet, staring into his half-full plate. For a moment, I thought he might start arguing, but then his expression shifted into something more pensive. Maybe he was thinking about it. I hoped so. Maybe he was finally starting to get it.
Suddenly, I squinted over at the Gryffindor table, where the twins sat apart from everyone else, whispering to each other with suspiciously innocent faces. I nudged Harry.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
He gave me a questioning look but nodded. I crossed the Great Hall to where Fred and George were practically vibrating with whatever mischief they were cooking up. The moment I got close, they turned to me with wide, exaggerated grins.
“Ronniekins!” Fred said, all sweetness and light.
“What brings you to our humble table?” George added, mimicking innocence so hard it was almost painful to watch.
I leaned in, crossing my arms.
“If one of your names somehow gets pulled out of that Goblet of Fire, I swear I will make your lives a living hell.”
They blinked at me, caught off guard for a moment, and then burst into laughter.
“Oh, Ron,” Fred said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “You wound us.”
“Seriously, you think you could stop us?” George added.
I narrowed my eyes, lowering my voice.
“I’ve got a very useful Map, and I know how to bar the Room of Requirement.”
That was a lie, but that made them pause. Their eyes widened, and I gave them my best Slytherin smirk. They couldn’t know I was bluffing, and honestly, it was satisfying to see them consider the possibility.
“Fine, fine,” Fred said, throwing up his hands. “We’re not up to anything. Not right now, at least.”
I gave them a pointed look.
“Then what’s with the sulking?”
They exchanged glances, and George sighed.
“It’s Bagman. He won’t pay us what he owes.”
“We bet on the Cup, and we won. But now he’s pretending he doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”
I rubbed my chin, thinking.
“Well, first, you could talk to Mum and Dad. They might know how to get him to cough it up. Second… blackmail.”
Their eyes gleamed.
“If you offer to stay quiet about him welching on bets in exchange for your money and a bonus, he might give in. And if that doesn’t work, go to the press. Give them an anonymous tip about how Ludo Bagman is cheating kids out of their winnings.”
They looked intrigued, but then a better idea occurred to me. I grinned slowly.
“No, wait. Forget all that. Remember those awful Howlers you sent me in first year?”
They exchanged guilty looks. I leaned closer.
“If you can enchant those things so they can’t be silenced, and the voices are unrecognisable, you could bombard him with Howler after Howler until he cracks. Imagine it: no way to stop them, endless howling reminders of the money he owes you.”
Fred’s face lit up like Christmas morning.
“Ronnie, you genius!”
George clapped me on the back.
“We knew there was a reason we liked you.”
“What a delightful idea,” Fred said. “Brilliant.”
I shrugged modestly.
“Just make sure you don’t get caught.”
They nodded enthusiastically, already brainstorming, and I headed back to Harry, feeling oddly proud of myself.
That evening, the whole castle buzzed with excitement as the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations arrived. Beauxbatons came first with their winged horses. It was quite the entrance, though it made me wonder what kind of lunatic thought giving horses alcohol was a good idea. Durmstrang’s ship rising from the lake was even more dramatic, with its billowing sails and weather-beaten appearance. Honestly, it looked like a reversed Pirates of the Caribbean moment, but everyone gasped in awe.
Of course, when Viktor Krum finally stepped out from behind his classmates, everyone went mental. Harry nearly fainted with excitement. I, on the other hand, just felt sorry for Krum. The guy couldn’t even enjoy a meal without fangirls and fanboys mobbing him for autographs and giggles.
When we all moved to the Great Hall for the feast, I leaned over to Harry as the Durmstrang students approached the Slytherin table.
“You’ll have all year to get an autograph,” I said quietly, watching as Harry fumbled in his pockets for a quill he didn’t have. “Let the poor bloke breathe.”
At the head table, I spotted Filch dragging in four extra chairs. Two were claimed by Karkaroff and Madam Maxime, who sat down with regal flourishes. My eyes drifted down the table, then to the various French foods filling the platters. Seeing all those dishes made me nostalgic for my past life, so I grabbed a little bit of everything.
Halfway through the meal, the doors behind the staff table creaked open, and two more figures strode into the Hall. Ludo Bagman, looking as smug and puffed up as always, and a man I immediately recognised as Septimus Rathbone, the new head of International Magical Cooperation. Percy’s boss. I shot a curious glance at him. Percy hadn’t shut up about how brilliant and competent Rathbone was, but I wasn’t taking Percy’s word for it yet. He was quite biased when it came to his job.
When dinner wrapped up, Dumbledore rose and gave one of his long-winded speeches. First, he introduced Bagman and Rathbone, and the Hall erupted into applause. I craned my neck to glance over at the Gryffindor table, where Fred and George were glaring daggers at Bagman. I couldn’t help but wonder—would they blackmail him first or start with the enchanted Howlers?
Dumbledore asked Filch to bring “the casket,” and the caretaker tottered forward with a massive wooden chest. As Dumbledore droned on about the history of the Tournament, I found myself tuning most of it out, my eyes drifting between Rathbone and Karkaroff. My mind spun with possibilities, half expecting one of them to transform into Crouch in disguise.
I barely registered when Dumbledore finally unveiled the Goblet of Fire. My thoughts were already tangled in speculation, so I didn’t even get excited about the blue flames. Instead, I glanced sideways toward Snape. He had mentioned wanting to borrow the Marauder’s Map at our last tutoring session. Knowing him, he’d probably watch it all night long, catching any student foolish enough to sneak past the age line. Still, I hoped—just maybe—he’d also notice if something darker and more dangerous was brewing beneath the surface.
Because if anyone could spot it before it was too late, it was Snape.
The next day was Saturday, which usually meant students shuffled down to breakfast at a sluggish pace, but today was different. The Hall was buzzing far earlier than usual, with almost everyone awake and dressed, filling up the tables with barely restrained excitement. I wasn’t interested in any of that. I just wanted food.
I steered myself toward the Ravenclaw table, where there was less noise than the crowded Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. I found Luna sitting there, eating a slice of toast in her usual dreamy manner.
“Morning,” I greeted her, slumping down opposite.
“Good morning,” she said serenely. “I’m surprised to see you here so early. Are you here to watch people enter their name?”
“Meh, no. I’m just hungry.”
Luna tilted her head thoughtfully.
“I think this tournament is a dreadful idea.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Danger isn’t entertainment,” she said firmly in that quiet, unwavering voice of hers. “The Ministry’s only holding it to distract us from the truth.”
I raised my eyebrows, nibbling on a piece of toast.
“The truth?”
“Oh yes,” she said gravely. “They’re trying to cover up a huge magical contamination caused by a dangerous potion leak. It’s been spreading quietly across Britain. It’s poisoning magical fields, and soon, our wands might start to backfire.”
I nodded slowly.
“That’s... alarming.”
I thought that by not taking her literally, you could believe that the Ministry was indeed trying to contain a leak. But the Ministry’s leak wasn’t potion but suspicion, spreading through the country like wildfire.
Before I could comment further, I heard unmistakable maniacal laughter echoing from the entrance Hall. My heart sank as I recognised the cackling of Fred and George.
“Excuse me,” I muttered to Luna, standing up.
I hurried to the entrance Hall, where a crowd had gathered, watching the twins with wide eyes. Fred was striding confidently toward the age line around the Goblet of Fire. He grinned, stepped forward, and nothing happened. George followed immediately after, just as smug.
For a moment, they thought they’d done it.
Then, with a sudden crack, the twins were hurled backwards out of the golden circle, landing with loud thuds ten feet away, both sporting magnificent long white beards.
“Idiots,” I muttered, shaking my head. They hadn’t even had time to toss their names into the Goblet.
Satisfied that they’d earned their comeuppance, I wandered back to the Ravenclaw table and sat down again, grinning at Luna.
“They tried to trick the Goblet,” I told her, “but it spat them out with big white beards. They’ll be scrubbing those off for days.”
“That was predictable,” Luna said serenely.
A few minutes later, Harry finally joined us, looking slightly winded and flushed from squeezing through the crowd. He grabbed some toast and buttered it absentmindedly.
“Hey, rumour has it that Warrington put his name in,” he said, eyes gleaming. “He’s strong and a great Chaser. Maybe Hogwarts will get a Slytherin champion.”
“Hope he’s got his funeral plans sorted out.”
Harry laughed lightly, and then Hermione appeared, looking flustered as she pulled out a chair.
“All the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,” she said. “Everyone’s sure he’ll be chosen. He’s talented and charming and a Prefect. It’s no wonder they’re excited.”
And he would hopefully be alive for the end-of-year feast.
“Angelina Johnson put her name in for Gryffindor,” she added. “I’m glad someone from our house is giving it a go.”
“She’s got a chance,” Harry replied with a nod. “She’s tough.”
We settled into a companionable silence as we ate. Finally, we began chatting about what to do for the rest of the day. The idea of visiting Hagrid came up, but we all hesitated.
“You know, in case he’s got more Skrewts for us to feed,” Harry said with a wince.
“Good point,” Hermione murmured.
After a bit of back-and-forth, they decided they would go see Hagrid after all. I hesitated.
“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” I said.
Hermione looked at me curiously.
“You’ve got something to do?”
“Yeah, just something I need to check on. I’ll be fine.”
They didn’t press me further, and I offered them a casual wave.
“Have fun.”
I left them in the Great Hall, trying to look natural as I walked toward the entrance Hall. But as soon as I was out of sight of the crowd, I picked up the pace, practically jogging down to the dungeons. The corridor was chilly and quiet, and my footsteps echoed weirdly off the stone.
I stopped in front of Snape’s office door and knocked—harder than I meant to.
“Enter,” Snape’s voice said, irritated.
I slipped inside, shutting the door firmly behind me.
Snape was sitting at his desk, looking intently at a parchment. He looked up, and though his tone had been annoyed, his expression wasn’t as harsh as usual when he saw me.
I took a deep breath, then blurted out,
“Did you see anything suspicious on the Map last night? Anyone near the Goblet? Malfoy? Skeeter? Rathbone?”
Snape’s eyebrow lifted slightly, like my last suggestion amused him.
“Rathbone?” he said, voice dry.
I shrugged, a bit defensive.
“We don’t know him. He’s an unknown quantity.”
He stared at me for a second, then said,
“Try again.”
“Try again what?” I replied with a confused frown.
“The only Ministry representative I saw near the Goblet last night was not Rathbone,” Snape said smoothly.
I felt my stomach drop.
“Bagman?” I asked, disbelieving.
Snape inclined his head the slightest bit.
“Bagman went to the Goblet?” I repeated, my voice almost squeaking.
I stared at him, the gears in my head turning far too fast.
“That’s suspicious, isn’t it? I mean, why would he—?”
Snape’s hand cut through the air, silencing me.
“Weasley,” he said sharply, his voice low but firm. “Bagman is a Ministry official. His role is to oversee this Tournament. Ensuring the Goblet’s security is part of his responsibilities. His presence alone does not constitute proof of wrongdoing.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he raised a brow, the weight of his gaze making my argument wither before it was even formed.
“I understand your wariness about another imposter after what happened last year,” Snape continued, his tone a touch softer but still edged with that familiar precision. “But if you allow paranoia to cloud your judgment, you will miss the truth when it matters.”
I swallowed hard, the rush of frustration and fear tightening my throat.
“But he was there. He could have—”
“Could have,” Snape interrupted smoothly. “Conjecture is not evidence. You must learn to watch. To wait. To gather facts before you leap to conclusions. Bagman’s presence, while notable, is far from damning. The world is not as black and white as you seem to think, Weasley. If you waste your energy chasing shadows, you will be blind to the real dangers.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, wanting to argue but knowing he was right. It didn’t stop the frustration from burning in my chest.
“Keep your eyes open,” Snape said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “But keep your mind steady. That is how you protect yourself.”
I hesitated, biting my lip. Then, finally, I nodded.
“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.
His mouth twitched—whether it was amusement or approval, I wasn’t sure—and he inclined his head.
“Good. Now, if that is all, you should return to your friends. Keep this conversation to yourself. Remember what I said.”
I turned to go, but before I reached the door, I glanced back, catching a rare moment of… not kindness, but something close to it, in his expression.
Then I stepped into the corridor, the door closing behind me with a soft click, Snape’s words echoing in my mind as I made my way back upstairs.
By the time the feast finally started, I’d done an excellent job convincing myself that nothing suspicious was afoot. Crouch wasn’t here—just the real, grizzled Mad-Eye Moody, who had no interest whatsoever in slipping Harry’s name into the Goblet. Bagman? He was just the event’s coordinator. Totally unsuspicious.
Nothing to worry about.
The feast, however, stretched on like a funeral march. Every bite of food tasted like ash. I just wanted the whole thing to be over and done with. Let the Goblet spew out the names of Fleur, Viktor, and Cedric, and then we could all go back to pretending everything was normal.
At long last, the golden plates shimmered and returned to their spotless, empty state. The noise in the Hall swelled, only to die away in an instant as Dumbledore rose to his feet. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked just as tense as the rest of us, and Bagman was visibly sweating bullets, his handkerchief mopping at his brow every few seconds. Mr. Rathbone from the Ministry, however, appeared only faintly interested, as though all of this was an amusing sideshow he wasn’t particularly invested in.
“The goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” Dumbledore announced, his voice calm and measured. “I estimate it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber”—he gestured to the door behind the staff table—“where they will receive their first instructions.”
With a dramatic sweep of his wand, Dumbledore extinguished all the candles except for those flickering within the carved pumpkins. The entire Hall was plunged into a twilight gloom. The Goblet of Fire flared more brightly than ever, its dazzling blue-white light almost painful to look at.
I felt faintly ill. I hadn’t eaten enough to settle the nauseous twist in my stomach, and now it was churning painfully. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second and tried to use one of the mental calming exercises Snape had once demonstrated during our tutoring sessions.
Breathe in, out. Focus on the air.
It helped. Barely.
The flames inside the Goblet flared crimson. Sparks shot from it like fireworks. A tongue of flame soared into the air, and a charred scrap of parchment fluttered out. Everyone gasped.
“The champion for Durmstrang,” Dumbledore read in a clear, steady voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”
Like expected.
Krum rose from the Slytherin table and disappeared through the door to the next chamber. The applause and murmurs died down quickly.
I didn’t clap, too busy silently freaking out.
Once again, the Goblet turned red, showering sparks as a second parchment shot out.
“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour.”
Again, as expected.
Fleur vanished through the door.
Silence fell again.
And then, the Goblet blazed red a third time. Another scrap of parchment shot from the flames.
“The Hogwarts champion,” Dumbledore called, “is Cedric Diggory.”
The Hall erupted in a roar of cheers. Every Hufflepuff leapt to their feet, stamping and hollering as Cedric made his way past them. He disappeared through the door with a wave.
It was over now. Krum, Delacour, Diggory. Perfect. A trio of good-looking champions, each from a different school.
Three. A nice, tidy number. No need for anyone else.
No need at all.
But—
The fire in the Goblet flared red again.
My stomach dropped so hard I thought it might hit the floor. I couldn’t breathe.
Then, in a voice that echoed too loudly in the thick silence of the Hall:
“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore read out.
Fuck.
Someone had done it.
Who? How? Why?
I couldn’t breathe. My lungs locked tight in my chest as the truth dropped on me like a stone. Someone had put Harry’s name in the Goblet, and it wasn’t Crouch Jr. It couldn’t be. Crouch wasn’t here. It wasn’t him.
Harry just sat there, stunned, his face drained of all colour. The Hall, frozen in shock, remained utterly silent. No applause. Just the low, growing hum of whispers, like bees in a hive, growing louder by the second. My own heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it.
I didn’t know what to do. My hands felt numb. But then, without really thinking, I reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand. I squeezed it—too hard maybe—but I needed to ground him, to ground myself. His head turned, his dazed eyes finding mine.
“I didn’t put my name in,” he whispered, barely audible over the building noise.
“I know,” I said quickly, fiercely. “I believe you.”
My mind was racing. Someone had done this. Someone was trying to use him. I could feel it in my gut. I leaned in, lowering my voice but keeping my grip tight on his hand.
“Tell Snape,” I hissed. “He’ll know what to do. Stay with him. Do not follow anyone else but him or Dumbledore. Understood?”
Harry blinked at me, still shell-shocked, but nodded faintly.
“Understood?” I repeated, sharper this time.
“Yes,” he murmured, almost mechanically.
At the head table, Dumbledore called for him again.
Harry stood up like a puppet, stiff and awkward, his legs moving under him without his mind catching up. I couldn’t tear my eyes off him. I wanted to run up there, pull him back, and shield him from the mess he was being dragged into. But I couldn’t. I could only watch as he stepped into the aisle, every eye in the room boring into his back.
My gaze flicked instinctively toward Snape. He was already standing, his black robes a stark line of protection, waiting for Harry to reach his level. Snape would be there. Instead of me. He’d be better at protecting Harry. He knew Harry hadn’t done anything. He would figure this out.
I watched, my throat dry as dust, as Harry disappeared into the staff chamber behind the head table. Snape followed, a shadow at his heels, cutting off the gawking students with the sharp, final swish of his cloak.
He’ll be safe, I thought. Snape will keep him safe.
Then the Hall erupted into furious, excited chatter. All at once, everyone seemed to explode with opinions and accusations. Whispers turned into loud voices, speculation swirling like a storm around me.
And Slytherins turned to me, their faces expectant, smirking, waiting for me to say something clever or smug. But I was still frozen, too shell-shocked to manage more than a shallow breath.
Then Draco Malfoy’s sneering voice sliced through the noise.
“Attention-seeking liar. Figures he’d pull a stunt like this.”
The blood drained from my face and then rushed back, hot and furious. I shot to my feet so fast that my chair clattered backwards.
“Did you do it?” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Did you put Harry’s name in
the Goblet to get your revenge?”
Draco’s smirk froze. His eyes went wide, stunned.
I scrambled out from the table and stormed right up to him. Draco backed up so fast he nearly tripped over his chair, his face pale as milk. I didn’t stop. I got right in his face, my voice shaking with rage.
“Did you?” I demanded again. “Did you put his name in? Are you so petty you’d risk his life for a joke?”
Draco’s mouth opened and closed, his hand flapping in a weak gesture.
“You’re crazy! I didn’t—! This is insane—!”
I wanted to punch him. I wanted to wipe that stupid look off his face. But before I could act, Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout appeared like summoned spirits, slipping between us with calm, practised hands, blocking me from lunging at Malfoy.
“He tried to hit me!” Draco yelped, his voice cracking in a way that would have been funny if I weren’t so furious. “He should be punished!”
The professors ignored him. They guided me away from the confrontation, murmuring calming words I barely registered.
“Ron!” Hermione’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with worry. She rushed up to me, her face pale, her eyes darting between me and the professors.
“I’m fine,” I said loudly enough for everyone around us to hear. My voice wavered, but I didn’t care. “But for fuck’s sake, someone is trying to kill Harry, and everyone’s getting angry because he’s an extra champion? This school is so fucking dumb it’s unbelievable. He could die, and all anyone cares about is their stupid Tournament!”
Flitwick shot me a stern look, clearly unimpressed with my choice of words, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he and Sprout steered me toward a quieter corner, just behind the Slytherin table, close to the staff dais.
“Let’s take a moment to breathe,” Flitwick said calmly, his small hands gentle but firm.
I let them guide me, my fists still clenched at my sides, as the other students began filing out of the Great Hall, voices still buzzing with wild, mindless speculation.
And all I could think about was Harry.
And how I wasn’t with him.
Chapter 40: BOOK FOUR - SUPPORT IN ADVERSITY
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SUPPORT IN ADVERSITY
Soon enough, there was no one left in the Hall but the professors who hadn’t gone into the staff room for the interrogation. Hagrid joined us, his massive frame looming protectively, his expression tight with worry—not just for Harry, but for me too, I realised.
I was still breathing like I’d run a mile, hands braced on my knees, trying to pull myself together. Hermione rubbed slow, careful circles on my back, her touch steady as she murmured soothing nonsense.
They didn’t understand. Harry was a child. My child. And I was meant to protect him.
I’d failed. Again.
Failed Harry when I should’ve been protecting him. I squeezed my eyes shut and drew in a long, shuddering breath through my mouth. Again. And again. The hammering in my chest slowed just a bit until my heart wasn’t trying to burst from my ribs.
Hagrid crouched down to my level, his huge hand giving my shoulder a firm, comforting squeeze.
“There’s nothin’ yeh could’ve done, Ron.”
The professors were still talking in low voices, some glancing our way, but most filing out as they shared quiet speculation about Harry’s sudden entry into the Tournament. Flitwick, ever the composed one, gave me a small smile, though his eyes were serious.
“I understand you’re upset, Mr. Weasley,” he said gently. “But please, no more of such language. I’ll have to start taking points from Slytherin if I hear it again.”
I just nodded. It was stupid to worry about points right now, but I wasn’t about to argue. Better to placate them and save my breath.
Flitwick nodded back, then left, leaving only me, Hermione, Hagrid and Sprout.
A few minutes later, Madame Maxime and Fleur emerged from the staff room, striding past us toward the entrance. I caught snatches of their conversation in French—low, dismissive words about Hogwarts, the clumsy handling of the Tournament, and the “mess” they were being dragged into. My jaw clenched, but I stayed quiet.
Then came Karkaroff and Krum, both looking sullen and tense. Karkaroff’s sneer could have frozen the lake, but Krum’s face was just tight with something that might have been sympathy—or maybe guilt. They swept past without a word.
Cedric followed soon after. Professor Sprout hurried to him, beaming with pride and congratulations, steering him out of the Great Hall with a maternal fuss.
And finally—finally—the staff room door opened again. Snape emerged, his hand firm on Harry’s shoulder.
“Harry!” Hermione and I rushed forward, enveloping him in a hard, desperate hug. Harry stood stiff in our arms, his body cold and unresponsive, his gaze distant.
I turned to Snape, my voice cracking.
“Does he have to compete?”
Snape’s lips tightened into a grim line. He gave a terse nod.
“He has to. The magical contract is binding.”
“We’ll help him, sir,” I said, fists clenched tight. “Right? We’ll help him get through this?”
Snape’s eyes flicked over me, sharp and unreadable.
“Professors are not permitted to assist champions,” he said curtly, but there was something in his tone, a weight, that made me pause.
I was about to protest when Snape shot me a meaningful look—one I’d seen before when he was warning me in his own way to keep quiet. I caught his eyes going from Hagrid to me. Understanding washed over me, and I clamped my mouth shut.
“What do the other professors think?” I asked, my voice low.
Snape’s expression turned even darker.
“A few believe Potter’s innocence—Dumbledore, McGonagall. Moody agrees it’s a conspiracy to harm him. The rest think he cheated.”
I sighed heavily and turned back to Harry.
“You okay, mate?”
Harry gave a vague, noncommittal sound. Then, his voice broke through the quiet.
“Someone’s really trying to kill me, aren’t they?”
I couldn’t answer. None of us could. Harry just sighed, his shoulders sagging, his voice small.
“I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
Snape dismissed Hermione, sending her off to Gryffindor Tower, before turning sharply to Harry and me.
“Come. To the dungeons.”
We left Hagrid. As we walked through the dim, echoing corridors, Harry’s voice was soft, almost broken.
“I didn’t put my name in, Ron. I swear.”
I squeezed his shoulder.
“I know. We’ll figure out who did. And why. We’ll help you, Harry. We’ll all help.”
Snape, walking just ahead of us, spoke in a low voice that almost blended with the sound of our footsteps.
“Potter will receive training. Discreetly. We cannot afford more ire from the foreign delegations, but I will bend the rules this once. This is clearly an attempt to harm or discredit him. He’ll have the support he needs.”
I glanced at Harry, whose expression—usually sceptical and guarded when Snape was involved—had shifted to something almost like hope.
Maybe he was finally realising what I’d been trying to tell him for years. That Snape was the best chance he had.
Pity it had taken this mess to prove it.
When we reached the Slytherin common room, Snape didn’t just stop at the entrance. He stepped in with us. The room, previously abuzz with gossip and laughter, fell silent the moment they saw us.
Snape’s voice was calm but carried enough steel to silence even the boldest.
“Listen closely. Harry Potter did not put his name in the Goblet. He’s been forced into this Tournament for reasons unknown but clearly nefarious. The rest of the school will be sharpening their knives against you come morning. Stand with your own. Show them what true Slytherin loyalty looks like.”
He paused, sweeping his gaze over the room.
“They’ll say we’re all in on it. They’ll jeer, they’ll spread lies. Let them. But you’ll hold your heads high because you know the truth. Keep your wits about you. We don’t lower ourselves to the level of gossiping fools. They’ll look for any excuse to bring you down. Don’t give them one.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
“Remember,” he added, his voice dropping to a low growl, “Harry Potter is a Slytherin first. He represents our house.”
With that, he turned and swept out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
I didn’t give anyone a chance to say a word. I grabbed Harry’s sleeve and tugged him toward the dormitories.
“Did Snape just… defend my honour?” Harry asked, bewildered, as we climbed the steps.
I couldn’t help but chuckle, despite everything.
“He did more than that, mate. But it’s nice you noticed. Let’s hope Malfoy was paying attention, too.”
We said no more as we crawled into bed, the weight of the day settling over us like a lead blanket.
Sleep came late, minds busy with theories about conspiracies. And when I was finally dragged under, it was nightmares about beetles, peacocks and bowler hats swirling around me until I couldn’t breathe anymore.
The Daily Prophet – Morning Edition
“The Boy Who Cried Fire: Harry Potter’s Triwizard Stunt”
By Rita Skeeter
In a truly shocking turn of events at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the so-called Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, was announced as a surprise fourth champion in the prestigious Triwizard Tournament last night.
While the Ministry remains tight-lipped, sources suggest that Potter’s sudden inclusion may not be as “accidental” as his defenders would have the public believe. In fact, whispers from those who know the boy well hint at a disturbing pattern of deceit and attention-seeking behaviour.
It’s no secret that Potter has had a taste for fame ever since the unfortunate incident with Peter Pettigrew last year, where he cast himself in the role of a lone hero against dark forces. Could it be that this taste for the spotlight has become an insatiable hunger? Could Potter have engineered this latest stunt in a calculated bid to continue his rise to wizarding celebrity?
A fellow student from Slytherin House, who spoke on condition of anonymity, commented, “Harry’s always been obsessed with the spotlight. He craves the attention, the drama—it wouldn’t surprise anyone if he found a way to sneak his name into the Goblet. This whole thing reeks of him trying to one-up everyone else, just like he did before.”
Potter’s defenders might point to his boyish charm or his tragic past, but one must ask: How many times can he play the innocent victim? This latest incident, which flouts the very rules of the Tournament, paints a troubling picture. His actions, intentional or not, have cast a shadow over Hogwarts and its proud traditions.
Of course, one might also question the influences surrounding young Potter. Slytherin House, notorious for ambition and cunning, has long been suspected of encouraging rule-breaking for personal gain. With whispers of secret alliances and hidden agendas, it’s hardly a stretch to imagine that Potter is simply following the example of his housemates.
And let us not forget—the very fact that Potter’s name was chosen at all, without proper oversight, suggests that something truly underhanded may have occurred. Could it be that Potter, aided by his allies in Slytherin, found a loophole to catapult himself into the Tournament’s spotlight?
For now, the Ministry has yet to issue a formal statement, and Headmaster Dumbledore’s evasive comments only deepen the mystery. But one thing is clear: Harry Potter’s star has dimmed in the eyes of many. Is he truly the noble hero he claims to be—or simply an attention-seeking boy willing to risk everything for a taste of glory?
Stay tuned as The Daily Prophet continues to investigate the scandal surrounding Hogwarts’ most controversial student—and the possibility that this entire spectacle is just another chapter in Potter’s relentless pursuit of fame.
“What a bitch,” I muttered under my breath.
The Prophet was spread out like a slap across the Slytherin table, its garish headline practically screaming at me. “The Boy Who Cried Fire: Harry Potter’s Triwizard Stunt”. My face heated, my fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms.
Harry sat next to me, still pale and withdrawn, but there was a faint flicker of life in his eyes as he read the article. His mouth tightened at the corners, and he huffed through his nose—a faint sign of the anger simmering beneath his numb exterior.
Across the table, Theodore and Blaise were leaning in, reading the Prophet with carefully blank expressions. Malfoy sat farther down, his lips twitching at the corners like he was holding back a smirk, but he didn’t say a word. Even the rest of the Slytherins were oddly restrained. They glanced at each other warily, remembering Snape’s warning. No one was foolish enough to go against him. Not here, not now.
“Snape was right,” Theodore said quietly, his voice low enough for only us to hear. “They’re already blaming us. Blaming Potter. This isn’t just about him—it’s about Slytherin.”
“Stupid Skeeter,” Blaise muttered, tapping the paper with his finger. “This is nonsense. Potter’s not stupid enough to try something like this. Even less chance with Weasley going off about this Tournament since it was announced. He’d kill Potter before any of the tasks.”
Harry glanced at them, a ghost of relief flickering across his face, and I felt a knot in my chest loosen just a bit.
I blinked at them, bewildered.
“What do you mean I’d kill him?”
They both stared at me, utterly nonplussed, like I’d just asked if the sky was blue. Even Harry gave me a look that was half amused, half exasperated.
“You make it sound like I’m his—his bloody mother hen or something,” I muttered, ears burning.
“Exactly,” Theodore said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Blaise nodded.
I grumbled into my beans, determined to pretend I wasn’t blushing.
Hermione joined us a few minutes later, looking tired but less frazzled than last night. She sat next to Harry, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
“How are you feeling?” she asked softly.
Harry shrugged.
“Better, I guess. I’m still mad, but at least I’m not ready to crawl into a hole anymore.”
I caught the flicker of tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled against his thighs. He wasn’t fine. None of us were.
After a few moments, Harry glanced around at the stares we were attracting and grimaced.
“Can we just… go somewhere else?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. I grabbed a napkin, stuffing some toast and an apple into it, and stood. “Let’s get out of here.”
We left the Great Hall, the murmurs and pointed fingers trailing behind us like a bad smell. Once we were outside, the cool air hit us like a cleansing wave, and I felt my muscles unclench for the first time since the nightmare began.
We didn’t speak at first, just walked, the crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound. But it felt better. Away from the whispers, the accusations, and the lies.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Hermione broke the silence first, her voice low.
“I was expecting more reaction from the Slytherins,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder like she was half-expecting someone to come sneaking after us.
I shook my head, still hearing Snape’s voice in my head.
“Snape gave a speech,” I said. “Told them Harry didn’t put his name in the Goblet and that anyone who turned on him was a traitor to Slytherin. Told them to keep their heads down and stick together. I think they’re all too scared of crossing him to even think about mocking Harry right now.”
Hermione’s brows shot up, her lips parting in surprise.
“Well… that was—”
“Decent of him?” Harry offered with a faint smile.
“Exactly,” she said, nodding. “I’m grateful. We owe him for that. Without it, this morning would have been so much worse.”
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “I know.”
We walked in silence for a moment longer, the chill of the morning air sharpening our thoughts. Then Harry broke it.
“Who do you think did it? Who put my name in? Moody said the confusion spell on the Goblet was too powerful for a student to handle. That it had to be an adult, someone with experience.”
Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful.
“Maybe a professor? If not… Maybe someone saw something.”
I was about to say something when Harry spoke again.
“There is someone who knows. Someone who knew this was going to happen.”
My heart skipped a beat, a sharp pulse of dread tightening my throat. Was he talking about me? Had he somehow—?
But then Harry’s voice continued, and the fear twisted into something colder.
“Dobby. He knew. That’s why he warned me. He must know who did it. They planned it during the summer. He already knew by then.”
My breath caught, and for a moment, my mind was a blur, but then clarity hit me, like ice water down my back. Dobby. The Malfoys. There was no way Dobby would know unless someone from their household had been involved.
Lucius. It had to be Lucius Malfoy.
My thoughts spiralled—did he replace Crouch Junior in Voldemort’s resuscitation plan? Or was he just using the Tournament as a stage to take revenge for Voldemort, or for what he must see as Harry exposing Pettigrew? Or was this like the Diary all over again, just him sowing chaos for his own ends?
But if that was the case… Why risk Harry’s life again?
I needed to find a way to steer Snape’s attention in the right direction, to point it toward the Malfoys. But first, I’d have to prove that Dobby was their elf. I’d have to do it carefully without tipping anyone off. But how?
I was so caught in my thoughts that I barely registered Harry speaking directly to me.
“You look like you’re taking this even worse than I am,” he said quietly. “And I’m the one stuck in the middle of it.”
I grimaced, shaking my head.
“Sorry. I’m just… thinking. Trying to figure out why. And who.”
We talked a bit longer, tossing around theories that didn’t make sense and ones that felt too big to wrap our heads around. But nothing solid came from it, just a tangle of what-ifs.
Then Hermione broke in again.
“Harry, you should write to Sirius. He must be worried sick if he’s seen the Prophet .”
Harry’s eyes widened, and he swore under his breath.
“You’re right. I should write to him. Right now.”
Without another word, we turned back toward the castle, the air thick with plans and fear and the heavy weight of what we still didn’t know.
Turns out Harry didn’t even have to write because Sirius came storming into the school himself, raising hell over Harry’s name being in the Goblet.
I hadn’t witnessed it firsthand, but from what Harry told us later, it had been far from pretty. Apparently, Sirius had gone straight to Dumbledore, ranting about how this had to be Karkaroff’s doing, that he wasn’t buying the whole “I’ve changed” act.
Harry learnt that day about Karkaroff being a former Death Eater who had cut a deal with the Ministry to get out of Azkaban. Hermione had been properly horrified to hear that a Death Eater was at Hogwarts.
I didn’t say a word.
Dear Charlie,
You remember that cryptic thing you said when we said goodbye on Platform 9 ¾? Well, I need you to be straight with me now.
Someone entered Harry into the Triwizard Tournament, and now he’s stuck in it. Someone’s trying to hurt him, maybe even murder him. I’m scared for him.
If you know anything about what’s happening or the tasks, please let me know.
I’m begging you, Charlie. Don’t leave me and Harry hanging in the dark.
Please write back as soon as possible. I’m counting on you.
Ron
I scrawled my name at the bottom of the letter with a flourish, folded it carefully, and sealed it up. As I sat there, staring at the creased parchment, I felt a twinge of guilt gnawing at the edge of my thoughts.
Maybe I’d gone a bit far with the emotional pull, but what else could I do? I needed Charlie to tell me the truth, to confirm what I already knew about the first task.
Foreknowledge was a bitch. I couldn’t just blurt out, “Hey, I know what the first task is because I read it in a book last lifetime,” or “Dobby’s master is Lucius Malfoy,” or anything else that made too much sense. I needed solid reasons, things that wouldn’t raise suspicion.
At least with Charlie, I could push the brotherly angle and guilt him a little. If he wrote back and confirmed the dragon bit, I could tell Harry and Snape without giving myself away.
I just hoped it would work.
The Great Hall was thick with whispers, the air charged with rumours, suspicions, and tension that made my skin itch. The other houses were eating it up, talking in low voices that still carried across the room like static.
Gryffindor, as expected, was split. Some of them still clung to the idea that Harry was a hero, their Boy Who Lived, but even they couldn’t ignore the murmurs that maybe—just maybe—he had slipped his name into the Goblet. Hufflepuffs, usually the most easy-going, were more suspicious now, their loyalty to Cedric making them eye Harry as if he’d stolen something precious.
Ravenclaw was the worst. Their table was right next to Slytherin, and they’d all seen my freak out the night Harry’s name was called. They’d heard me yelling at Malfoy, accusing him of cheating Harry into the Tournament for revenge. Now the rumours twisted it—some saying that I’d accused Malfoy of covering for Harry, others whispering that I’d been threatening him because I was in on it myself.
And, of course, Skeeter’s article only made it worse. “Harry Potter, the attention-seeking liar,” they quoted loudly, passing the paper around like it was a treasure map.
The Slytherins, though, were a different story. They sat rigid, their faces blank and careful. Snape’s warning had worked. They didn’t whisper about Harry or exchange knowing glances, even those who clearly thought he was a liar. They closed ranks, pretending to be in complete unity. At least in public.
Malfoy was the exception, but even he was playing it safe. He kept his smirk half-hidden, lips curled just enough to be annoying without drawing attention. Every time I caught him watching Harry—or me—his eyes gleamed with a challenge, daring me to lose it again. But he didn’t say anything. He just read the Prophet with exaggerated interest, as though daring me to accuse him again, his eyebrows raised in silent amusement.
When we passed each other in the corridors, Malfoy would slow down, giving me a look that was both smug and cautious. He didn’t taunt me outright, not after Snape’s warning, but his glances were sharp with unspoken accusations. I could feel them pressing against my skin like a blade, daring me to step out of line.
I knew he was holding back because Snape had ordered it. But I also knew he was itching to see me snap, to see me make a scene again.
And I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
At least, not yet.
On Tuesday, Harry joined me for the tutoring session after Snape had all but ordered him to. The lesson wasn’t in the usual classroom we’d been using. It had been shifted to the same abandoned one we used last year, with dusty desks shoved to the walls and cobwebs clinging to the ceiling. We sat side by side on a long bench, waiting, the silence between us heavier than usual.
It didn’t take long. Snape swept into the room, his robes whispering against the stone floor, his expression impassible as always.
He wasted no time.
“Since the first task’s nature is kept secret even from the professors, we must prepare for any eventuality,” he said, his voice sharp and low. “We don’t know if Potter will have to duel an opponent, face a free-for-all, or something completely unexpected. Therefore, we begin with defence.”
Harry sat a little straighter. I exchanged a glance with him, seeing a flicker of determination behind the exhaustion in his face.
Snape pointed his wand sharply.
“Protego. I will put you to work until your shields are perfect, which, frankly, should already be the case, considering Moody’s… colourful approach to teaching defence. Weasley, you will observe the first part carefully. Every spell I cast, I want you to memorise the incantation and the movement.”
He raised his wand and, without warning, sent a Stinging Hex straight at Harry, who barely got his shield up in time. Sparks flew, and Harry hissed but held his ground.
“Too slow,” Snape said, his lips curling slightly. “Again.”
For what felt like hours, Snape drilled Harry on shield work. He sent curse after curse, each faster than the last, testing the solidity and rapidity of Harry’s defences. Whenever Harry’s Protego faltered or came up even a fraction too late, Snape was there with another curse—no mercy, no leniency. Harry’s robes were damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, his shoulders trembling with the effort.
Finally, when Snape’s curses started glancing off Harry’s shields with satisfying thunks and fizzles, Snape lowered his wand and nodded just once.
“Passable,” he said. “Now, we move on to deflection and redirection. Weasley, you’ll be my assistant.”
I blinked, sitting up straighter.
“I should hope that you paid attention like I asked. You’ll cast the jinxes and hexes that I used in the first part. You’ll aim them at Potter alongside me,” Snape said. “Two on one. This will push him harder and test his capacity to adapt.”
Harry gave me a tired, resigned look, and I gave him a half-smile.
“Sorry in advance, mate,” I murmured, then lifted my wand.
Snape started us off with a simple Jelly-Legs Jinx, and I followed with a trip jinx. Harry’s shield came up instinctively, but he stumbled under the pressure of two simultaneous attacks. Snape corrected his form with a barked instruction, and we started again.
The session stretched on, the air thick with the sharp scent of spellwork and Harry’s ragged breathing. My role was easier—at least I wasn’t the one being pummeled. But I paid close attention to Snape’s spells, memorising them as best I could. One was a Blistering Hex I hadn’t seen before, nasty enough to leave welts if it connected. The other was a Quickbinding Curse, designed to snap around an opponent’s legs and bind them in place.
I committed both to memory, feeling a flicker of dark satisfaction. They’d be useful one day in a duel or a tight spot.
By the end of the session, Harry was drenched in sweat, his face pale and drawn, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He looked dead on his feet, but he was standing, and Snape’s faint nod said more than any words.
“Good progress,” Snape said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of Harry’s panting. “We’ll continue tomorrow. Rest, both of you.”
I clapped Harry on the shoulder as we packed up our things.
“Come on, mate. You’ve earned it.”
And for the first time since his name came out of the Goblet, I saw a shadow of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
It was Saturday, almost two weeks since Harry’s name had come out of the Goblet, and we were sitting by the lake. The sun was thin but warming, the water glinting like a sheet of silver. Hermione and I were hammering Harry with practice on the Summoning Charm, and by now, he was finally getting it.
“Accio pebble!” Harry shouted, and sure enough, a smooth stone from the lake shot across the surface, skipping twice before slapping into his outstretched palm.
He grinned, the first real, proud smile I’d seen on his face all day.
“I did it!”
“Nice!” I said, clapping him on the back. Hermione beamed, nodding in approval.
I felt a strange knot of relief loosen in my chest. I’d been pushing him on the Summoning Charm more than Hermione, and not just because Flitwick had given him extra homework for being rubbish at it. I knew how vital this spell could be, how it might save his life, especially with the first task looming. I couldn’t just let him fumble around like usual.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” I said. “If you can yank pebbles from the lake, you can yank your wand, or a broom, or whatever else you need. You’ll be fine.”
Wink wink, I thought, exasperated with myself. Harry gave me a lopsided grin.
“Thanks, both of you. I feel a lot better now.”
I noticed it more and more lately. He was holding his shoulders a bit straighter, and his steps were a bit firmer. He looked more confident, and I couldn’t help but think it had something to do with Snape’s training.
Hermione, ever curious, tilted her head.
“So… how’s it going? With Snape, I mean.” Her voice still carried a hint of envy, although the resentment had faded since last year.
Harry’s face lit up, and for once, he didn’t hesitate.
“It’s actually great. I mean, he’s still a hard-ass and works me to the bone, but my shield is way stronger now. And my deflection—he says it’s on point.”
I couldn’t help but snort, grinning.
“He even got me with a redirected Stinging Hex,” I added, rubbing the sore spot on my ass. “Right on the butt. Nearly knocked me over.”
Hermione burst out laughing, her tension melting into giggles, and even Harry doubled over, snickering.
When the laughter died down, Hermione’s curiosity sharpened.
“But how is Snape with you? I mean, he never really liked you before. Is he different in these sessions?”
Harry’s smile faltered a bit, his brow creasing as he thought about it.
“He’s still… You know, himself. Still snaps at me if I mess up. But… he’s fair. He doesn’t hold back. It’s like he’s… I dunno. He’s trying to make sure I’m as ready as I can be. Like he cares if I make it through.”
Hermione’s eyebrows rose, but she nodded slowly.
Harry let out a breath and grinned again, the sun catching his glasses.
“Honestly? It’s hard, but it’s good. I feel stronger. More prepared. Even if Snape’s still a hard-ass, he’s the best teacher I’ve had for this.”
I watched him, feeling something shift inside me. Hope. For the first time in weeks, I felt like we weren’t entirely in the dark.
And I hoped Snape would keep pushing Harry, keep making him stronger. Because the first task was coming, and they had no idea what was waiting for us.
We sat in peaceful silence for a while, and I was ready to nap when Harry suddenly flopped back onto his elbows, staring at the sky. He let out a long breath and said, almost too quietly for me to catch,
“You know… I really hate that everyone thinks I’m some attention-seeker.”
I glanced at him, eyebrows raised. Hermione froze mid-sip of water from her flask.
Harry sat up a little straighter, eyes still fixed on the ripples of the lake.
“After last year, with Skeeter, and now this… I can’t walk down a corridor without hearing whispers behind me. I thought maybe I’d get used to it, but I haven’t. And it’s driving me mad.”
I shifted, unsure of what to say for a second. Hermione looked at him with that thoughtful frown she always got when she was trying to fix something.
“Mate,” I said finally, my voice low, “the way they talk—it’s all rubbish. You know that. You’ve got us, and Snape—even if he’s a git most of the time—has your back now. And he’s not exactly known for trusting people.”
Harry gave a short, humourless laugh.
“Yeah, but it’s easy to say that. You’re not the one they’re whispering about.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the sting of guilt.
“True,” I admitted. “And it’s a bit hypocritical of me to say, really. I mean, I folded like wet paper when people started digging into me. I didn’t even push back. Just let them twist things. So I get it. But you’re stronger than me, Harry. And you’ve got us. Let the others talk. They don’t know a thing about who you are.”
Harry let out a long sigh, his hands clenching briefly before relaxing.
“I’m trying, Ron. I really am. But it’s hard.”
Hermione’s voice softened as she said,
“You’re stronger than you think. You know who you are, and we know who you are. Don’t let them define you. Their opinions aren’t worth it.”
Harry gave her a small, grateful smile, and I felt some of the tightness in my chest ease.
“I mean it,” I added, nudging him lightly. “You’re not alone in this. No matter what the rest of them say.”
He glanced at me, then at Hermione, and a flicker of something like hope passed over his face.
“Thanks. You two are the best.”
I smirked.
“We know.”
We sat there for a while longer, the breeze off the lake cooling the sweat from our practice session, the weight of the rumours and the Tournament heavy but just a bit easier to bear.
Chapter 41: BOOK FOUR - THE FIRST TASK
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE FIRST TASK
Dear Ron,
I can’t believe you wrote me like that, mate. You had me half scared out of my wits. But I get it now, this Triwizard thing is bigger than I realised, and if Harry’s in the thick of it, he’s going to need all the help he can get.
So here’s what I know, but you have to promise me to keep this between us. Well, and Harry, of course. He’s the one who needs to know. You can’t tell anyone else, not even your brothers, not Hermione, not anyone. If this gets out, I’ll be in serious trouble, and it could mess up the whole Tournament.
The first task is dragons. Big ones. They’ve been brought in from different reserves. A Norwegian Ridgeback, a Chinese Fireball, a Welsh Green, and a Hungarian Horntail. They’re with me now, and they’re being kept under tight security, but they’re going to be used in the task. I’m guessing it’ll involve getting past them somehow.
Ron, make sure Harry knows, but also PLEASE ask him to go easy on them if he can. They’re dangerous, but they’re not evil. They’re just doing what they’re born to do. I know Harry’s clever enough to handle it without hurting them if he tries.
I’ll be rooting for him. And for you too. Stay safe, little brother.
Love,
Charlie
I folded Charlie’s letter with the kind of care usually reserved for nuclear codes and slipped it into the inner pocket of my robes. It was official now: I had an alibi for knowing about the first task. If someone were to ask how I found out, well… Charlie told me. No foreknowledge at all. Just insider information.
Neat.
Now, if only I could come up with something just as solid for Dobby. I’d been turning it over in my head since the Quidditch World Cup, and it still felt like a dangerously dangling thread. There had to be a way to cover that one, too. I made a mental note to think about it more seriously.
The morning blurred into potions, double period with the Gryffindors. We were halfway through brewing when the classroom door creaked open, and Colin Creevey scurried in, clutching a note and looking as flustered as ever. He handed it to Snape, who read it with a thin-lipped scowl before glancing toward Harry. Bagman was asking for the Champions, for pictures and possibly interviews.
Harry packed up his things and slid out of his seat. Just before he left, I leaned in close.
“If there’s a journalist there—don’t talk to them.”
Harry gave me a short nod and disappeared through the door.
The rest of us finished the class without him. No one commented, as everyone was too focused on measuring drop by drop of snakebark extract and trying not to lose their eyebrows in the process.
Harry didn’t show up again until Divination.
He slumped onto a cushion next to me, looking like the Hungarian Horntail itself had just chased him. The shadows under his eyes had darkened, and his hair looked like he’d run both hands through it five times over.
“She was there,” he muttered under his breath while Professor Trelawney wafted about constellations. “Skeeter. Tried to drag me into a cupboard. For an interview.”
I stiffened.
“What’d she ask?”
“Nothing. I didn’t go. Told her no.”
My shoulders relaxed a little.
“She just… gave up?”
“Got annoyed,” Harry said with a shrug. “Then started fawning over the other champions instead. Krum especially.”
“That’s not like her,” I commented with narrowed eyes.
“No kidding.”
I didn’t say the rest aloud. That it was unlikely she’d let it go. Skeeter didn’t just move on when she was denied. She circled. Waited. Found other angles. She’d make Harry pay for refusing her, probably with a poison-dipped pen.
Still, we had other things to worry about first.
“When this class is over,” I said quietly, “we’re going to Snape.”
“Why?”
“There’s something important I have to tell you. Both of you. And it can’t wait.”
He didn’t argue. Just gave me a sharp nod, eyes more alert now than they’d been when he walked in. Good. He was truly beginning to understand that Snape was the only one I trusted to be prepared for real danger.
Even if half the school still thought he was the danger.
When Trelawney dismissed us, Harry and I didn’t waste time gathering our things. As the others meandered toward the staircase, chattering about Mars rising, we exchanged a glance and headed down to the dungeons.
There, the corridor was quiet, with just the last of some upper years trailing out of the Potions classroom. I waited until the last student rounded the corner before stepping inside with Harry close behind. I shut the heavy door with a low thud.
Snape looked up from the desk where he’d been marking scrolls, his quill pausing mid-sentence. His eyes flicked to me, then to Harry, then back again, narrowing slightly.
“I presume this visit has something to do with your photograph session, Potter,” he said. “I trust you managed to keep your mouth shut.”
“Skeeter tried to corner me, but I didn’t say a word,” Harry assured him.
Snape studied him, then gave a sharp nod of approval.
“Finally embracing Slytherin instincts. How refreshing.”
I bit back a smile. Coming from him, that was practically a standing ovation.
“So,” he drawled, leaning back slightly in his chair. “If Miss Skeeter didn’t wheedle her way into your brain, why are you here?”
I stepped forward, sliding my hand into the inner pocket of my robes.
“I have something to show you,” I said and pulled out Charlie’s letter.
Snape’s eyebrows lifted the barest inch as he took the parchment from my hand. He unfolded it, eyes flicking quickly across the lines. I saw his mouth tighten, and he exhaled a soft, almost imperceptible breath. Then, without a word, he drew his wand and incinerated the letter. The ashes fluttered to the stone floor.
Harry stepped forward, alarmed.
“Hey, that was—”
“Thank you, sir,” I said quickly, cutting him off with a glance.
Snape gave a curt nod, then stood and flicked his wand at the door. There was a faint shimmer as the locking and silencing spells fell into place.
“Now,” he said, returning to lean against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, “does Potter know what was in the letter?”
I glanced at Harry and took a deep breath to give me strength.
“Charlie warned us. The first task… It’s dragons.”
“Dragons?” Harry repeated with wide eyes.
“Charlie Weasley wouldn’t risk sending false information, particularly not to a student,” Snape confirmed calmly. “If the tournament committee has acquired dragons, they are indeed part of the task.”
“I—I thought they wouldn’t go that far,” Harry stuttered, pale.
“They would. They have,” Snape said crisply. “We’ll alter your training accordingly. Tomorrow’s session will focus on strategy, not just spellwork.” He looked pointedly at both of us. “No one else is to know about this.”
“I’m not about to get Charlie fired,” I muttered. “We’re already skating on thin ice with him passing that on.”
We both turned to Harry.
“I won’t tell anyone.” Then, he hesitated. “But—what about Hermione? She’s the best at research. If I need to—”
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“She can keep a secret,” I added, looking seriously at Snape. “And she’s good at researching. Really.”
Snape studied us for a moment longer, then gave a reluctant nod.
“Very well. Miss Granger may be informed. But no one else. And I mean no one. You’ll have to do without your Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Hagrid couldn’t keep a secret if you glued it to the roof of his mouth. He is well-meaning but entirely indiscreet.”
I nodded. Hagrid sure had a big heart, but he also had a loud mouth.
“And under no circumstances are you to tell Black,” Snape added, his tone sharper now. “Given his... recent display of ‘subtlety’—storming into the castle and shouting accusations the moment your name emerged from the Goblet—I wouldn’t trust him with a grocery list, let alone information this delicate.”
Harry’s jaw tensed.
“He just cares—”
“Caring,” Snape said coolly, “does not excuse recklessness. If you tell him and he reacts as he did before, you risk not only your own credibility but Mr. Weasley’s brother’s entire future. And I will not allow his career to be ruined over sentimentality.”
Harry opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.
“Please, Harry,” I said quietly. “I don’t trust Sirius with this. Not when Charlie’s job is on the line.”
Harry looked at me for a long moment, then finally exhaled.
“Fine. I won’t tell him.”
Snape gave a slight, satisfied nod.
“Good. Then we will meet tomorrow evening as planned. Come prepared to discuss magical creatures and review everything you can find about dragon behaviour. Discreetly.”
We nodded in unison.
As the wards on the door lifted with a flick of his wand, I let out a quiet breath. The room suddenly felt a little less heavy. Snape returned to his desk without another word. I nudged Harry, and we left the office, closing the door softly behind us.
We didn’t speak again until we reached the stairs. But in my chest, something lighter stirred. Not hope, exactly, but certainty.
We had a plan. And with Snape on our side?
Harry might just survive this.
Of course, Rita Skeeter had not taken kindly to Harry’s refusal. The article hit the school like a hex.
In her signature venomous style, Rita Skeeter titled her latest piece “The Boy Who Needs the Spotlight”, casting Harry as a fame-obsessed teenager who craved attention so badly he had decided to “crash” the Tournament in the hope of getting some.
She painted the other three champions as the dignified, hardworking symbols of their schools. At the same time, Harry was described as “a volatile young boy with a known history of erratic behaviour and a flair for dramatics” who “couldn’t stand not being the centre of attention.” Harry hadn’t spoken a word to her, but that hadn’t stopped her from spinning an entire narrative around his supposed hunger for fame.
The next morning, the school hallways were again thick with whispers and snickers. Students passed around copies of the Prophet as if it were contraband gossip, reading aloud the worst lines and laughing behind their hands.
It didn’t take long for the nickname to catch on.
The Boy Who Needs the Spotlight.
It was muttered in the corridors, hissed in mock concern from behind bookshelves, and even scrawled across the back of his Transfiguration homework in someone’s loopy handwriting. Students who didn’t dare openly confront him still shot him sidelong glances, some amused, others suspicious.
To both Harry’s and I’s surprise, Blaise and Theodore supported Harry. Neither made a show of their belief, but both gave Harry quiet nods or neutral glances that were notably lacking in ridicule. It didn’t solve anything, but it made the atmosphere in the dorms less unbearable.
Malfoy, of course, was another matter.
He never missed a chance to smirk or drop a mock-sympathetic “Spotlight” in Harry’s direction, especially in the Slytherin common room. Whether Harry was studying or simply trying to exist in peace, Malfoy would find an excuse to twist the knife. Never loud enough for a professor to hear but always enough to sting.
It turned out to be a stroke of incredible luck that Snape had made that public speech the night Harry’s name came out of the Goblet. Whatever Malfoy had been plotting—buttons, badges, or some other petty display—it never came to pass. Not even he dared to provoke Snape’s wrath so openly. It was no small thing, having the Head of Slytherin in your corner. With just a few cold words and a warning glare, Snape had done what even a month’s worth of detentions couldn’t—put the fear of Merlin into all Slytherins.
It didn’t stop the whispers or the stares, of course. But it made them quieter. And that, in itself, was a relief.
Now, the first task loomed ever closer, breathing down Harry’s neck like one of the dragons he’d been warned about. And with it came the final evening of preparation—the last training session in the safety of the dungeons, before it would be just him, his wand, and whatever the Tournament had in store.
The hourglass near the edge of the worktable trickled its final grains as I wiped the sweat from my brow, my breath coming quickly and shallowly. Harry was in a similar state. Snape stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his face as unmoved as ever. He had watched silently for the last few minutes, offering neither corrections nor praise. Just that intense, hawk-like gaze that tracked every movement, every hesitation, every flick of our wands as we practised the last spell Harry would need for the first task. The hardest one, and the one Snape wanted me to learn too as part of my private tutoring.
Finally, he spoke.
“That will do.”
We both let our arms drop, exhausted after hours of intense spell-casting.
“Potter, your control has improved. Marginally. It’ll have to do.” Snape paced slowly toward the centre of the room, his boots quiet against the stone. “The first task is in two days. Potter, you know what you must do. Whatever happens, follow the plan. Do not improvise unless you absolutely must. Trust what you’ve learned.”
Harry nodded.
Snape stared at him for a long second, then said:
“You’ve trained harder than I expected. See to it that your performance reflects it. If you remain focused, if you keep your instincts sharp and your emotions in check…” His tone shifted, the edges softening slightly. “You’ll survive.”
For him, that was practically a full-throated good luck speech. I fully believed now that Snape was beginning to care for Harry. It was sweet, and I hoped it would last. Because Harry would need it in the future.
I let out a slow breath, shoulders relaxing just a little. I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. We’d done all we could. Now, it was down to the arena and the dragon. And I’d be right there in the stands, probably biting my nails to the quick.
The stands were already buzzing when we arrived, noise swelling like the tide as people scrambled for seats. I followed Hermione, Luna trailing dreamily behind us, her robes covered in little green and silver stars that glimmered in the morning light. The rest of my siblings were dotted here and there—Fred and George perched high up, betting slips already in hand, grinning like Christmas had come early.
I wasn’t grinning. My stomach was twisted into some kind of infernal knot.
We climbed to the middle rows and found a spot just above the judges’ platform. The arena spread out before us: an enormous rocky pit rimmed with steep ledges, the ground charred and broken, jagged boulders piled at one end like a miniature mountain range. There was even a battered stone tower that appeared to have been partially destroyed on purpose. I scanned the far edge and spotted Charlie easily, his dragonkeeper robes marked with soot and his wand at the ready, trained on the dragon already in the arena. Charlie looked calm.
Next to him were the other three dragons, shackled and hooded—barely restrained. I couldn’t stop staring at the third one, the Horntail. Just the silhouette of its spikes made my spine go rigid.
Up in the judges’ box, Dumbledore stood flanked by the rest: Madam Maxime, Karkaroff, Rathbone, and Ludo Bagman, who stood now, grinning like he was hosting a bloody game show.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Bagman’s voice boomed across the arena, magically amplified. “Welcome to the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament!”
The crowd roared. Hermione’s hand clenched around mine briefly before she let go and fidgeted with her scarf.
“As a reminder,” Bagman continued, “our champions face a most thrilling challenge today: retrieving a golden egg from the nest of a mother dragon.”
A hush fell. Audible gasps. A woman somewhere behind us swore loudly.
“Each champion must rely on their skill and wit to succeed—no outside help, no substitutions. The egg must be taken without magical flight or Apparition, and of course—” Bagman chuckled, “they’ll need to survive the encounter.”
Hermione shot me a glance. I didn’t look back. My eyes were already on the dragon in the arena.
“The judges will score each champion on skill, strategy, and style, and yes, whether they get out in one piece.”
A brief pause. A dragon handler waved from below.
“Our first champion… representing Beauxbatons Academy of Magic… Mademoiselle Fleur Delacour!”
The crowd applauded, scattered cheers echoing as Fleur walked into the arena, poised like this was just another dance rehearsal. She looked tiny against the looming Swedish Short-Snout.
Bagman began to narrate every movement from Fleur in a breathless voice.
I tried to focus, really. But I couldn’t. I kept thinking about Harry. Was he backstage right now? Could he hear the dragon snarling and scraping its claws across the scorched earth? Was he panicking? Practising one last spell in his head?
I clenched my jaw. If he got the Horntail… if he drew the same one as in the books… but no. It couldn’t be. There was no way all four draws were identical. Too improbable. It was more likely he’d get one of the others. Hopefully not the Chinese Fireball either—those flames reached far.
Down in the pit, Fleur’s charm seemed to be working—the Short-Snout’s eyelids drooped, it slumped down with a snore—and then, just as quickly, flames erupted from its snout, catching the hem of her robes. The crowd gasped. Bagman shouted something unintelligible.
Hermione sat bolt upright beside me, fingers clutched at her knees.
Fleur recovered fast, dousing the fire and scrambling for the egg. Within moments, it was in her hands, and the dragon was writhing on its chain, smoke curling from its nostrils.
Bagman boomed,
“Well done, Fleur Delacour! And now—let’s see what our judges have to say…”
He didn’t call the scores. The public had to crane their necks to look at the judge panel. Eight from Dumbledore, nine from Madame Maxime, seven from Karkaroff, and nine from the others. Polite applause followed.
I barely heard any of it. My eyes were on the handlers bringing the Short-Snout back into its cage. And then Bagman cleared his throat again, voice smug with anticipation.
“Our second champion, representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter!”
Hermione let out a tiny gasp. I blinked hard.
“And he’ll be facing… the Common Welsh Green!”
I let out a sigh. Not too loud. Just enough to loosen my chest a bit.
“Better now than later,” I muttered. “At least we don’t have to wait through Krum and Diggory.”
Hermione nodded silently beside me, both hands clenched in her lap.
The dragon gate creaked open again, and Harry walked out onto the field.
The crowd was screaming. I barely noticed. My whole body had gone still.
Please be okay, I thought. Just get through this.
And don’t you dare die.
Harry slipped into the arena from the narrow entrance between two boulders, and I immediately leaned forward, trying to track every movement he made. I hoped he’d remembered to cast Scourgify on himself—there was no telling how good a dragon’s nose was, but if he still stank of anxiety and stale breakfast, it could be a problem.
He crouched low behind a massive outcrop of rock near the arena’s centre, vanishing from the dragon’s line of sight. The Welsh Green was coiled in a lazy spiral just a few meters from the golden egg, its tail twitching idly. Its wings unfurled with each breath, massive and leathery, pulsing like sails in the wind.
Bagman’s voice carried across the arena:
“Potter’s keeping low—clever move. Looks like he’s preparing something. Not sure what spell that was, folks—couldn’t hear him from this distance—but he’s clearly up to something.”
I knew what it was. The Air-Resonance Charm. t softened sudden noises, masking his steps, making sure every little crunch or stumble didn’t carry like a gunshot. He was preparing the field.
Just like planned.
Then he tapped his temple with his wand—his form shimmered slightly. Bagman called it out.
“Ah! Disillusionment—though not a fully formed one, I’d wager. Still, it’ll dull his outline. Harder to spot.”
Harry moved again, cautious and silent, skirting the edge of a cluster of rocks. I tracked his movement more by what wasn’t there than what was. He moved only when the dragon blinked or shifted its gaze. Sometimes he would flatten himself entirely on the ground and wait. It was painful to watch, like a game of green light, red light, with something that could barbecue him alive in seconds.
He froze once. The dragon had caught a sound or a scent. Harry stayed crouched, barely visible, and reached for something in his hand. He cast Sonorus —I could see the shape of the incantation, even if I couldn’t hear it—and then cast the Banishing Charm. A small stone flew, skimming the ground before bouncing off a larger rock with a sharp crack. The dragon snapped its head in that direction, and Harry crept forward another few steps.
Bagman was narrating frantically now.
“And Potter’s using decoys—blimey, that’s clever—distraction tactics, very precise… oh, very cautious approach here, folks.”
“Good,” I muttered under my breath. “Stay cautious. Just like Snape drilled into you.”
This was nothing like the Canon Harry. No leaping heroics, no wild broom dives. Just clean, controlled tactics. It was clear Snape had spent weeks beating the Gryffindor out of him, and to my relief, Harry had listened.
When he got within spitting distance of the nest, he paused again. Three rocks this time, one after another— Sonorus on each. Then he cast another spell, and I knew exactly what it was. Accio Firebolt.
The rocks soared, banished in a flurry toward the same far edge of the arena. The Welsh Green raised its head with a menacing hiss, its throat beginning to glow. Flames erupted in the direction of the sound just as Harry broke into a sprint.
He dove toward the golden egg and scooped it into his arms just as his Firebolt hurtled down from the sky and skidded to a stop beside him like a summoned steed in a tale. Harry vaulted onto it and sped skyward, the crowd erupting into cheers around us.
Bagman was practically shouting in delight.
“And he’s got the egg! No injuries! Clean escape—look at that form, folks! No damage to the nest, either. That’s excellent control!”
My chest finally unclenched. Hermione had her hands pressed together near her face like she was about to pray. I just leaned back in my seat and let myself breathe.
He’d done it.
He’d actually done it—and not just survived, but done it well.
When I looked up again, the judges were already conferring, heads nodding. The crowd was still buzzing, people turning to one another with stunned expressions.
But I didn’t care about them. All I cared about was that Harry was safe.
And that Snape was probably going to be unbearably smug about it later.
But honestly? I’d let him. He’d earned it.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed panel of judges will award their scores for Mr. Harry Potter’s performance!”
I sat up straighter, eyes flicking toward the judges’ stand. Fleur had gotten a decent score earlier—thirty-eight, I think. Her robes had caught fire, but she still got the egg. So Harry deserved more, right?
Dumbledore shot a number into the air: 9.
I nodded to myself. Yeah, that tracked. Dumbledore had probably seen the planning and the control and was rightly impressed.
Bagman grinned as he revealed his score: 10.
Of course. Harry could’ve tripped over his own feet, and Bagman would still give him full marks. But honestly? For once, I didn’t think it was undeserved. Harry’s approach might not have been flashy, but it had been clever. Smart use of sound, positioning, and distraction.
Madame Maxime raised a graceful hand and showed: 8.
A bit stingy, I thought, frowning. Probably would’ve liked a little more panache—Fleur’s spell had gone wrong, and she still got that score. But I figured she respected the discipline, if not the drama.
Then came Karkaroff: 5.
I barely resisted the urge to groan aloud. Typical. The man wouldn’t give Harry a fair score if he’d tamed the dragon and taught it to juggle. Biased git.
The last judge was Rathbone. Percy’s boss. He looked hard to read, even from the stands, face impassive as he raised his wand: 9.
“A very strong showing from Mr. Potter! Bagman announced cheerfully.
Cheers erupted around us, though I caught a few mutters and jealous stares from students in other houses. I didn’t care. I just watched Harry exit the arena, breathless and pale but grinning.
While the dragon keepers scrambled to subdue the Welsh Green—ropes flying, spells being cast in sharp, controlled bursts—Hermione and I broke into a run toward the first aid tent. Harry had vanished behind the canvas flaps just minutes earlier, and I wasn’t about to wait for him to walk back on his own two feet in case there were burns hidden under his clothes or something worse that he was just too stubborn to admit.
We ducked under the flap, our shoes skidding on the hard-packed ground.
“Harry?” Hermione called out breathlessly.
He was sitting on a low cot, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and hair a wild mess, but grinning like a loon.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “No burns, no bites. Just… twitchy.”
We both dove forward, nearly knocking him off the cot as we grabbed him in a tangle of arms. I clapped him on the back, maybe a little too hard, but I didn’t care.
“You did it,” I said, words muffled against his shoulder. “And you weren’t reckless. You followed the plan. Even the backup plan.”
Madam Pomfrey bustled over with her arms crossed, eyeing Harry like she expected something to fall off.
“No sign of magical injury. If you feel faint or dizzy later, you come straight back here, Mr. Potter.”
He promised he would, and she finally waved us off. We ducked out of the tent, blinking against the cool breeze and roar of the crowd still echoing from the stands.
And there, striding toward us with his usual dark billowing menace, was Snape. He arrived at the edge of the first-aid tent just as Harry stepped out, flanked by me and Hermione. We were still buzzing with relief, clinging to each other like we’d all just finished the task ourselves. Snape’s expression was emotionless, and his voice was low and composed.
“Well done, Potter,” he said. “You followed instructions. That alone is miraculous. I expect no less commitment in the remaining tasks.”
Harry blinked in surprise at what amounted to high praise.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Snape gave the slightest nod before his gaze drifted to the left.
Sirius had just arrived, striding over with that restless energy he always carried. He stopped short when he saw Snape, his eyes narrowing.
“Look who slithered out of the shadows,” Sirius said dryly, crossing his arms. “Nice of you to—Sniv—”
He cut himself off.
I saw his jaw flex, his nostrils flare—but then his eyes flicked to me, just for a second. And that was all it took.
Sirius let out a breath through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“Snape.”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
“I’m amazed you remembered my actual name.”
Sirius gave a sharp smile, more baring of teeth than anything pleasant.
“Well. Some of us are working on behaving like grown men. It’s what you do when you’ve been given a second chance.” He paused, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Though I suppose you’d know something about that, too.”
What a bastard.
Snape’s expression didn’t shift, but I saw his fingers tighten slightly where they hung at his sides.
“A shame you squandered your first chance making other people’s lives miserable,” Sirius added, casual as you like.
Snape didn’t rise to it, but the temperature in the air dropped a few degrees.
“Coming from someone whose entire life is built on a second chance,” Snape said quietly, “I suggest you use yours for something other than reliving your schoolyard grudges.”
They stared at each other, two wolves circling, jaws tight and unyielding.
I cleared my throat loudly, ready to tackle Sirius if he didn’t back off. But then Harry, still winded and flushed from the task, stepped forward, breaking the tension.
“Thanks for coming, Sirius. I… I’m really glad you were here.”
Sirius blinked, like he’d forgotten why he was there. He looked at Harry properly now, and some of the sharpness drained out of his face.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, kid.”
Snape inclined his head toward Harry, just barely.
“Rest while you can. The next task won’t be so forgiving.”
And with that, he turned and, with a swirl of his robes, he left.
Sirius exhaled hard and muttered under his breath.
“Merlin, that man tests my restraint.”
I gave him a pointed look.
“You did good.”
He managed a grin.
“Torture. Absolute torture. But yeah… worth it.”
And just like that, all the tension drained.
We decided quickly that we didn’t feel like heading back into the thick of the stands—too many stares, whispers, people with opinions—so we skirted the edge of the enclosure until we found a quiet patch behind the stands where the view was still decent. A bit of canvas blocked most of us from the crowd, and the noise was muffled. We settled there, shoulder to shoulder.
All was well.
We breathed.
And for the first time since Harry’s name came out of that damned Goblet, I finally felt like things might be okay.
Now, I just needed to make sure that Harry was a strong swimmer.
Chapter 42: BOOK FOUR - A DIFFERENT KIND OF TUTORING
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A DIFFERENT KIND OF TUTORING
Snape didn’t waste time with pleasantries when we walked into the empty classroom. He gave Harry a curt nod and gestured toward a desk, then folded his arms, black robes pooling like smoke around his boots.
“This will be brief,” he said. “Your performance.”
Harry stiffened. Snape’s gaze sharpened.
“You followed instructions. You remained cautious. You did not attempt to play the hero.” He turned slightly, as if that alone was worth a rare nod of approval. “Your use of the Air-Resonance Charm was well-executed. Controlled. It maintained its field under pressure.”
Harry blinked, visibly a bit taken aback by the words.
“Your disillusionment charm,” Snape continued, more coolly, “was adequate. Expected, for the amount of time you’ve had to study it. But it will improve.” Then Snape turned and gave him a raised eyebrow. “The Sonorus was weak. Next time, if you are depending on distraction, ensure it can actually distract.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, ducking his head.
Snape gave a short nod.
“Banishing—strong. Summoning—strong. Flying—” He waved a hand, as if broomwork was beneath comment. “Your sneaking, however…”
He turned his eyes to Harry and tilted his head slightly, the slightest twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.
“You’ve had practice, haven’t you? I wonder… school rule-breaking? Cloaks in the dark? Late-night Library raids?” He looked over at me, one eyebrow arched. “Weasley?”
I shrugged. In another life, yes, it taught Harry how to sneak around. But here and now? I would wager that it came for a life spent with the Dursleys.
Harry didn’t answer. Snape’s eyes gleamed with smug certainty, like he had actually guessed right.
“Regardless,” Snape said, the moment passing, “your strategy was precise and effective. Let this serve as a reminder that subtlety and planning— not theatrical bravery—win contests of survival.”
He walked over to the desk and placed his hands on it.
“Now,” he said, “the egg. I assume you’ve begun deciphering the message.”
“Uh… not really,” Harry admitted, sheepish.
I grimaced just remembering that awful sound.
“We opened it,” I explained. “Briefly. It screamed.”
Snape’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Then scream back,” he said dryly. “I expect progress by next week’s session. Get to work tomorrow.”
Harry nodded, subdued.
“This evening,” Snape said, “we will continue with the disillusionment charm. Both of you remain far from mastery. The charm is volatile and tiring to maintain. But it is invaluable. The ability to disappear without vanishing. To observe without being observed. To escape without being pursued. That is what this charm allows. Note that Potter’s position in this Tournament is not due to explosive flair or blind bravery. It is because he followed the Slytherin way—caution, stealth, misdirection. He survived.”
His gaze settled on Harry.
“You are first in the standings, Mr. Potter. Do not let it go to your head. Let it go to your discipline.”
Then he turned to me.
“Weasley. You’ll continue to practice alongside him. This is foundational: non-verbal control, mental focus, and energy conservation. If you cannot maintain the charm while walking ten steps without your limbs going stiff, you’ll be no use in real-world application.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, already rolling my wand between my fingers.
And then the drills began. Spell after spell, flicks and taps at our temples, invisible threads of magic that fizzled or flickered. Harry’s form dulled more often than mine—he was way better at it—but I was determined not to lag behind. My own robes shimmered once, halfway, like a watery mirage.
We kept casting until sweat dampened our backs and my hand started to tremble with fatigue.
“Again,” Snape said, merciless as always.
It was exhausting and thankless, but I never stopped. Not once.
Snape watched us like a hawk, correcting posture, tempo, intention.
And when he finally relented and gave us leave, he pulled out a slip of parchment and handed it to me.
“Your nightly work,” he said. “Mental discipline drills. Practice these until they are instinct. No excuses.”
I nodded and took the parchment. A quiet list: five-breath focus resets , sound anchoring , memory-freezing . They were calming routines… or rather, tools. Familiar-feeling. And I couldn’t help wondering again—was he teaching me the first steps of Occlumency without saying it?
I tucked the parchment into my sleeve like it was made of gold.
“I’ll do it,” I said quietly.
Snape gave the faintest dip of his head.
“See that you do.”
He dismissed us with a flick of his hand, and I left the dungeon with my wand warm in my palm and my legs shaky with exhaustion.
But my steps were light, all the same.
I was slouched sideways on the couch beside Harry, half-reading a book on magical puzzles while he rolled the golden egg between his hands like he thought it might talk if he stared hard enough. Like with Dobby’s masters’ identity, I was no closer to finding a way to steer Harry in the right direction.
“It’s not gonna sprout a label saying how to open, you know,” I muttered, flipping a page. “But maybe if we shake it long enough, it’ll get dizzy and give up its secrets.”
Harry didn’t laugh. He looked tired. The Tournament had aged him a bit, even if he’d never say it out loud. We hadn’t made much progress on the egg clue yet. Not without Hermione, and not tonight.
Then it happened— the shift. The low hum of voices faded all at once, like a blanket had been thrown over the room. I looked up from the book and saw every student facing the entryway, their postures straightening with something between fear and habit.
Snape had entered.
He strode in with his usual sharp grace, black robes trailing behind like a shadow with purpose. No one spoke. Even the fireplace stopped crackling. Such charisma.
“Students,” he said, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “a matter of school-wide importance has fallen to me to announce. Since none of you can be trusted to behave like sensible creatures in public without explicit instructions, I advise you to listen carefully.”
Several students swallowed audibly. I kept my expression flat, even though the way he had to instruct us like monkeys was hilarious to me.
“The Yule Ball will take place on the evening of December twenty-fifth. It is a traditional event associated with the Triwizard Tournament. It is not an excuse for drunken revelry, public idiocy, or disgracing this House.”
His eyes scanned the crowd. They lingered a second longer on a few notable troublemakers.
“Fourth years and above may attend. Formal dress robes will be mandatory. Those incapable of acquiring or wearing them properly would do best to remain in their dormitories and save themselves the embarrassment.”
A few students shifted uncomfortably. I was grateful for Sirius’ gift. I just couldn’t imagine Snape would’ve let me go out in public with the Canon dress robes.
Snape paused.
“That is all.”
Then he turned sharply and walked straight toward us. I wondered how much Harry was going to panic about opening the ball. Meh. Probably a lot.
Snape stopped before us, he didn’t look angry—just maybe irritated.
“Potter,” he said, voice low. “Champions are required to attend and lead the opening dance. You will fulfil your obligation, and I expect you to behave with competence and coordination. You have sufficient weeks to ensure you are not a public disgrace. Do you possess appropriate robes?”
Harry blinked.
“Er—yes, sir. Got some this summer.”
“Good.”
I cleared my throat, ready to stir shit up.
“Will there be dancing lessons? You know, open to everyone, or are we supposed to just… flail around and hope we don’t step on toes?”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. He mustn’t like my badly repressed grin.
“There are no public lessons planned. The vast majority of students will, I assume, manage with what they already know.”
“‘Majority,’ huh,” I said, pretending to think. “Not ‘all’? So does that mean you’ll give Harry private lessons? So he doesn’t embarrass the House in front of the entire wizarding world?”
There was a very tight pause. Snape’s lip twitched.
“Yes. During one of our regular sessions. And you, Weasley, will be his partner.”
I grinned.
“Do I have to wear a dress for that?”
Snape gave me a look that could have peeled paint.
“Why do you insist on trying my patience?”
“I’m just thinking practically,” I said, shrugging. “If most girls are wearing huge swirling ballgowns, Harry might trip over them while dancing. Better we train for that, right?”
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep a mostly straight face. Harry seemed to be in a similar state.
“Then Potter would be wise to choose a partner who dresses sensibly.”
I snorted into my hand, trying to keep the laugh from breaking free.
“We begin with footwork next week. I expect minimal incompetence. And for you to have progressed on the egg,” he added with a look at the egg in question.
As he turned to go, Harry looked up.
“Thank you, sir. For helping.”
Snape didn’t respond directly. His robes swished behind him as he left the common room, cutting through the students like a dark sail in water.
As the door closed, Harry finally lost it and laughed.
“Oh Merlin,” he wheezed. “I can’t stop picturing you in a frilly pink ballgown, Ron. Ruffles and bows and everything.”
I laughed hard.
“I knew you were picturing it, you rascal!”
I flung a cushion at him. Harry caught it with a laugh and dropped it onto his lap. Around us, people were excitedly chatting, and in the next twenty minutes, we witnessed two upper-year boys asking their girlfriends to the ball.
“So,” I said casually, stretching out a little, “who are you gonna ask?”
Harry shrugged, too quickly.
“Hum, I was thinking maybe I’ll take the dragon. We bonded, you know. She got me.”
“Very funny. But come on—if you don’t want to end up paired with someone weird, you’ve gotta ask quick.”
He avoided my eyes, fiddling with the corner of the cushion.
“Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.”
I tilted my head and just looked at him. Didn’t say a word. I’d used that same tone when trying to lie to Mum for years. It never worked on her, and it wasn’t going to work on me either.
Harry caught the look and sighed, shoulders slumping.
“What, do you want me to say a name so you can tease me for it?”
“Only if it’s a really bad one,” I said with a grin. “So come on. Spill.”
He glanced at me, then away again.
“Who are you asking?”
I blinked. Oh. Smart move. Still, fair was fair.
“Luna,” I said.
That got his attention.
“Luna? Really?”
“Yeah, of course. It’ll be fun. And I think she could use a nice night out, you know? She won’t have the occasion to come otherwise, as a third year.”
Harry stared for a second, then nodded slowly.
“Huh. That’s… was not what I was expecting.”
“Well, I like to keep people on their toes,” I said, smirking. “Now it’s your turn, mate.”
He gave me a look like I’d just tossed him into a pit of blast-ended skrewts. Then, muttering low,
“Maybe Cho.”
“Cho?” I echoed, eyebrows rising in surprise. I hadn’t realised that flame was still a thing. “As in Ravenclaw Seeker Cho?”
Harry looked like he was about to melt into the cushion.
“Yeah, that one.”
“Well, then you’d better ask her tomorrow,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Girls like her will be asked by breakfast. The Ravenclaws are probably drawing up bloody schedules.”
He groaned but nodded.
“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow.”
“Good.” I leaned back, satisfied. “Better than Malfoy.”
He snorted.
“Thanks. Great image.”
We sat there a bit longer, not saying anything, just listening to the fire pop and crackle. I vaguely remembered a scene with McGonagall teaching ballroom dancing using my… counterpart.
And privately, I wondered what it would be like to do the same with Snape.
The Great Hall was starting to empty as students drifted out toward their morning classes. Plates were mostly cleared, save for a few scattered crumbs and half-finished goblets of pumpkin juice. Across from me, Harry was lazily toying with his toast, flipping it over like he could divine answers from the burn marks. I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes had been drifting for the past ten minutes to the Ravenclaw table, verifying that Luna hadn’t disappeared while I was eating.
Once done, I pushed away my plate, stood up, and said,
“Be right back.”
Harry glanced up but didn’t say anything, just nodded and went back to his toast. I got around the Slytherin table and walked over. Luna sat a little apart from her Housemates, finishing off a bowl of porridge while sketching absentmindedly in the margins of her open Herbology textbook. She had a quill stuck behind one ear and her wand balancing across the rim of her bowl like a perch. Completely absorbed.
She didn’t even notice me when I stopped beside her.
“Hi, Luna.”
“Hello, Ron,” she said serenely, setting her quill down.
“I wanted to ask you something. The Yule Ball’s coming up,” I said simply. “Would you want to go with me?”
She blinked.
“Oh.”
I watched her closely, and then, slowly, she smiled. It wasn’t her usual dreamy smile—it was smaller, quieter, more grounded.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that. Very much.”
“Brilliant.”
She tilted her head, watching me with a curious expression. I tilted my head back at her.
“I was your first choice, wasn’t I?”
“Of course you were,” I said without hesitation.
She looked a little surprised at that—but not doubtful. Just surprised in a way that made me think maybe she didn’t expect to be anyone’s first choice. That was unacceptable, but I didn’t know how to change it, so I didn’t comment on it.
“I’m glad,” she said. “Thank you.”
And then, of course—
“Oh, this is rich.”
I didn’t even have to turn to recognise that voice. Malfoy, sitting not ten feet away at the Slytherin table, clearly hadn’t missed a word.
I turned slowly. He was already grinning like Christmas had come early.
“Loony Lovegood, eh, Weasley? Bit desperate, aren’t we? Or is this your idea of charity work?”
I glanced at Luna. She was unbothered, but I wasn’t.
“Jealous, Malfoy?” I asked, calm and even.
“Of that ?” He scoffed. “Please.”
“Seems like it,” I said. “Wasn’t that you who spent all of third year following me around like a sick Kneazle? Wrote a sonnet about my eyes, didn’t you?”
Malfoy’s face turned blotchy red.
“That—was—a curse! You think I wanted to rhyme your name with—ugh—‘fondly’?”
“I dunno,” I said coolly. “You were very persistent. Wanted to marry into the family and everything. You even complimented my freckles. Multiple times.”
The laughter at the Ravenclaw table was immediate. A few Slytherins were smirking, too.
Malfoy went rigid.
“You’re deranged, Weasley.”
He grabbed his bag and stormed off, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
What a ridiculous boy.
I turned back to Luna.
“Sorry about him.”
“He looked rather pink,” she said mildly. “Like a peppermint toad in distress.”
Luna reached for her bag and slung it over one shoulder with a dreamy little hum under her breath. We said our goodbyes, and she drifted away down the aisle, weaving through the dwindling crowds with her usual airy grace. I stood there for a moment longer until I felt Harry sidle up beside me.
“Well,” he said, a bit wide-eyed. “That looked… remarkably painless.”
I snorted as we turned toward the Entrance Hall together, falling into step.
“Depends who you ask.”
“What d’you mean?” he asked, glancing at me.
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got feelings for Luna, not like that,” I said. “She’s nice. Brilliant. But I wasn’t worried she’d laugh in my face or be cruel about saying no. The stakes were lower, y’know.”
Harry blinked at that.
“So, not the same as asking Cho.”
I gave him a meaningful look.
“Not the same at all. Are you gonna ask her today?”
He grimaced like I’d just suggested he duel a banshee.
“I want to,” he said. “But… I don’t want to do it in front of everyone. Especially not with Malfoy lurking around waiting to make a scene again.”
I shrugged.
“Then don’t. Ask her if you can talk to her somewhere private. Or write her a note or something.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek like he was weighing the pros and cons of both options.
“Come on,” I nudged. “You faced a whole-ass dragon. You can ask a girl out.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It was easier with the dragon. Stakes were lower.”
That stopped me in my tracks. I stared at him. Then burst out laughing so hard I nearly stumbled into a passing suit of armour.
“You got me there,” I wheezed.
“Glad to be of service,” Harry said dryly, but he was grinning too.
We kept walking toward Charms, the echo of our laughter bouncing off the stone corridors, and for a little while at least, Harry didn’t look so green around the gills about asking Cho out.
One week later, when we arrived for tutoring after dinner, Snape was already there, standing at the front with his arms crossed and a look that could have soured milk. Grim didn’t even begin to cover it. He looked like someone had told him he had to host a Valentine’s tea party with Lockhart.
I elbowed Harry and whispered,
“He looks thrilled.”
Snape’s eyes landed on us like heat-seeking curses.
“Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley.”
We quickly took our usual places, setting our bags down. I half-expected to be told to start dodging hexes in a dark room again. Snape didn’t waste time.
“First, the egg,” he said briskly. “Progress?”
Harry and I shared a look.
“I’ve opened it,” Harry said. “A couple of times. But I haven’t made much of it yet. The sound is just… awful.”
Snape gave a long, disappointed exhale through his nose.
“Then I expect that to change before our next session. You’ll need the clue sooner than you think.”
He turned and retrieved something from a drawer, then placed a record on the phonograph he had put near the shelves.
“Tonight’s objective is… dancing.”
I nodded, already expecting it. Still, hearing it from Snape’s mouth, with all the enthusiasm of a man announcing a funeral, made it twice as surreal. And hilarious, too.
Snape’s lip curled slightly as he moved to a cleared space at the centre of the room.
“As the Hogwarts champion, Mr. Potter will be required to open the Yule Ball with the traditional waltz. That means he must learn how to lead. And since we’re operating on a compressed timeline, you—” he turned to me, “will serve as his partner for instruction.”
I gave an easy shrug.
“Fine by me.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“That includes letting him lead, Weasley. Regardless of any preconceived notions you may hold about ‘being the girl.’”
I smirked secretively.
“Honestly, sir, being led sounds a lot easier than messing up in front of the whole school. Lead away, Harry.”
That earned me a brief, surprised blink. For a second, I could’ve sworn Snape was caught off guard. But then his expression shuttered back into its usual disdainful mask. He flicked his wand at the phonograph, which gave a soft crackle before it began playing something string-heavy and slow. Formal. Dreadfully elegant.
Snape stalked closer and began barking instructions.
“Weasley, left hand up. Right hand on his shoulder. Potter, hand on his waist. Not his ribs. Not his spine. Waist.”
We shuffled into position. Harry looked like he’d rather duel another dragon than hold my gaze, but I was perfectly relaxed. It was like practising footwork—just with fewer hexes and more violins.
Snape circled us like a particularly testy bat.
“One-two-three. One-two-three. Don’t drag your feet, Weasley. Potter, if you can fly a broom, you can surely manage a waltz.”
We danced. Sort of. It was stiff at first, a little clumsy, but not unbearable. And, frankly, considering how miserable Snape looked watching us, it was a little funny, and I had to repress a delighted grin.
“Getting there,” I muttered after a turn.
“Louder, Weasley,” Snape said flatly. “Let’s alert the ghosts.”
“Not bad!” I said louder, grinning. Harry laughed, nearly tripping.
“Again,” Snape snapped.
The music restarted at a slightly quicker tempo.
We continued, and by the third round, Harry was leading well. I didn’t trip, and Snape hadn’t insulted us in a full minute. Progress.
At the end of the song, Snape crossed his arms.
“Marginal improvement.”
I exchanged a grin with Harry. Coming from Snape, that was basically a standing ovation.
“We’ll return to spellwork next session,” Snape said. “Potter, I expect progress on the egg. And Weasley…” he hesitated a fraction of a second, “…thank you for taking this seriously.”
My eyes widened a bit. Okay. Whoa.
Snape turned away briskly.
“Dismissed.”
We left the classroom, Harry chuckling.
“Did Snape just say thank you?”
“I’m writing it down in my secret diary as soon as we get back,” I said. “In sparkly ink. With flourishes.”
“Don’t forget to frame it,” Harry added, nudging me with his elbow.
“Oh, I won’t.”
And I didn’t stop smiling the whole way back to the common room.
By the second week of dead ends and “maybe it’s a language of goblin flute-playing” theories, I had enough.
I slammed shut the last book I’d checked out from the Library— Magical Maritime Traditions of the Mediterranean, a snoozefest with not even a single useful mention of anything screechy—and decided that this was it. We’d wasted enough time pretending like we were going to find a breakthrough by accident.
Fine. Then I’d stage an accident.
That’s what led to the moment, two days later, during our Tuesday tutoring session, where I placed Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them on the edge of Snape’s desk with the air of a man who had absolutely stumbled onto something by pure chance.
“I found this while going through some books in the common room,” I said with all the casualness I was capable of. “If the second task involves a creature like the first, I thought it’d be worth a shot to check here.”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
I flipped open the book and pointed to the page.
“Merpeople. Their language is called Mermish, and it’s described here as a screeching sound. Harsh and incomprehensible—except underwater.”
I said it like it had just clicked for me that very morning instead of something I’d known for two bloody decades. My pulse kicked a little harder than it should’ve. What if it was too neat? What if Snape caught the lie?
He didn’t. He leaned in, scanned the passage in question, and straightened.
“Finally,” he said, not exactly warm, but not suspicious either. “A lead worth following. Since the rest of your meandering efforts have produced nothing.”
Harry blinked, then frowned.
“Wait, so—you think the clue in the egg is spoken in Mermish?”
“Clearly,” Snape replied. “The shrieking sound was not just for dramatic flair. The intent was to test interpretation. What you heard was the clue—just in a language you cannot understand.”
“So… what, I’m supposed to learn Mermish?” Harry asked, sceptical and just a bit panicked. “That can’t be right. There’s no way I can learn a whole language in time, and even if I tried—”
“Don’t be dumb,” I cut in. “You can’t understand Mermish unless you’re underwater. It’s part of their physiology or magic or something. It says it right here.” I tapped the paragraph in the book for emphasis.
Harry flushed a little, looking sheepish.
“Oh. So I bring the egg into the shower with me, then?”
“Don’t be daft,” Snape snapped, with all the familiar bite of a professor correcting a particularly hopeless student. He turned away and walked to his desk, reaching for a fresh piece of parchment. “While your line of thought is predictably graceless, the conclusion is correct. The egg must be opened underwater.”
He wrote with a quick, slanted hand, then held out the parchment toward Harry.
“Take this. Permission to use the prefects’ bathroom. Once. On Champion business. Ask the Head Boy or any available prefect for the password.”
Harry took it gingerly, like it might bite.
“Thanks.”
“No more dithering,” Snape said sharply. “I expect results by the next session.”
With that said, he gave us the signal to start the session. We took our positions, wands ready.
“Back to the disillusionment charm,” he said. “Potter, your blending is better. And Weasley—” He gave me a look I didn’t know how to read. “You’re improving. Slightly.”
That was nice to hear, but it sounded completely false to me.
My camouflage wasn’t perfect yet—still more like a weird, flickering camo pattern on my skin than actual blending—but I was getting there. Not invisible, not chameleon-like, but finally somewhere in the middle. Progress.
Determined to make significant progress tonight, I rolled my shoulders and pointed my wand at my temple, ready to begin.
Chapter 43: BOOK FOUR - PREPARATION OF THE TASKS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PREPARATION OF THE TASKS
I knew something was up with Harry the moment he didn’t answer a single question during Runes.
It wasn’t that he was bad at the subject—we were all bad at the subject, if we were being honest—but this time, he wasn’t even trying to pretend. He just stared at his notes, as if he were expecting them to start speaking Mermish and solve the translations for him.
Hermione and I exchanged a look near the end of the period. Her brow furrowed slightly, silently asking if I noticed it too. I gave her the tiniest nod.
When the bell rang, we packed our things and headed out into the corridor. Harry stayed quiet, his hand clenching and unclenching around the strap on his satchel until he finally spoke to Hermione a little awkwardly.
“Can I talk to you?”
I blinked. So that was it.
Hermione looked a bit surprised, but she said yes right away. I slowed my pace and gave them a bit of room, hanging back a few steps as they stopped near one of the windows, winter light pooling around them like a stage. I tried not to look like I was eavesdropping, but… well. I was.
“I know I should’ve said something earlier,” Harry said, sounding stiff and uncomfortable, “but would you maybe want to go to the Yule Ball? With me?”
I winced on instinct. Not because it was a bad idea—Harry and Hermione got along great—but because he looked like he was walking into a duel with a blindfold on.
Hermione looked surprised too. Not in a bad way. Just… startled.
“Oh, Harry…” she said gently, her voice warm and soft. “I really am flattered. I am. But—someone else already asked me. And I said yes.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Harry gave a short nod and said quickly,
“Right. No, of course. That makes sense.”
Merlin. That was painful to watch.
“I’m sorry,” she added, genuinely meaning it. Her voice had that ache to it she gets when she knows someone’s hurting and she can’t fix it.
Harry just shook his head.
“It’s fine.”
But I could see the tension in his jaw. Then, of course, he asked,
“So… who is it?”
Hermione hesitated. Not long enough to be suspicious, just long enough for me to know she wasn’t thrilled about saying the name. I wondered if…
“Someone from Durmstrang,” she said.
Ah, yes. No need to wonder anymore. That’s when Harry’s head whipped up.
“Krum?”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Harry’s mouth tightened.
“Well,” he said. “Guess he doesn’t just like Quidditch.”
“He’s been very kind, Harry,” she said with a blush. “It just happened.”
I figured that was enough emotional landmine walking for one morning. I stepped forward casually, clapped Harry lightly on the shoulder, and said,
“Dinner?”
“Definitely,” Hermione said, grateful for the out.
Harry nodded, still quiet. I walked on his other side as we made our way to the Great Hall. He didn’t say anything at first; he just kept his eyes on the floor like he was trying not to think too hard.
“You alright?” I asked.
He glanced sideways at me and gave me a lopsided smile.
“Not as bad as facing a dragon. But a bit rougher on the pride.”
I snorted. We didn’t talk much on the way to dinner, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just quiet. Then, as we turned the corner into the Entrance Hall, I spoke up.
“By the way… I have a sister.”
Harry gave me a confused side glance.
“Uh. Yes? I’ve met her?”
I rolled my eyes.
“No, I mean—if you’re still looking for someone to go to the ball with… You could ask Ginny.”
That made him pause. He blinked at me, brows lifted.
“Really?”
Hermione perked up instantly, seizing the moment like a cat spotting a fluttering quill.
“Oh, that’s actually a good idea! Ginny’s sweet and fun, and you already know her well, so it wouldn’t be awkward—”
“Exactly,” I cut in before she could write a whole essay about it. “And just saying, you might want to move quickly. She got a lot of attention after that win in Quidditch last year. I wouldn’t be shocked if another fourth-year beat you to it.”
Harry groaned, dragging a hand over his face.
“Right. Yes. Great. Brilliant. Let’s just get all the rejections over in one week, shall we?”
I patted him on the back, grinning.
“That’s the spirit.”
He sighed and muttered something like, “If she laughs in my face, I’m blaming you,” but I could see the gears already turning.
When we reached the doors to the Entrance Hall, he squared his shoulders like he was off to battle.
“I’ll ask her now,” he said, jaw set with fake determination. “Let’s just get it over with.”
“Now you’re thinking like a proper duelist. Strike before they cast a Shield Charm.”
He chuckled—nervously—but at least he wasn’t dragging his feet anymore.
I just hoped Ginny didn’t say no. But knowing her, she’d handle it better than any of us expected. Especially better than I would if someone asked me to the ball. I was glad to have a partner already.
We stepped into the Great Hall. Hermione and Harry veered off toward the Gryffindor table while I made my way to the Slytherin one. I sat down and immediately craned my neck, pretending to be focused on ladling some stew while my eyes locked on Harry.
He was standing by Ginny now, awkward as anything. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched, and from the way his head tilted, I could tell he was trying to get the words out without choking on them. Ginny’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see her expression, which was maddening.
A few long seconds passed. Harry gestured a little, rubbed the back of his neck, then said something else. Ginny responded, and he gave her a half-nod, half-bow sort of thing before turning away and heading back across the Hall.
He sat beside me with a puff of air and grabbed a roll like it had personally offended him. But there was something lighter about his expression now. He looked... relieved.
“So?” I asked, leaning in for his answer.
He glanced sideways at me, then broke into a small, sheepish grin.
“She said yes.”
“Nice! Knew she would.”
Harry looked modestly pleased as he tore into his roll, like he didn’t want to admit how nervous he’d been. I took a sip of pumpkin juice, then added casually,
“I’ll ask her what she plans to wear, just in case it’s one of those huge dresses that might trip you up.”
Harry groaned.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, just looking out for you,” I said, smirking. “If you fall on your face during the opening dance, it’s all over. Slytherin pride, mate. Just imagine Snape’s face if he witnessed that.”
He laughed, but there was colour in his cheeks. He didn’t deny that he was nervous. I figured that meant we were making progress.
We’d been camped in the Library for nearly half an hour before Harry finally arrived. Hermione and I had commandeered a quiet table near the back, books already piled high. She was scribbling notes for her extra Ancient Runes essay while I flipped through my Charms textbook with increasing boredom. Nothing useful for the second task in grade four Charms.
Then Harry slid into the seat across from us. He had the egg clutched under one arm and a folded parchment in his hand.
“You got it?” I asked, straightening up.
Harry nodded and passed over the parchment.
“You were right! It was mermish. Wrote it down while it was fresh in my head. Wasn’t easy—the mermaid voice was echoing all over the place.”
Hermione pulled the paper toward her and read aloud in a low voice. When she was done, she didn’t speak for a moment, just reread it to herself. Then she sat up straighter.
“Well, clearly, the task is underwater. The merpeople, obviously—they can’t sing above ground; that line confirms it. You’ve got an hour to find something, and if you don’t, it’s gone forever or at least, you lose the task. So it’s timed. High pressure.”
“Right,” Harry said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “But how in the bloody hell am I supposed to breathe underwater for an hour?”
We were all quiet.
That was a fair question for a fourth-year. Not so much for the other Champions, who must all know the Bubble-Head Charm. Could I find a way to redirect the search in this direction? Or would it be better to ask Snape for Gillyweed?
Probably Snape.
“We need to find something,” Hermione said, already standing and scanning the shelves. “There must be a magical way. We should split up. Let’s each check a different branch of magic and report back.”
She grabbed another stack of books and marched off. Harry sighed and stood as well, heading for the Charms section. I slunk over to Potions, muttering under my breath. Time to see if I could “accidentally” trip over the correct answer again. Just casually, you know. Maybe if I stared long enough at a random page, it’d blink back the truth.
A quarter-hour passed. We were all hunched over our respective books, flipping pages and frowning. I’d found one potion that could shrink your lungs for deep-sea diving, but it took three weeks to brew and included powdered kelpie bone. Not ideal.
I glanced up and watched Harry poring over his book with that scrunched-up look he got when reading something long and technical. Then I blurted out,
“Hey, Harry… can you swim?”
He looked up, startled.
“Sort of? I mean… I’m not drowning-level bad, but I’m not great either.”
Hermione returned with another book and sat down again.
“Well, you might want to get better at it. You could train in the lake.”
Harry gave the window a sceptical look. The sky outside was grey and miserable.
“It must be freezing.”
“February will be colder,” I said. “Might as well get used to it.”
“I’ll research warming charms,” Hermione declared with a nod. “or insulation charms. There must be something. But first, we need to figure out breathing — swimming without air won’t get you far.”
Harry groaned and returned to his book. I flipped mine open again with a sigh.
They still didn’t have the answer. But at least they were asking the right questions. Now, we only needed to rope Snape into it and hope that he would part with both his knowledge and his Gillyweed reserves.
If only I knew what to bribe Snape with…
At night, after lights out in the Slytherin dorms, I curled beneath my covers and stared up at the greenish-black canopy above me. The lake filtered moonlight in strange, shifting patterns through the glass walls, but I barely noticed it anymore. I’d already fluffed and punched my pillow into every possible shape and tried to get comfortable. But sleep didn’t seem to want me tonight, so I gave up.
Quietly, I turned on my side and pulled out my notebook from under the bed—Snape’s breathing and meditation exercises were scrawled in it, all angular notes and underlined phrases. I’d also got stuck on a page from Greaves’ book last week. I’d reread The Polyjuice Paradox over the weekend, and something had clicked—not some grand epiphany, but a small one. I wasn’t going to keep running from how I felt. Not this year. Not anymore.
I decided to try something new—something in between what Snape asked of me and what Greaves suggested. Something that might finally help me feel less like I was just... stuck in a body I kept at arm’s length.
So I closed my eyes, lay still, and began a body scan.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Feel the breath move through the body—feet, legs, pelvis, belly, chest. Let it just be. Let the feelings come. Let them leave. I tuned into the familiar tension in my chest, the awkward weight of my hips, the too-long legs I never quite grew into. The way I flinched at the shape of my own shoulders, even when I knew they weren’t wrong, just... unfamiliar.
For a long while, I just breathed and watched those thoughts pass through like clouds.
I didn’t feel transformed or healed or any of that rubbish. But I wasn’t anxious. And that was something. Small, maybe. But something. And maybe—maybe—I was even a little proud of myself for trying. I hadn’t done that in ages. Just lived in my body. Just... existed.
When I opened my eyes again, the dorm was still quiet. Theodore’s soft snore, Blaise’s steady breath. I turned on my back and decided to do one more thing—something from my past life. Something from Papa.
Loving-kindness meditation. He taught me that when I was an angry teenager. Said it softened the heart without you even noticing.
So I started.
May I be happy.
May I be peaceful.
May I be kind to myself.
Then, Harry.
May Harry be happy.
May he be safe.
May he feel loved.
Hermione. Then Fleur. Then—Draco. That one still stuck in my throat, but I said it anyway. Out loud, even if only in a whisper.
May Draco be happy.
May we all be happy.
It felt a bit silly. But it also felt... warm. Gentle.
At the end, I added:
May all beings everywhere be happy.
I lay in silence afterwards, feeling that gentle kind of peace you don’t want to breathe too hard and break. And when I finally turned onto my side, I let myself stop thinking. Let myself sink into quiet. Into stillness.
Maybe I was finally learning how to be in my own skin. Maybe.
Either way, I fell asleep without needing to fight it.
I slept like the dead.
Not the usual tossing and turning, not the usual half-sleep where my mind kept buzzing with thoughts I couldn’t shut off. Just peace. Stillness. When I woke up, I felt like I’d come up from the bottom of a deep, calm lake. Even getting dressed didn’t feel like a chore this morning. My shirt didn’t sit weirdly on my shoulders. My hair didn’t fall in my eyes in that one annoying way that usually drove me mad.
Harry and I walked to breakfast side by side, and I barely listened to a word he said—I was too content in my little bubble. There was something soft about the morning: the way the light filtered through the enchanted ceiling, the way the noise of the Hall felt muffled, like I was underwater again, but in a good way.
We slid into our usual seats at the Slytherin table, and I poured myself some pumpkin juice while Harry reached for toast. I wasn’t even thinking about my pile of homework or the weird dreams I hadn’t had for once. I felt... whole.
Then I saw him.
Draco Malfoy.
Smug. That was the only word for it. Sitting there with his usual little entourage, talking low and laughing to himself with that horrible little smirk of his like he’d just pulled one over on the entire school. His chin was tilted like he expected the whole bloody world to kneel at his feet any second now.
The bubble popped.
I stared at him, trying not to narrow my eyes, trying not to let him claw his way under my skin again, but something itched at the back of my brain. Something was off.
Harry followed my gaze. “What?”
“Malfoy looks too pleased with himself,” I muttered.
Harry snorted.
“He always looks like that.”
“Yeah, but...” I frowned. “It’s different this time. That’s not regular smug. That’s premeditated smug.”
Harry blinked at me.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I don’t like it.” I tore off a piece of toast and chewed, though it suddenly tasted like ash.
My stomach had tightened into a knot, the kind I only got when my instincts were scratching at the back of my skull like a Kneazle at the door. I didn’t say it out loud, but I had a feeling the peace I’d carved out for myself last night might not last long.
Malfoy’s smirk widened—just a touch. Like he knew I was watching.
And I hated that it made me nervous.
Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t nothing.
Malfoy truly looked irritatingly smug.
Not his usual self-satisfied, drawling smug—this was something else. His shoulders were squared differently, like he’d been unshackled. Like something had been lifted, and now he had the freedom to lord it over the rest of us again.
Which, considering how broody and snappy he’d been the last few months, probably meant only one thing.
Sure enough, not ten seconds after I thought it, Theodore unfolded his copy of the Daily Prophet at the Slytherin table and gave a soft, bitter sort of huff.
He leaned toward us.
“Trial was yesterday,” he said simply. “Lucius Malfoy. He’s cleared.”
My appetite, which hadn’t been great to begin with, flatlined.
“What?” Harry said sharply.
Theodore didn’t answer right away. He just handed over the paper, his face blank. Blaise leaned in beside him but didn’t say anything either. His eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the page.
Harry and I crowded over the headline:
“Malfoy Walks Free Again: Justice or Favours in High Places?”
Lucius Malfoy, once again cleared of all charges relating to his involvement in the First Wizarding War, following Friday’s closed-door Wizengamot session. The official statement: “There is insufficient evidence to override his previously accepted defence.”
I gave a humourless laugh under my breath and shoved my eggs around my plate.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Of course, he walks free. Same defence, same money, same connections.”
“It was always going to happen,” Theodore said, quiet and stiff. “He knows how to protect himself.”
Harry shot him a look.
“You mean buy protection.”
Blaise finally spoke.
“Does it matter?” he said flatly. “He got what he wanted. That’s all that counts, isn’t it?”
I glanced back at Malfoy. He hadn’t stopped smirking since he sat down. He was basking in something. We didn’t have to wait long to find out what.
He stood, smoothed his robes like he was preparing for a stage entrance, and sauntered over to our side of the table. His expression was practically glowing with glee.
“Morning, Spotlight,” he said sweetly. “Did you sleep well? My father did.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed.
“Yeah? I suppose you’ll have to celebrate not going to prison over Christmas.”
Draco tilted his head.
“Better than spending twelve years in one. Isn’t that what your precious godfather did?” He grinned wider. “Must be fun, having family reunions with someone who breaks out of Azkaban. I bet you play tag with the Dementors at holidays.”
“Malfoy,” I said, voice low, “go fuck yourself.”
His smirk faltered for a half second—just enough to see the flicker of surprise—but he recovered quickly, gave a mocking little bow, and returned to his friends. Harry exhaled like he was forcing down the urge to throw a plate after him. I sat back, tense, teeth grinding.
“I’m not surprised”, I gritted out. “Not really. But it still makes me sick.”
“It’s just one more thing they get away with,” Harry replied.
Blaise turned the Prophet page silently. Theodore didn’t look up again.
And across the room, Draco laughed like the world was exactly as it should be.
When we walked into the classroom for tutoring that evening, Snape was already at his desk, quill in hand, parchment half-filled with his tidy script. He didn’t look up right away, just said,
“Shut the door.”
I did, and Harry and I moved to stand before his desk. Snape glanced at us once before setting down his quill and steepling his fingers.
“Well?” he said. “Have you made any progress on the egg, or am I to assume Potter has been lounging about while Weasley does all the thinking?”
Harry didn’t rise to the bait. He took the folded parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Snape.
“I used the prefects’ bathroom like you suggested,” he said. “And Ron was right. It’s Mermish.”
Snape raised a brow at me—just a fraction—but said nothing as he unfolded the paper and read.
I watched him closely as his eyes moved down the page. His expression didn’t change much, but I saw the tiniest tightening of his mouth when he reached the end.
When he finished, he looked up.
“It gives a vague enough warning to be thoroughly unhelpful to most.” His gaze flicked to me again, something like reluctant approval flashing behind his eyes. “And your interpretation of the task?”
“We think it’ll take place in the lake,” I said. “Harry’ll have to find something important to him and bring it back. There’ll be a time limit and probably creatures to fend off.”
Snape didn’t disagree.
“And your plan?” he said, arching a brow at Harry.
I stepped forward and handed over the list we’d worked on. It was written neatly—well, Hermione had helped me with the formatting—and everything was clear and concise. Snape read it silently while I explained.
“We compiled the list to cover all the necessities: breathing underwater, resisting the cold, moving quickly, seeing at the bottom, and defending against whatever’s down there. We already found out about the Bubble-Head Charm and Ascendio. We’re revising the jinxes and training on the weekends. But for the harder spells—like Bubble-Head—we were hoping you’d help. If not, we’ll go to Flitwick.”
Snape’s eyes snapped up at that. He didn’t look pleased.
“I am more than capable of instructing you in charms,” he said dryly. “You’ll learn the Bubble-Head Charm from me.”
I nodded quickly. That was a win.
He scanned the rest again.
“Pepperup potion does not offer sustained insulation against cold water. It would be foolish to rely on it. I will show you a more reliable warming charm, and I will expect you to practice it until you can cast it wordlessly.”
Harry grimaced but nodded.
“As for underwater casting,” Snape went on, “it requires more precision. Many spells are weakened or distorted. We will discuss the mechanics next session.” He set the list down. “This is... thorough. Keep up this level of preparation.”
I felt myself straighten a little at that. Praise from Snape was rare. Even if it was worded like a reluctant truce.
“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, sounding a bit surprised.
Snape waved him off.
“Don’t thank me yet. We begin with the Bubble-Head Charm tonight. Wands out.”
We obeyed instantly.
And I grinned to myself as I raised my wand. This was going well. Better than well. Harry was going to be ready. Whatever the lake held, he’d be prepared for it.
Later that evening, I was digging through my trunk for a clean pair of pyjamas—one that didn’t have suspicious potion stains or a loose hem—when I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Malfoy had a special sort of tread, like he was born convinced the floor should thank him for the honour of being stepped on.
I grabbed a navy-blue set and stood just as he stopped beside my bed.
Crabbe and Goyle were both on Crabbe’s mattress, huddled over a Quidditch magazine like it held the secrets of the universe. They didn’t even look up. Typical.
Malfoy, though—he was grinning. Not like he’d just won something. Like he knew something. Something I didn’t. Fucking brat.
“Enjoy your tutoring?” he asked casually, his voice light, harmless, fake as sin.
I didn’t bother replying. I just raised an eyebrow and folded the top of my pyjamas neatly over the bottom. Let him flounder.
He stepped in a little closer, lowering his voice.
“Hope you’re not getting too attached to certain professors, Weasley,” he said, tone oily with delight. “Hogwarts staff turnover might be… surprising this year.”
My stomach tightened. I didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just kept folding. But I was listening now. Every nerve on edge.
He continued, drawing it out.
“Shame, really. Some of us will be heartbroken when certain mentors are taken away. But then again, some hearts are more fragile than others.”
I clenched my jaw slowly, deliberately, and met his eyes. Cold, grey, and so damn pleased with himself.
“Don’t worry,” he added with a shrug, backing away a half step. “You’ll understand soon enough. I’d say ‘prepare yourself,’ but watching you flail in confusion is half the fun.”
I didn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t have five sharp insults loaded and ready.
But because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing they landed. I wouldn’t let him see that creeping dread slithering through my ribs.
He gave me one last smirk and turned away, swaggering toward his bed like he’d just won a duel. Crabbe and Goyle didn’t even look up.
I sat on the edge of my mattress, staring at the pyjamas in my lap.
Something was happening.
Something I didn’t know.
And whatever it was—it had to do with Snape. And Malfoy bloody well knew it.
I’d find out. One way or another. I wasn’t going to sit back and let him enjoy watching me stumble. Not a chance.
Chapter 44: BOOK FOUR - THE YULE BALL
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY
THE YULE BALL
The Great Hall was louder than usual for a Christmas lunch. Most years, it was only a handful of students and staff, but today it looked like nearly everyone had decided to stay over the holidays. Laughter rolled over the tables in warm waves, and the scents of roast goose, glazed ham, and treacle tart floated thick in the air.
For once since the winter break began, no one turned into a canary because of the twins’ new experiment.
The twins looked vaguely disappointed.
I turned back to my plate, pushing some crumbs around pensively. Next to me was a pile of crackers I had put aside as I was debating what to do about my beloved Christmas tradition.
I glanced toward the staff table. There he was, Snape, seated once again next to Moody, and doing everything in his power to act like the man didn’t exist. He sat stiffly, head tilted away, eyes down, as if sheer force of will could make Moody disappear from existence.
I hated it. Hated seeing him like that, so tightly coiled, so wary. It felt wrong, like watching a hawk grounded in a cage full of dogs.
Surely a Christmas cracker would cheer him up, right?
I palmed one of the gold-trimmed crackers from the pile and slipped it into my satchel.
Harry looked over at me, saw the cracker, and then looked in Snape’s direction for a second. Then he looked back at me.
“If you ask in front of the whole school, he will poison you at the next opportunity.”
“Probably,” I muttered, already scanning the table again. “I wasn’t planning on it either way.”
When I saw Snape stand and sweep out of the Great Hall with his usual stormcloud flair, I stood too.
“Be right back.”
Harry didn’t ask. He just nodded and kept eating.
I slipped out into the Entrance Hall, quieter now with the main doors shut against the snow outside. Just in time to catch the last swirl of black robes as Snape turned the corner toward the dungeons. I jogged to catch up.
“Sir!”
He stopped and turned sharply, robes whispering around him like they disapproved of being touched by air. His eyes landed on me, then on the cracker I held up with a grin.
Snape’s expression blanked.
“Weasley,” he said coolly. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Probably,” I said, still grinning. “But come on. Tradition.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced back toward the still-bustling Hall, then to the corridor ahead. He sighed—long, weary, theatrical—and extended his hand without another word.
We each took one end.
BANG.
A satisfying pop of gold sparks and faint smoke, and two objects dropped, one in each hand that pulled the cracker.
For once, the gift went to Snape automatically: a small hourglass, no bigger than a Snitch, with an intricately wrought black metal frame and fine dark grey sand shifting slowly between the chambers. Slower than normal, like the grains were dragging.
The other object was a slip of paper. I unrolled it and read aloud:
“‘ They say time heals all wounds… but it’s rubbish without a good alibi ’” I tilted my head to the side, intrigued and a little perplexed.
Usually, the gifts we received were quite self-explanatory. This one seemed nebulous to me. I glanced at Snape’s face.
He was still staring at the hourglass in his palm. His face hadn’t moved, but I saw something flicker behind his eyes. His fingers closed around the little thing—not tightly, but like he was anchoring it to himself.
“Strange,” he said finally, voice very soft. “These crackers… they always do give such disturbingly appropriate items.”
“Bit on the nose, innit?” I said. “Not exactly cheerful.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not cheerful. But rarely inaccurate.”
I looked at him for a moment, feeling the silence stretch. He hadn’t moved to pocket the gift yet. Just watched the slow trickle of sand between the chambers.
“Do you need one?” I asked, curious. “An alibi, I mean.”
Snape didn’t react at first.
The hourglass kept turning in his fingers. Not consciously, I thought, but like his hands were working independently while his mind churned behind that unreadable mask.
Then, quietly:
“I already have one.” He turned the hourglass over again. “Several, in fact. But alibis mean little when the Ministry is looking for a trophy.”
I frowned. Was the Ministry task force getting interested in Snape already?
“So what, they just… want to catch someone? Doesn’t matter who?”
Snape’s mouth twisted, not quite a sneer, not quite a grimace.
“The truth has very little weight in a political crisis. They want a name. A scalp. The illusion of closure. And I…” He glanced down at the hourglass again, voice lowering further. “...am a convenient candidate.”
I hated how calmly he said it. Like it was already decided. If Lucius fucking Malfoy could get out of a second trial unscathed, then so could Snape.
“If you need a character reference, I’m ready to do it. And I’m sure that I’m far from being the only one. You’ve helped a lot of people these last few years.”
He didn’t react at first. Just stood there with the hourglass in one hand, the faint red-gold light of the corridor glinting off the sand as it sifted slowly into the lower chamber. Then, his shoulders lifted with a long, measured breath. Not a sigh, just the weight of something invisible shifting slightly.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said flatly.
But there was no venom behind it. No sneer. Just a hollow, reflexive dismissal. Like he hadn’t expected the offer and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
I didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at him.
His eyes flicked up, then away, then back again. He hesitated—a rare thing—and then gave the smallest of nods.
“I don’t want you involved,” he said, more firmly now. “Not in the papers. Not in whispers. But… the offer is noted.”
No smile. But his voice was low and not sharp. That was as close as he came to saying 'thanks.'
“Too late for that, don’t you think?”
A pause. Then—
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It probably is.”
The corridor stretched quietly again. Somewhere far off, the echoes of laughter and clinking goblets drifted from the Great Hall.
“Well,” I said, shifting awkwardly. “If you change your mind and want… anything. I’m available.”
That twitch again, barely perceptible. Then a nod.
“Happy Christmas, Weasley.”
“You too, Professor.”
I watched him go, the dark shape of him folding back into the shadows. Still upright. Still composed. But that hourglass was staying in his sleeve now. Carried with him.
I hoped that meant something.
Harry and I had done our best to look presentable in our dress robes, which mostly meant trying to flatten Harry’s hair with some water and wishful thinking. Predictably, it stuck up again within seconds, and Harry gave up with a sigh that sounded more resigned than tragic.
“You look fine,” I told him, adjusting the cuff of my robes.
Once again, I was grateful for Sirius’s guilt and his subsequent bribe. My robes were beautiful and fit me perfectly. I was sure that I wouldn’t bring shame to Slytherin, looking like this.
When Harry finally gave up on his hair, we headed down to the common room together, where the chaos of pre-Ball nerves was in full swing. People were trying to swap partners at the last minute, asking if their shoes matched, and casting Cleaning Charms that went slightly awry.
And then—as if summoned by the spirit of arrogance itself—in swept Draco Malfoy.
Black velvet.
Of course, he wore black velvet.
He looked like a Victorian sofa someone had tried to weaponise. And Pansy Parkinson was clinging to his arm like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. Her robes were a marshmallow pink and aggressively frilly, as if someone had murdered a cake.
Harry leaned toward me, muttering out of the corner of his mouth,
“That’s exactly what I pictured you in.”
I chortled.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead. It’s clearly not my colour.”
Harry just shook his head, grinning in that way that said, You’re ridiculous, but I’m used to it . Just how I liked the people I loved to react to what I said.
We left the common room in good spirits, heading to the Entrance Hall where our dates were supposed to meet us.
Ginny and Luna were already waiting.
Ginny was standing beside Harry, looking around with arms folded. Luna… Luna had gone full Luna.
She was wearing a deep green dress that shimmered strangely under the torchlight, as if it were made of pine needles—not literally, but close. Little jingle bells hung from her ears and wrists, and she wore a holly crown like some kind of forest queen.
I blinked, half-surprised, half-not.
“You went all out tonight,” I said, stopping in front of her. “Like your style.”
Luna tilted her head at me, eyes dreamy as ever.
“Thank you, Ron,” she said, very pleased but in that quiet Luna way, like the compliment would echo around in her for a while.
Standing next to her, I felt suddenly underdressed. Not in a bad way—I didn’t mind fading into the background if it meant she got the spotlight. She could handle it better, anyway.
Harry, meanwhile, had just finished giving Ginny a compliment so awkward it might’ve tripped and fallen on its face. Ginny smiled like she appreciated the effort anyway.
I glanced at her robes and had to suppress a wince. The colour was somewhere between pink, green and despair, and the ruffles… Merlin. Did Mum choose them? If so, Ginny was probably going to renounce her mother.
I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“Have you two seen Hermione?” I asked, more to change the subject than anything.
Before either of them could answer, the front doors creaked open.
The Durmstrang students stepped in, all boots and furs and swagger. Karkaroff swept in behind them like a stage magician entering his final act. And at the centre of it all, there she was, Hermione, on Krum’s arm.
For a second, my breath caught. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her like that before. Confident. Composed. Beautiful. They really did look good together.
“Handsome pair, don’t you think?” I said, watching as they moved toward the Hall.
“Very,” said Luna, nodding dreamily.
“Yeah,” Ginny agreed with a small smile.
Harry nodded, too, though I could tell he was mostly just trying to keep up. Just then, McGonagall appeared at the foot of the staircase and called out,
“Champions to me, please!”
Harry gave me a helpless sort of look, and Ginny nudged him forward with a teasing grin. I gave him a mock salute as he walked off and then turned to Luna.
“Shall we?”
We followed the crowd pouring into the Great Hall, which was transformed beyond anything I’d ever seen. The ceiling glittered with icicle-like chandeliers, and a hundred soft orbs of enchanted light floated in the air. The house tables were gone, replaced with smaller, round ones covered in silver cloth and set with polished cutlery. Everything looked expensive and magical.
We found our assigned seats; Blaise and his date, a girl from Beauxbatons with perfectly coiled black hair, were already seated. Theodore was there too, looking a bit less like he wanted to crawl into a hole than usual, chatting quietly with Tracey Davis. Luna and I sat down with them, and for once, Malfoy and his goons had the good sense not to join us. I spotted them off to the side with a cluster of Ravenclaws, probably preening about who had the highest exam marks or who had inherited the most family vaults.
Then the music paused, and the entire Hall turned toward the staircase. The procession began.
First came Krum and Hermione.
It was strange, seeing her like that—not because I didn’t think she could clean up, but because she just looked… radiant. She and Krum matched perfectly: calm, steady, and surprisingly graceful. He kept glancing down at her like he couldn’t believe his luck, which made me feel oddly proud of her.
Then came Fleur and Roger Davies, both of them practically glowing. Cedric and Cho followed next—picture-perfect, as usual—and then Harry, looking only slightly like he was walking into his own execution, with Ginny on his arm, cool as you please.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling relaxed for the first time all evening.
“Thank Merlin, that’s not me,” I muttered.
Luna nodded serenely.
“You would’ve looked lovely under the scrutiny, Ronald.”
“Rather not test the theory,” I replied, reaching for the platter in front of me once the procession ended.
I went for the seafood: scallops, prawns, some buttery white fish I didn’t recognise but instantly adored. Every bite was divine. I must’ve looked like I was at a five-star restaurant instead of a school function because Luna tilted her head and said,
“You look very pleased with your choices.”
“I am. This fish might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Dinner passed faster than I expected. At some point, the food vanished, and Dumbledore stood to make a short speech—barely a toast—before asking everyone to stand.
As soon as we got to our feet, the tables zoomed to the edges of the room with a swish of magic, clearing space in the centre. Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The Weird Sisters marched onto the stage.
Absolute chaos followed. Screams. Applause. Someone actually whooped.
The band didn’t waste time. The first notes of the waltz began. It was formal, structured, and elegant, a sharp contrast to their usual style. But this was a Ball, after all.
I didn’t care about the music, though. I only had eyes for Harry, standing across the room with Ginny. My stomach was a mess of second-hand nerves. After weeks of practice, I just hoped he didn’t step on her feet or walk in the wrong direction.
Somewhere nearby, I caught the sound of Malfoy snickering with his cronies. I ignored it. He could say what he wanted. He didn’t get to train with Snape breathing down his neck like we did.
Harry and Ginny stepped out onto the floor.
They looked good.
Really good.
I watched closely every pivot, every gliding step. Harry was concentrating like he was defusing a bomb, but he wasn’t panicking. He was focused. In control. Ginny flowed right along with him, graceful and light on her feet.
I felt a swell of pride, like I’d passed an exam I didn’t know I’d been studying for.
When more couples were invited to join, I turned to Luna.
“Care for a spin?”
She took my hand without hesitation, her smile gentle.
“I’d be delighted.”
She was the easiest person I’d ever danced with, which worked out great because I wasn’t the most coordinated partner. But with Luna, it didn’t matter. She moved like a leaf on the wind. I just had to steer and not trip over my own feet gently, and it felt like I was guiding a cloud.
I didn’t even mind the crowd. No one was watching me. They were watching the champions, or someone in fancier robes, or people who looked like they belonged at a proper Ball. Which meant I could relax and enjoy myself.
When the music faded out, Luna and I drifted to the edge of the dance floor where Harry and Ginny were already waiting.
“Brilliant,” I said, clapping Harry on the back. “You didn’t trip once.”
Harry gave me a crooked grin.
“We looked alright?”
“You looked perfectly fine,” Luna said serenely, clasping her hands together.
Harry let out a visible breath of relief. Ginny and I exchanged a knowing look and chuckled.
We headed off together to get some butterbeer—warm and spiced tonight—and sat down at one of the small tables that had been pushed around the perimeter. We chatted for a bit, mainly about the music, the decorations, and which professors were dancing (Flitwick and Sprout were surprisingly adorable).
After the next song ended, a familiar voice joined our group. Hermione.
Her cheeks were pink from dancing, and her hair was a little frizzier now, curls rebelling against the earlier Sleekeazy’s. She looked happy. And honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her like that.
“Krum’s getting us drinks,” she explained, catching her breath as she plopped down in the seat beside me.
I smiled.
“You look great tonight. And that dance was impressive. You two make a pretty handsome pair.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up slightly, a pleased flush deepening the pink on her cheeks.
“Thank you, Ron.”
I nudged her lightly.
“Come on then, what’s the gossip? Is he a good dance partner? Is he as serious off the pitch as he looks on it?”
She laughed, actually laughed, and it made me grin.
“He’s polite. Thoughtful. Quiet, but not boring,” she said, glancing toward the drinks table. “And yes, very good at dancing. We’ve been practising a little.”
I nodded, content. It sounded like he was treating her well. Good thing, because I didn’t fancy getting rid of a body while wearing my brand new robes.
“Sounds like a nice evening. I’ve been raving about the food all night. But honestly, watching Harry dance without falling on his face might be the real highlight. Especially since Ginny’s so short. Must’ve felt weird for him to lead someone smaller, for once.”
Hermione giggled behind her hand, and I counted it a win. Just then, Krum returned, two drinks in hand. Hermione introduced us.
“Ron, this is Viktor. Viktor, Ron.”
We shook hands, firmly and politely. He didn’t glare or anything, just gave me a single nod. Not a bad bloke.
Before I could say anything else, Luna appeared beside me.
“I like this one,” she said dreamily, referring to the next song. “Would you dance again?”
I stood immediately.
“Of course,” I replied before giving a quick smile to the others. “Back soon.”
And with that, I followed Luna back to the dance floor, the world fading away into music and motion and soft jingle bells.
I never knew a single night could burn through so many steps.
After that first dance with Luna, the rest of the evening blurred into a swirl of partners and music: Hermione, then Ginny twice (she insisted on spinning me until I nearly toppled over), and even Harry when one of the Weird Sisters launched into a fast reel. We careened about like drunk hippogriffs, laughing our heads off.
Right on cue, the twins swooped in and taught everyone their newest “signature” moves. (Fred calls it the Whiz-Bang; George insists it’s the Splat-Turn. Either way, you ended up flailing your arms and dropping to a knee like you’re dodging Bludgers. Ridiculous, but the Hall ate it up.)
Eventually, my social battery sputtered out. I glanced round for Luna; she’d commandeered Harry for a jaunty quick-step, and the two of them looked hilariously mismatched in height but perfectly in sync.
Good hands, I decided. That meant I could slip away without guilt.
I went out of the Great Hall, then out of the Entrance Hall.
The night air slapped me awake the moment I stepped through the side doors. Frost glittered across the rose garden paths, and tiny fairy-lights—flickering blues and silvers—floated between bare branches. Couples dotted the carved stone benches, murmuring under cloaks. I kept to the winding walks, breathing in cold air that smelled faintly of pine tar from the temporary torches.
I was almost relaxed when a pair of voices drifted toward me from the next bend.
Pleasantly familiar baritone, silky and precise.
Snape.
Then a sharper, breathier accent—Karkaroff, sounding like someone had grabbed his collar and whispered “Azkaban.”
Instinct took over. I lifted my wand and murmured the incantation for the Disillusionment Charm. Cool magic slid over my skin, colours washing out until I blended with hedge and shadow. Snape had said my Disillusionment was “on point now.” Time to test the verdict.
I edged closer.
“—telling you, Severus, they’re reviewing every file,” Karkaroff hissed. “Old acquittals, war-pardon lists… They want another conviction to parade before the election.”
Snape’s reply was low but iron-hard.
“Panic will not improve your odds, Igor. Nor will cornering me at a school function.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” Footsteps crunched over frost. “The Ministry needs a scapegoat, and we are convenient names on a short list. I suggest you reacquaint yourself with composure.”
They turned the corner—straight past my hiding spot. I pressed myself into a rosebush, thorns snagging my sleeves. Snape’s wand was out, tip glowing faintly blue as though tracking residual magic.
He slowed.
Karkaroff kept talking, oblivious.
“You… you will speak for me, won’t you? We made the same plea—”
Snape halted barely a yard from where I blended into the foliage. He didn’t look around, but some inner compass told him I was there. Maybe it was the crunch of my boots, maybe my breath fogging. Maybe he just knew.
“Our discussion is finished,” he said curtly.
Karkaroff hesitated, then slunk off toward the castle, cloak flapping like a wounded bat.
The moment his footsteps faded, Snape flicked his wand sideways.
“Finite.”
The Disillusionment shattered—colour rushed back into my vision, and there I was, fingers still tangled in a frost-silvered branch.
I gave a sheepish grin.
“Whoops. Evening, Professor.”
One eyebrow climbed.
“Your charm held longer than last time. Unfortunately, stealth counts for little if you forget to silence your breathing.”
I huffed a laugh, stepping out and brushing pine needles off my robes.
“Habit of being alive, sir.”
He pocketed his wand, gaze flicking briefly to the fairy lights overhead—then back to me.
“You heard more than you should.”
“I—well—yes.” No point denying it. “Not eavesdropping for gossip, promise. Just… wandering.”
A faint, sardonic tilt of his mouth.
“Strolls require less covert camouflage.”
Fair.
Silence stretched, broken only by distant music drifting from the Great Hall. Snape’s hand rested inside his sleeve, where I knew the miniature hourglass lived. The same unease Karkaroff had voiced was there in the tension of his shoulders, only buried deeper.
I cleared my throat.
“Offer still stands, you know. Character reference. Alibi. Whatever you need.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, more in assessment. After a moment, he inclined his head, the barest concession.
“Go back inside, Mr Weasley. Enjoy what remains of your evening.”
I nodded, turning to leave, then paused.
“For what it’s worth… You shouldn’t be the Ministry’s trophy. And you won’t be if I have anything to say about it.”
A soft snort—almost humour.
“Your confidence is… noted. Try not to impale yourself on rose thorns on the way out.”
I grinned and retraced my steps, warmth blooming in my chest despite the cold night. Behind me, I heard the faint swish of Snape’s cloak as he resumed his solitary patrol of the garden.
The Weird Sisters struck up a faster tune as I re-entered the Hall, and Luna waved me over with a jingling wrist. Social battery recharged or not, I found myself smiling all the way back to the dance floor.
The Weird Sisters had been playing nonstop for what felt like hours, but eventually, the lights dimmed slightly, the tempo slowed, and one of the singers stepped up to the enchanted microphone stand.
“This one’s for the dreamers,” he said, voice echoing gently across the Hall, “and for the last chance you’ll get tonight.”
The music began—soft, low strings and a pulsing, steady beat like a heartbeat under velvet. The crowd shifted, narrowing, as couples paired off again. I found Luna already waiting, her bells chiming faintly as she tilted her head toward the floor.
“Shall we?” I asked, offering my hand.
“We shall,” she said, utterly sincere.
We stepped out together.
She was warm against me, light as ever, and followed my lead with the effortless trust only Luna could give. It was easy to move with her. Easier than thinking.
But of course, I thought anyway.
My mind wandered, sliding uninvited back to the rose garden. To Snape’s voice. His wand. The shadows under his eyes. The way he stood so still when no one was looking, as if motion would make him fall apart.
I didn’t mean to drift into imagining—but the song’s lyrics were soft and aching, about time and secrets and holding on when the world tries to pull you under. And suddenly…
I was imagining something else entirely.
A different sort of dance.
Snape in dress robes—not theatrical ones like Malfoy’s, but something dark and sharp and tailored just so. Fine fabric brushing against my cheek, his hand resting on mine, calm and steady. His voice low, amused, saying something barbed and clever just for me, and I firing back with something equally ridiculous. And him… not walking away.
Not tonight.
I shook my head slightly, just enough to scatter the thought.
No, stop. That’s not fair.
Not to Luna, whose hair brushed my collar every time she turned. Who said yes to coming with me, who was here, right now, glowing in her holly crown.
So I focused on her. On the steady rise and fall of her breath, the way she smiled up at me like I was the only one in the room. I led her through the final turns of the song, let the music carry us across the floor until the last chord faded.
The lights brightened. Students clapped. Shoes scraped on the stone as people began to shuffle toward the doors.
Outside in the Entrance Hall, I turned to Luna, the tired hum of the night settling in my bones.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I said sincerely. “I had a good time.”
“So did I,” she said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I liked the fish. And the dancing.”
I smiled and kissed her cheek very lightly. She beamed.
Harry caught up with me then, Ginny and Hermione on his heels. We said our goodbyes, voices low and warm in the echoing space, all of us tired but not quite ready to call it a night.
Then we parted ways, Harry and I descending into the quiet of the dungeons.
Our dormitory was blissfully empty when we got in. Everyone else was still lingering, changing, or sneaking off for one last smuggled drink.
I changed into pyjamas, crawled under the covers, and for once, didn’t start my mental exercises.
Didn’t try to clear my thoughts.
Instead, I let them take me back.
To the sound of that song. To that imagined warmth. To long fingers around mine, a biting comment followed by a rare, reluctant smirk. I let myself picture what it would have been like. For a moment longer.
Just a little longer.
Sleep crept up slowly, thick and quiet.
And then…
Something.
I didn’t remember the dream. Not really. Just a feeling—like I was supposed to hold on to something, but it slipped through my fingers before I could see what it was.
I woke with a damp pillow, a cold face, and no clue why.
My chest ached strangely. Hollow and full at once.
I flipped the pillow to the dry side, pressed my cheek to it, and closed my eyes again.
Sleep came slower this time.
But eventually, it came.
Notes:
I’m currently writing the chapters about the war and I don’t know if I should kill some characters to make the war realistic. It’s so hard! I want everyone to have their happy ending.
I need advice, if some of you have an opinion on the subject.
Chapter 45: BOOK FOUR - MISERY LOVES COMPANY
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MISERY LOVES COMPANY
I stared at the parchment where we’d ticked off every spell on Harry’s second–task checklist:
– Bubble-Head Charm (can cast in < 3 s)
– Ascension Charm (45-second lift from lakebed to surface)
– Grindylow-Detaching Jinx (works on target dummy)
– Cold-Resistance Warming Rune (Hermione’s mittens + my embroidery—surprisingly effective)
All neat little checkmarks, all meaningless until we tried them where they mattered: underwater.
Harry slumped over the Library table, cheek flattened against Advanced Defensive Potions.
“We could skip the rehearsal,” he mumbled. “Only need to be miserable once.”
Hermione made a scandalised noise.
“That is exactly how champions drown.”
“Cheers for the optimism,” he muttered.
I rolled my quill between my fingers.
“Look, mate, I’ll go in with you. If I can manage these spells without sprouting gills by accident, you’ll be fine.”
He peered up.
“You’d volunteer to freeze your bits off for me?”
“Only the important bits,” I said, deadpan. Hermione didn’t even look up—just flicked my ear with a Transfiguration worksheet.
Eventually, Harry caved, which left the grown-up hurdle: Snape.
We went to him as soon as our decision was made; Hermione and I were worried that Harry would change his mind otherwise.
The smell of asphodel and frostbite greeted us as we stepped inside the Potion classroom. Snape barely glanced up from a cauldron, sending green steam in lazy spirals.
“What now?”
Harry shot me a you-asked-to-come look. I cleared my throat.
“We want permission to practise the Bubble-Head, Ascension, and anti-Grindylow jinxes in the lake. Real conditions, sir.”
Snape set down his stirrer with a soft clink.
“Date?”
“The sooner, the better,” Hermione said. “Every other afternoon until the task, if possible.”
His eyes narrowed.
Before he could start tearing the idea apart, I spoke up.
“I’ll be doing the underwater training with him,” I said. “For moral support. So he’s not on his own every time.”
That earned me a sharper glance, more searching than sceptical.
“You,” Snape said slowly, “are voluntarily subjecting yourself to icy submersion, wandwork under magical pressure, and potential exposure to lake fauna… for Potter’s morale ?”
“Well, someone has to make sure he doesn’t forget which end of the wand does the spells. Plus, he’d be even more annoying if he had to go through it alone.”
Snape didn’t smile, obviously. But something flickered across his face—just for a second. Not exactly approval, nor mockery either. Thoughtful, maybe. Or… resigned admiration? If such a thing existed in his emotional vocabulary.
“You are either very loyal,” he said at last, “or very foolish.”
I shrugged.
“Can’t I be both?”
He stared a second longer. Then:
“You will follow my conditions or not at all.”
We all nodded at once. He raised a long finger and counted them off:
“One— Two students submerged at all times, one observer on shore with a wand trained on you. Two— You remain inside a twenty-metre radius. I will ward that sector against Merfolk, Grindylows, and the squid. Three— Maximum dive: thirty minutes per session. No heroics. And lastly— Directly from water to the infirmary for Pepper-Up and vitals. Argue, and Madam Pomfrey will ban you herself.”
He paused, gaze pausing on each of us.
“If I find out you ignored a single instruction, I will personally ensure your new year begins with a fortnight’s detention copying Theories of Maritime Hexes. ”
We all dutifully agreed to his terms.
Snape’s lip twitched—approval, annoyance, I never could tell.
“Very well. Training starts tomorrow at four.”
He turned back to his cauldron. Dismissed.
We retreated before he changed his mind.
The sky was grey, the wind sharp, and the Black Lake looked about as inviting as a basin of melted ice cubes. Harry and I stood at the shore in our swimming trunks, arms crossed, both of us trying to pretend we weren’t freezing already.
“Warming charm?” I said, teeth clenched.
“Definitely,” Harry replied.
We cast them in sync.
A blessed wave of warmth rushed across my skin, chasing the goosebumps back for now. It wouldn’t last—Hermione had already warned us the charm would lose strength gradually, and that part of her role today was timing it.
Speaking of: Hermione stood nearby with a large sand timer, a clipboard, and an extremely professional-looking cloak that made her resemble a mildly disgruntled Ministry intern.
“Alright,” she said briskly, “I’ll be logging the duration of your warming charms and the Bubble-Head Charms separately. I’ve got the towels ready. Don’t be heroes. If your hands start to shake or your magic wobbles, out .”
We both nodded and cast again.
Two perfect Bubble-Head Charms sealed around our faces. The first spell of the session—clean, crisp casting. Not bad.
We waded in together, bubbles shimmering as they hit the waterline, and slipped beneath the surface.
The world changed instantly.
Muted colours. Cold pressure on our limbs. The lake filtered light strangely, but even here near the surface, it was enough to see each other clearly. I drew my wand and cast Lumos Maxima —a wide, diffused glow spilt outward in a bubble around me.
Harry cast Protego and let me fire a slow Impedimenta his way. The shield shimmered, caught it, and fizzled. He returned the favour, and I deflected it with a grin.
It wasn’t duelling, not really. It was a slow and careful rehearsal—muscle memory, reaction time, and clarity. Underwater made everything harder. The resistance slowed down your limbs and messed with your aim. And the warmth that had seemed fine on land was already starting to bleed away from my fingers.
We took breaks every ten minutes, kicking toward the shallows and recasting both the Bubble-Head and Warming charms while Hermione, perched on a levitated stone slab she conjured, marked everything down.
We rotated spells— Lumos Solem for a sharper beam, Relashio at mock targets (mostly underwater weeds and stones), and Protego in varying directions. No Ascendio yet—we weren’t deep enough, and Snape’s rules were firm.
By the end of the half-hour, my hands were tingling, and I couldn’t quite feel my toes, but I hadn’t misfired once, and Harry’s Bubble-Head Charm had lasted a full twelve minutes on the second go. Not bad for a first run.
We emerged from the water with pruney fingers and aching arms.
Hermione met us at the edge with towels that felt like heaven. Thick, charmed dry, and warm enough to make me believe in miracles.
“You stayed in the charmed zone the whole time,” she said, satisfied. “No signs of spell instability until the last five minutes. That was good.”
“Good-ish,” Harry said, shivering under his towel. “Remind me again why we’re not just practising with a bucket inside the castle?”
“Because you don’t fit in buckets,” Hermione replied, already writing.
When we arrived in the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey was waiting with three Pepper-Up potions lined up like shots at a very unfun pub.
“Well?” she said, looking over us like we’d brought in frostbite as a souvenir.
“No injuries,” I offered, climbing onto one of the exam beds. “Just a bit damp.”
She scowled.
“This tournament is a danger disguised as sport. And you—” she jabbed a finger at Harry, who tried not to flinch—“should be training with safety officials, not classmates.”
“Professor Snape gave us rules,” Hermione offered helpfully. “We’re following them.”
Pomfrey muttered darkly under her breath but waved her wand over each of us, checking for signs of hypothermia, magical strain, and frost exposure. When she got to me, her brows relaxed slightly.
“You’re all clear,” she said. “But I want you back here after every session. Every. One.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we chorused.
She handed us the Pepper-Up—steam poured from our ears instantly—and ushered us out with a final grumble about overgrown squid and Dumbledore’s “romantic nonsense.”
Back in the corridor, still slightly steaming and wrapped in layers again, I felt lighter. Tired but proud.
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked Harry.
He grimaced but nodded.
“Yeah. Might even stop dreading it eventually.”
Hermione gave him a dry look.
“I’ll mark that as progress.”
Snape didn’t look up when we entered the tutoring room, but I could tell he’d been waiting. The air already smelled like scorched parchment and potion smoke, and the desk was cleared—no essays, no cauldrons. That meant tonight wasn’t going to be gentle.
He held out a hand, palm up.
Harry passed him the clipboard Hermione had made, filled top to bottom with neatly labelled timings and recast intervals from our lake training earlier. It even had a few underlined notes in red—things like “bubble-head decayed at 11:34” and “warming charm failed on Ron’s left foot, not right.”
Snape read it without a single blink.
At the end, he gave the faintest of nods.
“Efficient. Sensible. Competent work. Shocking.”
“Compliment noted,” I muttered.
He ignored that.
“It seems,” he said instead, “that your lake training is adequately covered by your trio’s… unusually cohesive collaboration. Therefore, these sessions will now move on.”
He stepped around the desk, robes trailing behind him like heavy smoke.
“To nonverbal casting.”
Harry straightened. I felt my stomach do a small, uneasy flutter.
Snape continued, voice low and steady.
“It is not merely difficult. It is unforgiving. You are used to spellwork where shouting covers your uncertainty. That crutch will not help you here.”
He turned, wand sliding fluidly into his hand. He didn’t even gesture—just looked at a candle across the room, and it snuffed out with a sharp pop of air.
“To cast silently is to direct the full force of your will toward a magical effect with no verbal anchor,” he said. “You will fail. Often. That is expected. But failure must be precise.”
He flicked his wand at the chalkboard. One word wrote itself in large, sharp letters:
DISCIPLINE.
“Let’s begin,” he said coldly. “The Bubble-Head Charm. No incantation. No muttering. Focus only.”
I swallowed and readied my wand.
No words. Only intent.
We tried. And tried again. And again.
Harry, to his credit, didn’t explode anything. But his instincts were all wrong—his wrist jerked too hard, and his mouth kept twitching like he wanted to shout. Every time he got close to conjuring the bubble, it fizzled into mist.
I wasn’t perfect either, but I was better.
Maybe it was because I’d been doing mental clearing exercises every night. Or perhaps because I didn’t rely on noise to make my magic obey. I felt it better in silence. Like it had more room to breathe.
On my seventh attempt, something clicked. The bubble shimmered into existence around my head—wobbly and thin, sure, but it held.
Snape’s eyes flicked to me.
“Acceptable.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Harry scowled beside me, trying not to look annoyed.
Snape moved through the room like a storm bottled just under the surface. He corrected our posture, our breathing, and our grip. His usual simmering disdain was there, but it was… distracted tonight.
Off.
I watched him as Harry attempted another cast, but it failed again. Snape’s gaze didn’t linger. He was staring somewhere past the chalkboard, jaw tight, wand clenched just a fraction harder than usual.
It wasn’t his usual irritation. It was tension. Something more brittle.
The last time I’d seen him like this was when Moody was in the same room.
And now… I was starting to piece it together.
Snape’s cryptic comments. His caution. The bitterness in his voice when talking about the Ministry’s “need for closure.” The hushed talk with Karkaroff in the rose garden. Moody watching Snape like he was holding an ax behind his back.
Snape was being hunted.
Not in a literal, cloak-and-dagger way—yet—but something was circling closer. Fudge’s task force. The whispers about past allegiances. The need for scapegoats.
I stared at the professor as he moved behind Harry, correcting his stance. He was pretending like this lesson was ordinary. Like nothing else was pressing on his mind.
But I could see it.
The truth of it sat like lead under my ribs.
I hoped the Ministry would keep it quiet. That it would all stay behind closed doors. Because the idea of Snape being dragged into some public witch-hunt—after everything he’d done to keep people alive—twisted something ugly in my gut.
“Try again,” Snape said to Harry.
Harry sighed, raised his wand, and focused.
The glow of the Bubble-Head Charm flickered… and held. Thin and brief, but there.
Snape nodded once.
“Progress.”
The session continued. Slowly. Intensely.
And I couldn’t help but think, as we practised casting in silence, how much weight Snape must be carrying in his own.
And there was nothing I could do to shoulder some of it for him.
One morning, Hermione called us over to the Gryffindor table. She looked upset, so we went immediately. Harry and I had barely sat down across from Hermione when she slid the Daily Prophet toward us, already folded to the article in question. I saw the headline and felt my stomach drop.
DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent to the Daily Prophet”
Hermione’s mouth was set in a tight line. Her knuckles were white around her teacup.
Harry grabbed the paper, eyes skimming in fast jerks.
“She’s going after Hagrid now?” he muttered, voice rising. “Of course she is.”
I leaned in, reading over his shoulder. Each line was worse than the last. Half-giant. Bloodthirsty giants. Injured students. Skrewts. Malfoy’s stupid quote. And then the cherry on top: dragging Lupin and Moody into it too.
“This marks yet another questionable hiring decision by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, who, in recent years, has entrusted students to the supervision of: A known werewolf ( Remus Lupin, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts during Harry Potter’s third year), the infamous ex-Auror Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, whose paranoia and instability are common knowledge at the Ministry, and now, a half-giant with a penchant for illegal breeding experiments.”
As if this wasn’t enough, she then dragged Harry, reminding everyone that he was an attention-seeking boy who was friends with both Hagrid and Lupin. She wanted to portray Harry in the worst possible light. It all sounded like a big conspiracy involving the entire Hogwarts staff.
“Sources at the Ministry suggest that internal reviews of Hogwarts staff qualifications may soon be on the horizon. And many parents are left asking:
How many more secrets is Hogwarts hiding?
My ears went hot.
“She makes it sound like Hogwarts is one bad day away from imploding,” I said.
Hermione’s lips pressed together so hard they disappeared.
“She’s twisting facts again. That’s what she does. Malfoy probably offered that quote just to stir it worse.”
“No, but—” I shook my head. “No, I mean, how did she find out he’s half-giant? That’s not exactly written on his staff file. Someone must’ve told her. Dumbledore wouldn’t, and McGonagall definitely wouldn’t. And Snape would rather swallow flobberworms than help her.”
“So what are you saying?”
I stared down at the paper again, and I felt suddenly sick.
“She must’ve been here. Over break. On the grounds.”
Harry blinked.
“You think she snuck into Hogwarts over Christmas?”
“Yeah.” My stomach twisted. “And I didn’t check. I caught her in Hogsmeade! I should’ve checked for her.”
Hermione reached across the table, resting a hand over mine.
“Ron. It’s not your job to monitor school security. That’s the staff’s responsibility. And they didn’t find her either.”
“I still feel like I should’ve done something,” I muttered. “She was probably right under our noses. Again.”
Harry set the paper down as if it were something dirty.
“I don’t care how she found out. What’s important is that Hagrid’s going to see this.”
Hermione looked down, silent for a moment.
“He probably already has.”
We sat there for a while, the smell of breakfast turning sour in the air.
The Hall buzzed with chatter, but I kept glancing at the staff table, half-expecting to see Hagrid stomping in, red-eyed and miserable. But his seat was empty.
And somehow, that made it worse.
For the next two days, we tried to speak with Hagrid. In vain.
And that’s when things turned even more to shit.
The Great Hall was too quiet.
Harry and I stepped in, still half-blinking sleep from our eyes, but something in the air snapped us fully awake. Not a single clang of cutlery. No laughter. No owls swooping in for dramatic effect. Just the low scrape of paper and the occasional sharp whisper.
My gut twisted instantly.
“Something’s wrong,” Harry muttered.
We exchanged a glance. Another article? It had only been two days since the one on Hagrid—Skeeter couldn’t possibly—
We made our way to the Slytherin table, where our usual seats across from Theodore and Blaise were still open. Neither of them greeted us. Both were hunched over their copies of the Daily Prophet, forgotten toast cooling beside them. Blaise’s eyes were wide. Theodore looked like someone had hit him with a jelly-legs jinx, and he hadn’t recovered.
Harry sat down first. I dropped beside him and leaned in.
“What is it?” I asked quietly.
Theo didn’t answer right away. He just held up the Prophet, folded neatly to the front page. His hand was oddly still.
The headline was impossible to miss:
Former Death Eater Teaching Your Children? The Alarming Truth About Professor Snape
All the blood drained from my face.
My eyes snapped up toward the head table.
Snape was there. Motionless.
And the whispers were starting.
Theodore finally lowered the paper, face unreadable, and silently passed it across the table. Harry and I leaned in together, scanning the headline again just to make sure we’d seen it right the first time.
Former Death Eater Teaching Your Children? The Alarming Truth About Professor Snape
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent to the Daily Prophet
Two days ago, this reporter uncovered the shocking truth that Hogwarts’ beloved half-giant groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, is not only not a qualified professor but also a half-giant with a fondness for breeding dangerous, illegal creatures. Today, The Daily Prophet brings to light an even more troubling revelation:
Severus Snape, current Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House, was once a known Death Eater.
Yes, readers—you read that correctly.
Despite his position within one of the most prestigious wizarding schools in the world, Severus Snape was previously aligned with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. While details remain murky—due, no doubt, to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s continued interference in Ministry investigations—multiple sources within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirm that Snape stood trial after the war.
He was, curiously, released without charge after what one official described as “a private defence from Dumbledore himself.”
But what could Dumbledore have said to convince the Wizengamot to absolve a known servant of You-Know-Who?
And, more importantly, why was it necessary at all?
Some parents and educational experts are beginning to ask difficult but necessary questions: Why is a former Death Eater allowed unfettered access to impressionable children? Why are students sorted into Snape’s house being taught and mentored by someone with a history of serving the darkest wizard of our age? What exactly is being taught in the Potions classroom… and who is watching?
This marks yet another in a growing list of disturbing choices made by Albus Dumbledore—whose increasingly erratic leadership includes: Hiring a werewolf, allowing a half-giant to teach children about highly dangerous magical beasts, bringing in the infamous Mad-Eye Moody to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts and continuing to show inexplicable favouritism toward Harry Potter, whose attention-seeking behaviour seems to align closely with several of these controversial figures
The Daily Prophet has reached out to the Board of Governors for comment, and several sources now whisper that there are discussions about “leadership succession” at Hogwarts.
“Dumbledore was once a great man,” said one unnamed Ministry official, “but he is not the man he used to be. Hogwarts needs leadership that is firm, rational, and not sentimental about former war criminals.”
Is it time for a younger, clearer-headed Headmaster? Someone who puts safety before personal loyalty?
One thing is clear— with every new revelation, the illusion of safety at Hogwarts continues to unravel.
When I finished reading, I set the paper down slowly. My hands felt cold. Not from shock, exactly—more like clarity. The kind that hit you after a long-standing suspicion was finally confirmed, and you realised you weren’t crazy for thinking things were off.
Harry said nothing, jaw tight, knuckles white against the table edge. Around us, the whispers had gotten louder. Students shot furtive looks up at the staff table—some whispering behind napkins, some bold enough to just stare.
Snape hadn’t moved. Still, as if cast in stone.
Then came the sound I’d been waiting for.
Footsteps.
Draco Malfoy, of course.
He slid in with a leisurely air like he was doing us the favour of arriving. His smirk was already in place before he opened his mouth.
“Well,” he drawled, “I’d ask if you’re surprised, but I did warn you, didn’t I?”
My eyes flicked to him. He wasn’t gloating exactly—not in the usual petty way. No, this was different. This was the boy who’d enjoyed watching the spider reach the centre of the web just to see what would happen next.
“You remember,” he said smoothly, voice low and meant just for me. “That little chat we had? About certain mentors? About how fragile hearts can be?”
I didn’t reply.
He tilted his head, pretending to study me.
“You should’ve taken my advice, Weasley. Could’ve spared yourself the emotional fallout. But I admit—I am curious.” His grin sharpened. “What now? Are you going to deny it? Rage? Feel betrayed? Or maybe—” he leaned in slightly, “—just collapse under the weight of all that disillusionment?”
Still, I said nothing. No outburst. No shouted defence. No collapsing.
I just glared at him. Hard and steady.
And for once, that seemed to throw him.
His expression faltered—not much, but enough. His smirk twitched. His eyes narrowed like he’d expected a better reaction, like he was disappointed.
I kept my tone flat.
“What do you want from me right now, Malfoy?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. No clever follow-up. No parting jab.
Just a faint frown as he turned and walked away—back to his side of the table, back to Crabbe and Goyle, who were too busy whispering about the article to notice the drama unfolding three feet away.
I glanced at the staff table again. Snape still hadn’t moved.
On my right, Harry hadn’t said a word since we read the article.
He was still staring at the last line, jaw tight, shoulders stiff like he was physically holding something in. I’d seen that look on him before—once right after screaming at me because of Scabbers last year, and once after reading Skeeter’s first story about Hagrid. It wasn’t rage, exactly. It was frustration —pure, coiled tension with nowhere to go.
Across from us, Blaise broke the silence first.
“Well,” he said slowly, “that’s going to wake up the Ministry.”
Theodore made a quiet noise of agreement.
“It’s clever. Tactically. First Hagrid, then this. She’s building a case. Like she’s laying out exhibits before a trial.”
Harry finally looked up, his eyes hard.
“She makes it sound like he’s still one of them.”
“Of course she does,” Blaise said coolly. “That’s the entire game. Cast doubt, make it stick. Doesn’t matter what’s true.”
Theo leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
“Snape’s past wasn’t exactly a well-kept secret in some circles. My father always said the Headmaster vouched for him personally. But that doesn’t mean the public won’t eat it alive now that it’s in print.”
Harry’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. I could tell he was still fighting himself. Skeeter had handed the public a narrative wrapped in shiny paper: evil ex-Death Eater still in power, enabled by Dumbledore, close to Harry Potter.
And now, Harry had to live inside that headline.
Theo spoke again, his tone carefully measured.
“Do you believe it?”
“Of course I believe it,” Harry snapped, then ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not stupid. But that’s not the point. The point is—it’s not who he is now. And none of them care about that, do they?”
There was a brief silence. Then Theodore glanced my way and said, almost as an afterthought,
“You’ve been quiet.”
I looked up from the paper, meeting his gaze.
“I’ve already had this conversation,” I said. “Just not with you.”
That made all three of them pause.
“Meaning?” Blaise asked, one eyebrow raised.
Theo tilted his head, curious now.
“You knew.”
It wasn’t a question. Harry turned toward me fully.
“Wait—Ron, you knew ?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I could already see it—the line forming in Harry’s mind, between loyalty and secrecy, and which side I’d just fallen on.
I forced a shrug, aiming for casual, but I probably just looked like I’d swallowed something wrong.
“It depends on what you think I knew,” I said vaguely.
Harry’s frustration sharpened into anger. I might’ve taken the wrong approach. But what was I supposed to do? Lie? I couldn’t bring myself to do that, and yet I couldn’t tell him everything either. So what was left? Try to sidestep the explosion, I suppose.
“Don’t play dumb, Ron,” he snapped. “Not now. What did you know?”
“What does it change whether I knew something or not?”
“Ron, just spit it out, or I swear I’ll—”
He cut himself off. Jaw clenched. Hands pressed flat to the table like he was holding himself together through sheer will. That made my stomach twist.
What the hell could I say? If I told him everything, I risked making him feel betrayed—again. If I lied, I’d actually be betraying him. Neither option looked good.
So I exhaled slowly. Better to stick with the truth, at least the careful version of it.
“I didn’t have real confirmation that the task force was after Snape. Malfoy gave me some cryptic warning a while back, and I overheard a few conversations between staff. That’s it.”
I didn’t mention which staff member I overheard. No need to tell him I had some confirmation from Snape himself.
“I didn’t have proof,” I added, quieter now. “I wasn’t sure enough to say anything. And even if I had been sure, it wasn’t about me. It’s Snape’s business. Not mine to share. It’s serious—too serious to be treated like gossip.”
Harry didn’t answer right away.
He leaned back, let out a long breath through his nose, and rubbed at his temples in slow, practised circles. I knew that gesture well—he only did that when he was trying not to explode.
“I’m always the last to know,” he muttered, not really at me.
I stayed silent. What could I say?
“But I get it,” he added after a beat, his voice lower now. “I overreacted last time. With Scabbers. I just—” His hands clenched briefly. “It’s hard. Knowing other people are deciding what you can or can’t handle.”
“Harry,” I said gently, “this isn’t about you.”
He looked at me, wounded and defensive.
“I’m in the article.”
“No. Skeeter put you in the article. That’s different. She used your name to grab headlines, not because you have anything to do with what’s going on. I didn’t keep this from you because I thought you couldn’t handle it. I kept it because I didn’t think it was mine to talk about. And no offence, but from Snape’s perspective? You’re still just a student. Same as the rest of us.”
That landed. Slowly, Harry nodded—still tense but less brittle now. Like he heard it. Maybe not happy about it, but hearing it all the same.
“It’s like with Lupin,” he said at last. “I get it.”
I let myself breathe again.
Then, of course, Theodore opened his mouth.
“I can’t help but notice,” he said with infuriating calm, “that you only admitted to knowing about the investigation. But you haven’t said a word about the crime he’s being investigated for.”
I could strangle him.
Harry and Blaise both turned toward me, waiting. Theodore just looked at me with that smug, curious expression like he was sure he’d caught me in something.
I met his gaze evenly.
“Like you said, Nott—Snape’s past isn’t a well-kept secret in certain circles.”
He scoffed.
“As if you would be allowed in those circles.”
“We’re not talking about the same ones,” I said coolly. “You get your information from one side. I get mine from the opposite .”
That shut him up exactly as intended. He sniffed, took his copy of the Prophet back, and turned back to his eggs like we didn’t exist.
Blaise hid a grin behind his goblet of pumpkin juice, barely containing his amusement.
“I’m not sure I understand what those circles even are,” Harry muttered. Then he paused. “Actually… I think I do. And I kind of wish I didn’t.”
I poured myself some tea, keeping my expression bland.
“Anything to say, Nott?”
“Jeez, Weasley,” Theodore muttered. “I’m sorry. Drop it already.”
I shrugged and stirred in the sugar.
Harry looked between us again, like he still had a dozen questions but didn’t know which one to ask first.
We both ignored him.
Notes:
Most people agree that some characters must die in the final battles. So Mote It Be. I feel like I'll cry a lot while writing that.
Chapter 46: BOOK FOUR - RUMOUR MILLS
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
RUMOUR MILLS
The classroom was colder than usual.
Not in temperature—Snape had never let a draft linger in his teaching spaces—but in presence. The silence as Harry and I entered was so tight it felt like one wrong word might snap it.
Snape didn’t look up immediately. He was standing at the front table, aligning a stack of spare practice wands like they were potion ingredients. Precise. Quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed with purpose.
I glanced sideways at Harry. He didn’t speak, but I could feel his tension in the way he moved—measured, careful. Like this wasn’t just a tutoring session anymore. Like it was a test.
Snape finally turned to us, and his eyes lingered—just for a beat—on each of us. Not cold, exactly. But weighing. As if he were taking stock of the fact that we’d shown up at all.
“Bubble-Head Charm,” he said, without preamble. “Nonverbally. Begin.”
No mention of the article. No reference to anything outside the classroom.
Which, coming from Snape, was the reference.
We got to work. The room filled with the rustle of cloaks, the soft shuffle of boots on stone, and the occasional frustrated sigh from Harry.
He was still struggling—his casting came with too much tension, too much internal noise. His bubble formed in fits and starts, then collapsed inward like a deflating balloon.
I, on the other hand, was finally getting somewhere. My bubble emerged cleaner this time—stronger, more stable. It didn’t fizzle like before. It held.
Snape glanced at it, then gave the faintest nod.
“Better.”
That was high praise, by his standards. I felt a flicker of pride, muted by the weight in the room but still warm.
We worked in silence for a while, repeating the charm, refining it. Snape only spoke to correct our form or tell Harry to stop biting his tongue when concentrating. I don’t think any of us wanted to be the first to break the spell of avoidance, but the silence started to feel… unnatural.
Eventually, I couldn’t help it.
“Sir,” I said quietly, after Harry’s bubble dissolved again, “is it alright if we practice everyday spells outside tutoring? Things like light, shielding, maybe Disarming? Or would you prefer we only train here, under supervision?”
Snape didn’t answer immediately. He studied me for a moment. Not suspiciously, just… closely.
“If your grasp is stable and your partner competent,” he said at last, “then yes. Practising simple nonverbal spells outside this space is acceptable as long as you do not exceed your current skill level. Magic cast without control is more dangerous than magic not cast at all.”
I nodded.
“Understood.”
We returned to practice, but the tension in the air hadn’t really gone anywhere. If anything, it had just folded inward, tighter.
Eventually, I felt the creeping ache start to press behind my eyes—a dull, foggy weight just above my eyebrows. A familiar sign.
“I’ve got a headache coming on,” I murmured, glancing at Harry. “Time to call it?”
Harry nodded. He looked tired, too. Focused, but drawn.
We started gathering our things, and just as Snape turned back toward his desk, Harry spoke up.
Quiet, but not tentative.
“Sir.”
Snape stopped, hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. He didn’t turn, not yet.
Harry swallowed.
“The article. The investigation. Are you… Alright?”
Silence.
Not angry. Not even sharp. Just… heavy.
Snape slowly turned to face us. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes gave away the depth beneath the surface—tight with calculation, fatigue, and something quieter. Something like… endurance.
“I am,” he said carefully, “neither surprised nor disarmed by public memory. The truth rarely matters as much as the story people want to believe.”
Harry didn’t look away.
“We believe you’re on our side.”
Snape’s gaze flicked briefly between us. He said nothing for a long beat.
Then, quietly:
“I did not expect either of you tonight.”
I met his eyes.
“Then you weren’t paying close enough attention.”
Something— something —shifted in his expression. Not soft, not open. But… slightly less guarded.
“Go,” he said. “Before you both lose the capacity to string coherent thoughts together.”
We didn’t argue. We packed our things and left.
But as I stepped out into the corridor, my headache still buzzing low in my skull, I couldn’t help but glance back once, just in time to see Snape’s hand rest for a second on the back of the chair I’d been sitting in.
Like he was grounding himself.
Or maybe just… steadying.
The Three Broomsticks was loud, overfull, and smelled like warm butterbeer and wet cloaks. The usual. But when we made our way to the back, we found the quiet little room Sirius had saved for us again—same as last time, tucked behind a charm-warped panel and warded to keep nosy ears out.
He grinned the moment we stepped in, tousled as ever, wearing a black cloak he clearly thought made him inconspicuous (it didn’t), and holding up three tankards like a prize.
“Look who I had to bribe for a quiet corner,” he said, setting them down. “Sit. Drink. Talk.”
We did, and for a few minutes, it was easy. Normal, almost.
Then Sirius leaned back, studying Harry with that half-concerned, half-proud squint of his.
“Alright. How’s the Tournament? Second task’s creeping up.”
“Training’s fine,” Harry said with a shrug. “We’ve covered everything that might come up. We’ve tested spells in the lake. Nothing’s exploded.”
“High praise,” I muttered.
Hermione smirked. Sirius didn’t. He was still watching Harry too closely.
“You’re sure you’re ready?”
“I will be,” Harry said. Short. Measured. His tone made it obvious he hadn’t come here to talk about Bubble-Heads or Grindylows.
Sirius caught on quickly.
“Alright, then. Out with it.”
Harry folded his arms.
“You knew about Karkaroff.”
Sirius blinked once.
“I did.”
“And Snape?” Harry pressed. “Did you know he was a Death Eater?”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not long.
“Yes,” Sirius said finally. “I knew.”
Hermione inhaled sharply. I repressed a sigh. I already knew where this was going.
Sirius looked down at his tankard, then back at Harry.
“It’s… complicated. During the war, he was one of them. That part’s true. But when it ended—when things were at their worst—Dumbledore vouched for him. Swore he’d switched sides. And not just switched— worked for our side. The Order.”
“The Order?” Harry asked, brow furrowed.
“The Order of the Phoenix,” Sirius said, voice quieter now. “We were a group Dumbledore put together to fight Voldemort during the first war. Underground. Off the books. Risky as hell. Your parents were part of it. As was Remus and… Well.”
Harry looked away for a second, jaw working like he was chewing something bitter.
“So you knew. And you didn’t tell me.”
“There was no reason to,” Sirius said, not defensive—just blunt. “Not if Dumbledore was right. Not if Snape really had changed. He wasn’t a threat to you. He was… unpleasant, sure. But not dangerous. Not like that.”
Harry didn’t speak right away. He didn’t look angry. Just tired.
“I would’ve liked to know,” he said finally. Quiet. “That’s all.”
Sirius nodded.
“Fair. I get that.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Truth is, lately I’ve started thinking maybe Dumbledore was right. I mean, if Snape really is helping you with the tasks… risking exposure, giving you real training… that doesn’t sound like someone waiting to stab you in the back.”
Harry didn’t argue. Which, coming from him, was basically agreement.
Then his eyes slid over to me.
“And you? How’d you figure it out?”
I took a slow sip of butterbeer.
“My uncles were in the Order.”
That landed.
Hermione blinked.
“You—oh.”
Harry frowned slightly.
“Is that what you meant the other day? When you said your ‘circles’ were different from Theo’s?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Different branches. Same tree.”
Sirius smiled faintly.
“Fabian and Gideon,” he said, with a quiet sort of warmth. “Two of the bravest people I’ve ever known. Never saw them without a plan—or a prank.”
My throat tightened, just a little.
“Yeah.”
“They died fighting,” he added, looking at me. “You should know that.”
“I do,” I said. “Mum never talks about it, but… Moody was the one who told her. Came to the Burrow the night after.”
Hermione’s face softened.
“Is that why Snape always looks like he wants to hex Moody’s face off? Because Moody was in the Order? And hunted Death Eaters?”
Sirius gave a low hum.
“They were never friends, that’s for sure. Moody never trusted him. Still doesn’t, if I’m being honest.”
Harry’s eyes were distant again, focused on the condensation sliding down his tankard.
“No one trusts anyone. Except Dumbledore.”
“And that’s why this whole thing’s hanging by threads,” Sirius said grimly. “Because if one more thread snaps, the whole damn castle starts unravelling.”
After a few more moments of silence, Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching until it creaked under him.
“Look,” he said finally, his tone more measured now. “You can trust Snape with the training. He clearly knows what he’s doing. And if Dumbledore says he’s on our side… well, he’s been right before.”
Harry looked at him, brows furrowed.
“But?”
“But,” Sirius echoed, lifting a finger, “don’t trust blindly. I’m not saying be paranoid. I’m saying keep your eyes open. That’s not just about Snape. That’s about everyone. Me included.”
He looked at all three of us.
“Dumbledore has started asking members of the Order to be ready. In case Snape needs public support.”
“Support?” Hermione asked.
“Testimony,” Sirius clarified. “Character witnesses. Legal statements, if it comes to that. Dumbledore’s preparing for a trial. Even if we all hope it doesn’t get that far.”
“And you’d testify for Snape?” Harry asked, surprised.
Sirius nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I would.”
I blinked. That… I hadn’t expected to hear.
“If Dumbledore’s backing him, and Snape’s backing you—then yeah. I’d stand up in front of the Ministry and say he’s worth trusting. I’m not exactly their favourite person these days, but if it helps him avoid Azkaban… then I’ll say what I need to.”
He glanced sideways, almost like he didn’t want to make eye contact when he added,
“I guess I owe him that much, don’t I? If it weren’t for Snape handing Pettigrew over, I’d still be in Azkaban. So if I can help him avoid it now… well. Fair’s fair. ”
There was something grudging in his tone, but not bitter. It wasn’t easy for Sirius to admit things like that. I knew it cost him. But he was saying it anyway. And weirdly enough, I respected him more for it.
I nodded slowly, watching him.
“Maturity looks good on you, Black.”
Sirius snorted, but his smile was small and real.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” I said.
But I kind of hoped I would.
By our tenth lake session, things were starting to click.
The water still felt like knives—less so, thanks to our warming charms—but at least now we moved through it like swimmers instead of flailing, half-panicked kneazles. Harry and I both managed to keep our Bubble-Head Charms intact for the full thirty minutes without needing to recast. A minor miracle.
Our jinxes hit faster, harder. Relashio fizzed from our wands like underwater fireworks. Lumos Solem blasted pockets of murk into clear, glimmering beams. Protego held against most of our mock hexes, and Harry had finally learned to angle his shield without blinding himself.
I was proud of us. Honestly.
And then Harry’s watch—secured around his wrist with a waterproof charm—let out a muffled ping-ping-ping.
Time’s up.
We broke the surface together, coughing and blinking water from our eyes. The cold air slapped us the moment our heads were entirely above water.
“Merlin,” I wheezed, “tell me we’ve earned tea after this.”
Harry spat out a bit of lake water.
“If Hermione didn’t drink all of it while we were dying heroically, maybe.”
We kicked toward the shallows, but the moment we reached the shore, I saw that we weren’t alone.
Hermione was standing there with a towel bundle in her arms, but beside her, towering slightly, was none other than Fleur Delacour.
She looked far too elegant for someone standing next to a freezing lake. Long silver-blonde hair pulled back in a twist, pale blue cloak wrapped tightly around her. Eyes narrowed just slightly as she watched us haul ourselves out like drowned puffskeins.
Well, this was going to be fun.
As soon as Harry and I reached the shore, Fleur stepped forward, arms folded.
“You are training,” she said, as if stating a fact she already had all the answers to. Her accent was sharp, but her tone was sharper. “In ze lake. Like Viktor.”
Harry and I exchanged a glance as Hermione passed us towels.
“Yeah, we’re training,” Harry said carefully, rubbing water from his eyes. “For the Tournament.”
Fleur tilted her head.
“For ze next task?”
Neither of us answered right away. Fleur’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“I saw Viktor two days ago. He was in ze water too. And now you. I think—” she looked at Harry, “—that you know what ze next task is. Or what it involves.”
“I don’t know the full task,” Harry said, not lying technically. “We’re just preparing for underwater magic. In case.”
Fleur scoffed softly.
“It is about ze egg, then.”
I shook out my hair, still not quite looking at her.
“That’s up to interpretation, isn’t it?”
She didn’t take the bait. Just stared at us like we were poorly behaving first-years.
“You ‘ave an advantage,” she said finally, voice cooler now. “You ‘ave a school full of professors who want you to win.”
“Hardly,” Harry said, almost laughing. “Have you met Snape?”
That earned a blink from Fleur. Not quite amusement, but the edge of surprise.
Hermione, bless her, stepped in.
“We’re only doing what we’re allowed. We got permission. We’re not cheating.”
Fleur didn’t respond right away. She just stared at Harry again.
Then she turned, cloak flaring behind her.
“Fine. But we shall see who is really prepared, no?”
And just like that, she left, frost in her footsteps.
Harry let out a long breath.
“Well,” I muttered, “that wasn’t terrifying at all.”
“She’s right, you know,” Hermione said quietly. “About the others catching on. If Viktor and Fleur both saw you here…”
“I know,” Harry said. “But I’m not going to stop training just because it makes me look prepared.”
“Good,” I said, wringing out my towel. “Because we’re finally not drowning.”
We dried off quickly and headed back toward the castle, cold but sharp with that strange mix of nerves and adrenaline that came from being just a little too close to your competition. We went directly to the infirmary as per our deal. Madam Pomfrey gave us the all-clear—again—with her usual mix of huffs and mutters about “bloody tournaments” and “children freezing their lungs for sport.” A pepper-up potion each, a few diagnostic charms, and we were free to go.
I was still steaming slightly from the ears as we made our way through the corridor toward the kitchen. We had decided to try to bribe Hagrid and persuade him to stop being a recluse. We were halfway to the kitchens when a familiar voice called out behind us.
“Harry!”
We turned. Cedric Diggory jogged to catch up, looking friendly but focused.
“Hey,” Harry said, blinking.
Cedric nodded at him, then at both of us.
“Mind if I ask something?”
“Sure,” Harry said cautiously.
Cedric slowed to walk beside us, lowering his voice a little.
“I saw Krum in the lake yesterday. And I’ve seen you three coming back from the lake since Christmas, more than once. And just now, I saw you talking to Fleur.”
I could already feel the tension building in Harry’s shoulders. Cedric wasn’t smiling anymore.
“That’s not a coincidence,” Cedric continued. “You’re not swimming for fun. It’s the second task, isn’t it? The lake.”
Harry hesitated.
Hermione cleared her throat lightly.
“We’re training for possibilities. That’s all.”
Cedric gave her a polite glance, but his eyes went back to Harry.
“Come on. We’re all in the same tournament. I’m not asking for your secrets—I just want to know if I’m barking up the right tree.”
He sounded less confrontational than Fleur, but not less serious. There was something behind his words—not accusation, not quite—but something sharp. Awareness, maybe. Pressure.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m not saying anything for sure. But… yeah. You’re not wrong to look at the lake.”
Cedric gave a slow nod.
“Right. Thanks.”
He didn’t look angry, just a little resigned. Like he’d already suspected it, and just wanted confirmation before he doubled down on his training.
Then he gave Harry a tired smile.
“Bit annoying, isn’t it? Everyone keeping secrets. Makes it hard to know if you’re behind.”
“You’re not behind,” Harry said. “If you’re thinking about the lake, you’re already ahead of half the school.”
Cedric’s grin returned faintly.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He nodded to us again and walked off down the corridor.
We stood in silence for a moment.
“Well,” Hermione muttered, “we’re not exactly under the radar anymore, are we?”
I sighed.
“The lake’s the worst-kept secret since the troll in the dungeon. I think that’s the last champion who hadn’t noticed we’ve been sneaking into the lake.”
“No,” Hermione said, adjusting her bag. “He noticed a while ago. He just wanted it confirmed.”
Harry didn’t say anything, just exhaled and started walking.
We fell into step beside him, toward the kitchens. The plan had already been set earlier that morning— if Hagrid were outside today, if he hadn’t locked himself away entirely, we’d come bearing something warm and sugary and hard to ignore.
Hermione had promised treacle tarts, and Harry had sworn that a pile of Honeydukes’ fudge left over from the last Hogsmeade trip was a guaranteed mood-lifter. I had my doubts, but we all agreed that if anything could lure Hagrid out of a funk, it was tea and sweets delivered to his doorstep.
“We should’ve done this sooner,” Hermione murmured as we passed the fruit bowl portrait and tickled the pear.
“I tried yesterday,” Harry said. “He didn’t answer the door.”
“Same two days ago,” I added. “I think he’s been avoiding everyone.”
“Well, not today,” Hermione said firmly as the portrait swung open.
The house-elves were more than happy to help, bustling to assemble a little parcel of warm tarts, sweet scones, and a generous hunk of pumpkin cake.
Ten minutes later, we were trudging across the frosted lawn with the bundled-up warmth of the kitchen’s best offerings tucked under Hermione’s arm like a peace treaty. The sun was pale and low, and the wind sharp enough to sting, but it didn’t slow us down.
“If he doesn’t come out for treacle tart,” I said as we rounded the hut, “we may need to bring a dragon.”
But we didn’t need a dragon.
Because this time, he wasn’t inside.
He was behind the hut, hunched over the paddock fence with his coat buttoned wrong and his head low, like he was hoping the frost would swallow him whole. Fang was lying beside him with his head resting on Hagrid’s boot, still as a statue. There was a chill in the air, and a worse one in the silence.
Hermione slowed first.
“Hagrid?”
He didn’t look at us.
“We brought you something,” she added gently, holding out a paper bag she’d charmed warm. “Treacle tarts. Fresh from the kitchens.”
Still nothing. No movement except the shift of his broad shoulders under that massive coat.
Harry stepped up beside her.
“We read the article.”
That, at least, got a flinch.
“I knew they’d come fer me eventually,” Hagrid said, still facing the paddock. His voice was rough. “I jus’ thought… I dunno. Thought I’d done enough, maybe. Thought people would know me by now.”
My throat tightened. I hated that he sounded like he was apologising for existing.
“They do know you,” Harry said. “The people who matter.”
“Not enough,” Hagrid muttered. “Not when they’re readin’ that tripe with their eggs. Half-giant. Dangerous. Bloody monster .”
“You’re not a monster,” Hermione said fiercely.
“They’re sayin’ I shouldn’t be around children,” Hagrid continued, like he hadn’t heard her. “Sayin’ I lied. Like I’m somethin’ filthy tha’ slithered in through the cracks.”
He finally turned to look at us then, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy. It hit me like a punch. Hagrid, who had survived dragons, spiders, and Grubbly-Plank’s judgment, looked broken.
And I couldn’t stop the twist in my chest.
Because I should’ve seen it coming.
She’d been on the grounds. Skeeter. During the break. I’d known she was dangerous; I’d caught her once already. And still, I hadn’t checked the edges. I hadn’t cast detection charms or thought to warn Hagrid or even look.
If I’d just been sharper—
“I’m sorry,” I said, and my voice came out tighter than I wanted it to.
They all looked at me.
“I should’ve spotted her,” I added. “Over break. I knew she might try something again. I should’ve done more.”
Hagrid gave a long blink.
“It ain’t your fault, Ron.”
I shrugged.
“Doesn’t stop me feeling it.”
We stood there in the cold for a moment, the silence wrapping around our shoulders like another layer of snow. Then Harry stepped forward, hands in his pockets, his voice steadier than I expected.
“She’s doing it on purpose. You. Snape. Next, it’ll be Moody or Dumbledore himself. She’s not just targeting people—she’s trying to dismantle the school.”
“I know,” Hagrid muttered. “Can feel it. Like the war’s comin’ back in pieces, and no one’s noticed but us.”
“We’ve noticed,” Hermione said quietly.
“We’re not going to let her win,” Harry added.
Hagrid let out a breath, shaky but real.
“Dumbledore says he ain’t sackin’ me. Says I’m safe. But that don’t stop the letters.”
He pulled something out of his coat pocket—an envelope, crumpled and smudged with dirt.
Hermione took it gently, glanced at it, and muttered something that sounded like a swear. Harry looked away, jaw clenched. I didn’t ask what it said. I could guess.
“You’re not alone, Hagrid,” I said. “Snape’s getting it too. Worse, maybe. But he’s still here. Still doing his job. And we’re still showing up.”
Hagrid gave me a long look.
“Snape, eh?”
I nodded.
“Never thought I’d see the day you lot stuck up for him.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck, “turns out he’s more than a glare and a bad attitude.”
“He’s trying,” Harry said. “Like you are. That’s more than anyone who writes for the Prophet can say.”
Fang thumped his tail once. The sound broke the moment just enough for Hermione to gently press the bag of tarts into Hagrid’s massive hand.
“You still belong here,” she said.
He sniffed, then gave a rough nod.
“I’ll be alright,” he said hoarsely. “Thanks fer comin’, you lot.”
“Anytime,” Harry said.
“Every time,” I added.
We left him there in the cold, not because we didn’t care, but because we knew sometimes the best kind of comfort is just showing up, then stepping back.
And as we made our way toward the castle, I glanced up at the towers silhouetted against the sky.
Skeeter wanted us scared. Divided.
But if she thought we’d scatter and run?
She’d picked the wrong school.
The classroom smelled faintly of lake water and wand smoke—an odd mix of damp stone and scorched energy that clung to the edges of our robes and skin after practice.
We’d been working nonverbally again, and I was making steady progress. At least with the Bubble-Head Charm. Mine now formed with almost no flicker of hesitation. Harry was catching up, too, though he still muttered under his breath when he thought Snape wasn’t listening.
Snape was always listening.
He watched us in that way he had—still, sharp-eyed, and silent unless we were doing something wrong. Or if we did something unexpectedly right.
Tonight, we packed up quietly, the low clatter of parchment and books the only sound for a long moment.
Harry straightened up, then looked across the room.
“Sir,” he said, “the Bubble-Head Charm’s holding better now. But I’ll need it for a full hour during the task.”
Snape raised a brow.
“Yes.”
“So far, we’ve only trained for thirty minutes at a time,” Harry continued. “Could we… extend the sessions? Maybe test it at forty-five or sixty? Just to see if we can hold the charm long enough under stress.”
Snape studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod.
“If you are confident in your endurance and Granger is timing your sessions accurately, then yes. You may increase it to one hour.”
Harry nodded quickly, relieved.
“But—” Snape’s voice cut through the air, quieter but sharper now, “you will adhere to the same boundaries. Always two in the water, one on shore. No deeper than the warded perimeter. No showmanship. No shortcuts.”
“We understand,” I said.
“We’ll follow the rules. Promise.”
Snape said nothing for a second longer, as if testing the weight of our sincerity, then turned back to the desk, his dismissal as wordless as always.
Harry slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Alright. Goodnight, sir.”
Snape didn’t reply, just gave the slightest inclination of his head—barely perceptible if you weren’t looking for it.
Harry started toward the door.
I hesitated.
Something pulled at me—concern and the weight of something unspoken. I couldn’t possibly leave without acknowledging what I read in yesterday’s edition of the Daily Prophet: A hearing, at the Ministry. Not a trial, thank Merlin, but still an official inquiry on Snape’s past.
I shifted my grip on my bag, the strap rough beneath my fingers.
Snape was already sitting, flipping through notes or pretending to. His posture didn’t shift when I turned slightly back toward him.
I cleared my throat.
“…Good luck on Friday, sir.”
That got a reaction.
He paused, just for a second. His fingers stopped moving. He didn’t look up.
Then, very slowly, he closed the folder he’d been reading and glanced over at me.
His expression didn’t give anything away—not anger, not thanks. But his eyes lingered. A beat longer than usual.
When he finally spoke, his voice was even. Low.
“Luck rarely influences the outcome of Ministry hearings.”
A pause.
“But… your sentiment is noted.”
He turned back to the folder.
I gave a nod he didn’t see and followed Harry out.
The door shut behind us with a soft click.
And even though he hadn’t said the words, I felt them anyway. Not loud. Not clear.
But real.
Notes:
Just so you know, all the deaths that happen in Chapter 100 are entirely your fault. You little masochists.
Chapter 47: BOOK FOUR - THE SECOND TASK
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE SECOND TASK
The following month passed in a strange rhythm—equal parts tension and routine. But for the first time in weeks, it felt like things were settling. At least on the surface.
Snape was cleared.
The hearing took place on a Friday, just as Skeeter had said, but the Prophet article that followed was shorter and quieter. Buried behind a cover story on cauldron thickness regulations. No apology. No retraction. Just a footnote: No charges pressed. Alibi confirmed. Case closed.
He never mentioned it during tutoring.
But when we walked in that Tuesday and he gave us our next nonverbal assignment without comment, I caught the faintest shift in his expression when we sat down—like he’d been holding tension somewhere in his chest and had finally exhaled.
We’d moved on to casting Relashio silently now. Much harder than the Bubble-Head Charm, since it needed a sharper emotional punch to work properly underwater. But Harry and I were getting the hang of it—slowly, with effort and a few minor burns on my end.
Our lake training sessions now stretched a full hour. That had become our new benchmark, and our Bubble-Head Charms lasted the whole time. We were casting them nonverbally now, and underwater, which felt like some kind of magical badge of honour every time we surfaced without choking.
On the weekends, we’d often spot Cedric or Fleur at the edge of the lake, training alone or with friends. None of us spoke about it openly, but there was a quiet acknowledgement now—we were all in the same race, clock ticking louder each day.
We saw Sirius again during the next Hogsmeade trip.
He’d saved the same private room in the Three Broomsticks and came with more information this time—some of it good, some not. Karkaroff was still rattled, but quiet. Crouch Jr. still hadn’t been caught, and the Ministry was looking more inept by the day.
That became clearer when, about a week before the second task, news broke: Crouch Sr. was finally being summoned for a public trial in March. The press leapt on it, and for once, they weren’t pointing fingers at Hogwarts.
It was almost funny. After weeks of smearing Hagrid and Snape, the Ministry had run out of skeletons in our staff closets. With Crouch Jr. still on the loose and no scapegoat left at the school, the public’s attention snapped back to where it belonged.
And the Ministry? They were back to square one.
“I don’t like it,” I muttered one evening, as we walked back from dinner.
“What?” Harry asked.
“They’re going to need a new distraction,” I said. “They always do. And if they don’t have one, they’ll make one.”
Hermione didn’t disagree.
Still, things felt… almost normal again. There were no new headlines. No cold glares in the corridors. No whispering corners when Snape walked by.
For now, we were back to lessons, tutoring, and the looming task ahead.
And honestly, that was enough.
The night before the second task, I was half-slumped on the common room sofa, rereading our session notes on underwater defence charms while Harry beat a chessboard into submission nearby. I wasn’t really absorbing anything—not with the clock ticking so loudly in my head—but the motion helped keep the nerves from spiralling.
I knew that from one moment to the next, Snape would collect me to be Harry’s “treasure”.
As if on cue, a prefect came in and scanned the room until his eyes landed on me.
“Weasley,” he said. “Professor Snape wants to see you. I’ll accompany you.”
There we go.
Harry sat up.
“Everything alright?”
“Dunno,” I said, standing and brushing off crumbs. “Guess I’ll find out.”
I left with the prefect. The walk to the Hospital Wing felt longer than usual. Not ominous—just quiet. But that uneasy buzz in my ribs only got louder the closer I got. Stage fright and all.
Once in front of the doors to the infirmary, the prefect left me without a word, visibly bored with the whole mission. When I pushed the door open, I discovered the very people I was expecting.
Hermione was already there, sitting up on one of the beds with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Cho Chang stood beside the next bed over, looking confused and nervous. A little girl was perched on the third cot, legs swinging. All of them looked like they’d been summoned without explanation, too.
And the rest of the room was packed.
The judges. The heads of House. Madam Pomfrey. And Ludo Bagman, looking out of place as usual in his ridiculous pinstriped robes, though he wasn’t smiling for once. He looked… serious. That wasn’t comforting.
The moment I stepped in, every head turned toward me.
“Ah, excellent,” Bagman said, clapping his hands once. “All four are here now.” He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “Right, then. I imagine you’re all wondering why you’ve been called. This concerns tomorrow’s task.”
Hermione tensed. Cho’s brows shot up. I just folded my arms and waited.
Bagman gave a bright, clearly rehearsed smile.
“You’ve been chosen as the champions’ treasures.”
“The what?” Cho asked, eyebrows high and cheeks pink.
“As in… the person each champion values most,” he explained, as if that made things less weird. “Each of you will be placed at the bottom of the lake tonight—under safe magical sedation—and guarded by wards until your champion retrieves you.”
I glanced at Hermione, who looked somewhere between furious and stunned.
“Now, I want to reassure you that the spells used are perfectly safe. Madam Pomfrey will be supervising every step of the process—your sedation, your placement in the lake, and your return. You’ll be asleep the whole time. You won’t feel a thing.”
Madam Pomfrey’s lips were a thin line, like she’d very much like to hex Bagman through the wall.
“And for the champions,” Bagman went on, “they will have exactly one hour to reach you, retrieve you, and return to the surface. They’ll be using their own magical solutions to manage underwater breathing, navigation, and defence. It’s a timed task, scored by judges based on skill, creativity, and success.”
Cho raised a hand, almost uncertainly.
“And if… if they don’t get to us in time?”
Bagman waved a hand quickly.
“That won’t happen. We’ve got charms in place to reverse the sleep enchantment the moment you breach the surface, and you’ll be monitored constantly. No risk at all.”
Hermione didn’t look convinced.
“What exactly are the spells being placed on us?”
That, at last, prompted Dumbledore to speak.
“The sleep charm is the core element,” he said, calm and clear. “It is layered with a set of protective enchantments. You will be kept insulated from the water’s temperature and pressure. A separate charm will maintain proper oxygenation. There will also be a proximity ward to deter any curious lake creatures, and a magical tether linked to staff monitors above the surface.”
Hermione looked more thoughtful now, her arms slowly uncrossing.
Dumbledore continued,
“If at any point something is detected—physical distress, magical instability, breach of a ward—the alert will sound, and retrieval protocols will begin immediately. You will not be harmed.”
“And the sleep?” Cho asked. “It ends when…?”
“The moment you are exposed to open air,” Dumbledore said. “Not a second before. Not a second after.”
It was strange, really—hearing all this, knowing that I wasn’t going to do anything during the task. I was the thing being retrieved. A treasure. As if I were a prize and not someone who spent the last month preparing Harry to survive the bloody thing.
Still. It made sense. Krum would go for Hermione. Cedric would go for Cho. Fleur would go for her little sister.
And Harry—
Harry would come for me.
I wasn’t going to let him forget that I was considered his “treasure”. That was too good to let go.
Bagman clapped again, clearly relieved to be done explaining.
“Any other questions?”
None of us spoke.
“Excellent. Then Madam Pomfrey will begin her preparations. Then, Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape will place you under enchantment at midnight. Until then, you may rest here. Your Heads of House or professors are here for any concerns you might still have.”
He turned and began chatting quietly with Dumbledore, Rathbone and Karkaroff. Meanwhile, Madam Maxime went to Fleur’s poor little sister, who looked pretty scared about the whole ordeal. Flitwick came to Cho to whisper calm reassurances to her.
I sat down beside Hermione, who gave me a sideways look.
“Well,” she muttered, “I suppose we’re part of the spectacle now.”
I nodded faintly, staring at the far wall.
“We were already part of it. This just makes it official.”
Snape and McGonagall materialised next to us like summoned spectres—McGonagall looking composed but faintly disapproving of everything, and Snape with the same unreadable expression he wore in every staff meeting, funeral, or Tuesdays.
“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said gently, “Mr. Weasley. How are you holding up?”
Hermione straightened immediately.
“I’m fine, Professor. Just… frustrated by the lack of transparency beforehand.”
Snape quirked an eyebrow.
“If it had been explained ahead of time, Miss Granger, you would have researched every detail, composed a three-foot parchment of recommendations, and possibly threatened to sabotage the lake.”
Hermione frowned.
“I would have raised concerns .”
Snape nodded solemnly.
“Precisely.”
McGonagall held back a snort. I didn’t.
“Professor Snape,” McGonagall said sternly, though her mouth twitched.
Hermione didn’t seem entirely sure whether she’d just been insulted or praised. She settled for crossing her arms again and asking,
“Will our memories be intact immediately after the spell lifts? I’d like to know exactly how long I was unconscious.”
“Memory function will remain untouched,” Snape said smoothly. “The spell is stasis, not suppression. The enchantment ends with your contact with open air. You’ll wake with your timeline intact.”
She nodded, finally satisfied—for now.
Then Snape turned to me, arms folded.
“And you, Mr Weasley. Questions? Concerns?”
I nodded gravely.
“Yes. A few last wishes, actually.”
McGonagall blinked.
“Last—?”
“Right,” I said, lifting a finger. “First: if I happen to drown dramatically in front of the merpeople—”
“You won’t—” Hermione began, exasperated.
“—I’d like Slytherin to get at least ten points. For exceptional bravery through unconsciousness.”
Snape made a soft sound. Possibly a snort. Hard to tell.
“Second,” I continued, “I expect you to deny all emotional involvement, but please make sure it’s on record that you were the last person to touch me—strictly for legal clarity.”
McGonagall looked heavenward. Hermione looked like she wanted to hex me.
“Third: if I end up haunting the lake, I’d like a spot with a decent view. Maybe near the coral arch or the old shipwreck?”
Snape was definitely smirking now. I considered that a personal victory.
“And lastly,” I said, meeting his gaze, “I don’t think anything will go wrong. Because you’re the one handling it. So really, statistically, I’ll be the safest unconscious person underwater in centuries. Just figured I’d say all that now in case the sleep spell comes with memory loss.”
A pause.
Then Snape said, dry as ice,
“Touching.”
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Must you always—”
“ Always,” I confirmed solemnly.
Hermione made a noise like she was biting her tongue clean through.
Snape glanced at her, then at me.
“You’ll be fine, Weasley. You’ve been submerged in far worse things than water this year.”
I grinned.
“Including this conversation.”
That earned me a very small, very rare twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Worth it.
Even if I was about to spend the next ten hours as magically sedated lake decor.
The wait dragged.
Hermione, predictably, filled it with purpose—she was deep in conversation with McGonagall, discussing the finer points of magical material Transfiguration. Something about time-delay charms in textile shifting. I tuned them out about five seconds in.
Cho and her Head of House spoke in low tones, the little girl was now fast asleep under Madam Maxime’s cloak, and across the room, the judges had devolved into some kind of quiet argument—Bagman looked increasingly out of place.
I kept my eyes on Snape.
He hadn’t moved much since the briefing ended. He stood near the door, arms folded, expression blank. On anyone else, it would’ve read as bored. On him, I knew better. There was something tight in the set of his jaw. Like he was holding a thought back by clenching it behind his teeth.
I watched him a while longer, then said, mostly to the air:
“You look worried.”
His eyes flicked to me, one brow rising ever so slightly.
“I don’t worry,” he replied dryly. “I plan.”
“Well,” I said, shifting on the bed and pulling my knees up, “you’re planning with a very tense jaw, then.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure he’d respond. Then—
“Do you make a habit of psychologically profiling your professors before they put you under coma-grade enchantments?”
“Only the ones I trust with my unconscious body.”
That, oddly enough, got the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Barely a smile. More like the ghost of one.
I tilted my head.
“Are you actually worried? About it going wrong?”
Snape exhaled through his nose. Not a sigh. Just a release.
“There are unknowns,” he said finally. “The enchantments are stable, the wards are double-layered. But there is always a margin of error. Especially with live students and cold water.”
I watched him quietly.
“You know,” I said, more serious now, “if something does go wrong… I won’t blame you.”
He turned toward me fully then, arms still crossed, but eyes sharper now.
“Weasley—”
“I mean it,” I said. “You’ve done everything right. You’ve trained us, prepared us, watched us. You’ve made sure every charm’s been cast correctly, every angle thought of. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had. And if something happens down there, it won’t be because you made a mistake. It’ll just be… what it is.”
Snape’s lips pressed into a thinner line, and he looked away for a moment, back toward the dark window.
“You shouldn’t be the one trying to comfort anyone right now,” he said, voice low.
“Why not?” I replied. “I’m the only one in the room who won’t be awake to regret anything tomorrow.”
That made him pause.
“I mean,” I added, more gently, “if something does go wrong—and I don’t think it will—but if it does… I won’t be the one hurting. You will. Harry. Hermione. My parents. You’ll all be up here, alive and stuck with it. So yeah. I think I am the one who should be doing the comforting.”
Snape turned back to me fully then, and for once, he didn’t hide the expression that crossed his face.
He looked at me like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.
Something real.
“You are, without question, the strangest boy I’ve ever met.”
I shrugged. We didn’t say anything else after that. Just sat in the soft, growing silence, the minutes ticking down toward midnight. And I didn’t need to say it again, because I knew he’d heard me. All of it.
I woke up choking.
Cold. Sputtering. My whole body shaking as water forced itself from my lungs and into the open air. My ears were full of shouting, screams, cheers and waves crashing in my head. For a split second, I had no idea where I was.
Then I saw Harry’s soaked hair and foggy glasses and remembered.
The task.
I coughed hard, wheezed in a breath, then croaked,
“Is it too late to change my mind about being a hostage?”
Harry barked a disbelieving laugh—and swallowed a mouthful of water.
“Ron—bloody hell—” he gasped between coughs and splashes.
We swam the last few strokes toward the shore, arms aching, feet kicking through icy sludge. My limbs were slow and shivering, but I could tell Harry was buzzing with something close to triumph. He’d done it. He’d really done it.
I glanced around.
Only us.
No Cho. No Hermione. No Gabrielle.
Just Harry. And me.
And that’s when it hit me—he’d only saved me.
He hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t tried to be a hero to everyone. He’d made a call, and because of that, he was the first to breach the surface.
He won.
“Good job, mate,” I muttered, grinning through my chattering teeth. “Seriously.”
A few seconds later, the water broke again—Cedric, hauling Cho with him. They surfaced just as we reached the shallows. All four of us made it to the rocky bank, the noise from the stands swelling around us like thunder.
I slipped on a slick stone— of course I did —but Harry caught my elbow before I could go face-first into the mud.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
We were nearly there when I heard the splashing. Heavy, hurried steps through water.
Snape.
He was charging thighs-deep through the lake, cloak soaked to the legs, wand already out, eyes burning with a fury I couldn’t begin to name.
He didn’t ask questions. Just grabbed me under the arm and hauled both me and Harry toward the bank, spells bursting from his wand—drying charms, warming charms, stabilising runes—like he’d been waiting to cast them since the moment the task began.
“Keep your weight forward,” he snapped, though his voice was tight. “You’ll fall if—”
“Already tried that,” I muttered, teeth chattering.
We reached the bank just as Pomfrey rushed over with thick wool blankets. She wrapped me in one, then did the same to Harry, her lips pressed into a worried line. Flitwick and Sprout were ushering Cedric and Cho off to the side.
Behind us, more splashing. A cheer rippled through the crowd.
Krum and Hermione.
I was too busy not collapsing to turn and watch them properly. I was still too aware of Snape’s arm around my shoulders—firm, solid, grounding—and I couldn’t seem to think past it.
Then he let go.
Two doses of Pepper-Up were pressed into our hands. I downed mine in one go, cheeks burning—not from the steam curling out of my ears, but from the fact that Snape had handed it to me with that look he gets when he’s trying not to seem relieved.
I sniffled.
Snape narrowed his eyes.
“Pomfrey!”
She spun back around, instantly at our side. She checked our pulses, charmed our foreheads, and asked us both a dozen questions we barely registered.
“You’re both fine,” she said at last, a little begrudgingly. “You need dry clothes, a hot shower, and food. Then rest.”
Harry nodded. I just sneezed.
Another splash behind us, louder this time.
I looked up—Hermione and Krum, here at last.
McGonagall appeared as if summoned by the noise, striding toward them with her tartan cloak flying. Pomfrey followed in her wake.
That’s when the surface broke again.
Fleur.
And her sister.
Huh. Wasn’t expecting that. Good for them.
The judges were still at the table, talking in low tones and gesturing between parchments. None of them looked quite ready to hand out scores yet. Good—my brain needed a moment to catch up with my limbs.
I turned away from them and toward Hermione and Krum, who were trudging toward us, both bundled up like damp burritos in their wool blankets.
“You alright?” I asked Hermione as she reached us, her curls dripping, cheeks flushed.
“Freezing, but alive,” she said with a weak smile.
Krum grunted something vaguely affirming beside her.
I was just about to make a joke about our shared suffering when it hit me.
A flash.
Not of light—of memory.
A moment, years ago, when something just clicked. The wrongness of something pressing in too close. Something small and sharp and hiding where it shouldn’t.
My whole body tensed before I could stop it.
And I felt it.
Not in me—but near me.
And more than that, I felt the shift in Snape, too. Subtle. But real. Like the air around him had gone still in response to mine.
I didn’t look at him yet.
I forced myself to stay casual, even as I shifted slightly and fumbled with my inner pocket. My blanket clung to my wet robes, fighting me every inch, but I finally got my fingers around my wand.
Under the pretence of wiping my nose, I muttered the incantation under my breath.
And there she was.
A tiny beetle, clinging to the wet tangle of Hermione’s hair, just near her shoulder. Legs twitching. Still. Listening.
I made a small sound in my throat—noncommittal—and glanced sideways.
Snape was already watching me, eyes sharp. Not angry. Just… studying. Waiting.
I looked at Hermione again.
“I’m relieved you’re alright,” I said, stepping closer.
And then I hugged her.
Which I think surprised her, but she hugged me back without hesitation.
That made it easier.
Because while I hugged her, my other hand darted up—fast—and snatched.
Something wriggled violently in my grip. Sharp legs dug into my fingers. I jolted back with a yelp, holding my closed fist away from me like it might bite.
“Ugh—bloody claws—Snape!” I shouted, shaking my fist once. “I have a beetle in my hand!”
Everyone froze.
Snape didn’t hesitate. His wand flicked up. A glass jar appeared midair between us, hovering slightly open.
He moved forward just as I did, and we met in the middle. I shoved my whole fist into the jar—terrified she’d wriggle out—and quickly opened my hand. Snape snapped the lid shut with a decisive click.
The beetle went mad—buzzing and thudding against the glass, a frenzied cling cling cling as she slammed into the sides.
We both stared down at the jar.
“Is that—?” Harry asked.
Hermione leaned closer.
“Is that truly her?”
“Only one way to find out,” Snape said, voice cold and precise. “And we’ll need witnesses.” His eyes flicked toward the judges’ table. “Bagman and Rathbone will do.”
We all nodded, stunned and still high on adrenaline.
But before anyone could move, Dumbledore stood from the judges’ platform and lifted his wand. The crowd quieted.
He cleared his throat.
“The judges have conferred. Here are the results of the Second Task.”
He gestured toward the parchment in his hand.
“Fleur Delacour—thirty-eight points. She completed the task successfully, though her timing was delayed.”
Fleur exhaled softly, one hand resting on her sister’s back.
“Viktor Krum—forty-two points. He was third to return with his hostage and used partial Transfiguration successfully, though with limited finesse.”
Krum stood a bit straighter.
“Cedric Diggory—forty-five points. He returned second, executed a clean strategy, and retrieved his hostage without complication.”
Cho beamed beside him.
“And finally, Harry Potter—forty-seven points. He was the first to return with his hostage, and executed a reliable and effective Bubble-Head Charm throughout the task.”
My mouth dropped a little. Forty-seven. He won.
Hermione’s hand found his arm.
“Harry,” she whispered, “you did it.”
I grinned.
“Knew it. Smart, efficient, dry-ish .”
He looked a bit dazed but proud.
And now, we had a jar in Snape’s hands and a beetle with secrets to share.
The real task, it seemed, was just beginning.
As soon as Dumbledore lowered his wand and the crowd began to stir again, Snape turned to me with that specific kind of look he wore when something was about to become very serious and very official.
“Come,” he said.
And I did. Just like that. Still wet, wrapped in a blanket, like a very sad drowning rat.
Harry and Hermione started to follow, Krum trailing them, curious but cautious. Snape and I cut across the grass toward the judge’s table.
Bagman was chatting animatedly with Madame Maxime, probably trying to milk the excitement of the task for some kind of Quidditch metaphor. Dumbledore stood off to the side, speaking quietly with Professor McGonagall. Rathbone, stone-faced as ever, was collecting scoring parchments and sorting them into a leather folder.
Snape didn’t waste time.
“Bagman. Rathbone.”
They both turned at once. Bagman blinked, then brightened—clearly expecting congratulations or feedback.
“Yes, Severus?” Rathbone’s tone was polite but edged.
“We’ve uncovered an unauthorised animagus spying on the champions during the event,” Snape said, holding up the jar.
Bagman stared.
“You… what?”
Hermione, behind us, let out a little noise of exasperation and muttered, “Honestly.”
Snape ignored the rest of the judges and focused his attention on the two that mattered.
“Caught by Mr. Weasley immediately after the conclusion of the task. She was clinging to Miss Granger.”
That got Rathbone’s full attention.
“Let me see it.”
Snape handed the jar over, careful not to let it slip.
Bagman peered inside.
“Looks like… just a beetle.”
“She’s not just a beetle,” I said, stepping closer. “I cast the Revealing charm on her. She’s not normal. I’ve seen her before—last time she was trying to spy on Harry.”
Rathbone, expression unreadable, raised his wand.
The magic rippled across the glass.
The beetle flared gold for a half-second. Then shimmered—and a ring of ancient runes glowed faintly around its shell.
“No registration mark,” Rathbone said, voice suddenly sharp.
Dumbledore was already moving toward us.
“May I?”
Rathbone passed the jar to him without a word.
Dumbledore cast the same revealing charm, a bit more gently. The glow returned, more distinct now. And in that glow, I saw it: her. The outline of Rita Skeeter in her beetle form—compressed, contained, but unmistakable.
Bagman’s mouth fell open.
“Merlin’s—are you saying—she’s— Rita Skeeter’s an animagus?!”
“She’s an unregistered one,” Snape said coolly. “Which makes her presence during official Tournament proceedings illegal .”
The other judges were listening now, watching the jar, their casual expressions gone stiff. Rathbone’s lips pressed thin.
“We’d best not discuss this out in the open.”
“Agreed,” Dumbledore said. “Let’s reconvene privately. I believe the staff room will suffice.”
Bagman still looked like he’d swallowed a Bludger. Dumbledore gave the jar a final glance and nodded.
“Come along, then,” Dumbledore said, turning toward the castle with the jar still glowing faintly in his hands.
Snape turned immediately to Harry and Hermione.
“Stay with Madam Pomfrey,” he said, tone leaving no room for debate. “Your presence is not required.”
Hermione looked like she might argue—Harry, too—but one sharp glance from Snape silenced them. They nodded reluctantly and fell back as the group began to move.
We cut across the grass in a quiet, brisk procession. Snape fell in beside me, a firm hand pressed against my blanket-wrapped back—not guiding, exactly, but anchoring. His touch was solid and reassuring, as if he knew I was still half-frozen and more than half-exposed. I wasn’t sure if he was doing it for my sake or just to make sure I didn’t wander off, but I didn’t complain. At all.
Dumbledore walked on my other side. Behind us, I could hear the heavy footfalls of Madame Maxime, Karkaroff’s hissed whispering, and Bagman’s uneven pacing. Rathbone walked just behind Snape, still deadly silent.
It wasn’t a long walk to the castle, but the tension made every step stretch.
“Why is the boy coming?” Maxime asked suddenly, her voice sharp and slightly incredulous. “This should be handled by officials, not students.”
Snape didn’t even pause.
“Mr. Weasley identified and apprehended the intruder. He cast the revealing charm. He is present for the debrief.”
The way he said it—flat, clipped, final—cut through any protest. Non-negotiable.
Rathbone said, “Agreed,” without turning around.
That shut them up.
We passed through the entrance Hall and then the long shadows of the Great Hall, then we turned toward the staff corridor and arrived at the tall oak door of the staff room.
Dumbledore waved his wand, and it swung open.
We filed in, forming a loose circle around Rathbone, who now held the jar like it was Exhibit A in a high-profile trial. He stepped to the centre, knelt slightly, and placed it on the low table in front of him.
“Let’s make this official,” he said.
He pulled out his wand and pointed it toward the jar.
The glow flared.
The beetle shimmered violently and then, with a pop of displaced air and a snapping crackle of magic, Rita Skeeter stood in the middle of the room, dripping slightly from condensation, hair frazzled, expression furious.
Bagman gasped.
Maxime made a sharp, shocked noise in her throat. Karkaroff muttered something in another language—probably unprintable.
“She was the beetle,” Bagman said, nearly stumbling back a step. “You were right— she —this is—”
“Illegal,” Rathbone said calmly, straightening to his full height. “And now very thoroughly witnessed.”
Skeeter whirled, her eyes blazing.
“You little rat!” she hissed, eyes locked on me. “You’ll regret this, Weasley! You have no idea who you’re messing with!”
Snape stepped forward without hesitation, planting himself half a step in front of me. His robes flared slightly as he moved—subtle, but there. Blocking her. Protecting.
“You will not speak to my student,” he said coldly. “Especially not while under Ministry review.”
Rathbone gestured for quiet.
“Ms. Skeeter, you are under arrest for operating as an unregistered Animagus, for trespassing during a restricted event, and for willfully endangering the privacy and safety of underage students and international competitors.”
Skeeter spluttered.
“You can’t—this is—freedom of—”
“Bagman,” Rathbone said, ignoring her. “Use the floo. Contact the DMLE. Request two officers to process an Animagus arrest and evidence seizure.”
Bagman, looking very much like he wanted to vanish through the floor, nodded and hurried out of the room.
While he was gone, Skeeter kept ranting about libel laws, slander, press suppression, and conspiracies. Rathbone conjured magical bindings to hold her in place. She strained against them but couldn’t get free.
Then the floo sparked to life again.
Two DMLE officers stepped through—stern, uniformed, wand-ready.
“Rita Skeeter?” one of them asked.
“She’s the one,” Rathbone confirmed.
The officers moved forward briskly, taking Skeeter by the arms and placing special enchanted manacles on her wrists. As soon as they clicked shut, the ambient shimmer of Animagus magic vanished. She wouldn’t be turning into anything again anytime soon.
“You’ll regret this!” she shrieked as they began dragging her back toward the fireplace. “You think you’ve won?! You think you’ve—”
And then, with a swirl of green flame, she was gone.
Rathbone adjusted his cuffs and left right behind them, no farewell needed.
Snape was quiet.
Then he turned to me and rested his hand on my shoulder, just for a moment. Firm. Intentional.
“You’ll be safe,” he said, voice low. “She won’t harm you in any way.”
I looked up at him, not needing to say anything more than:
“I know.”
Then I turned my gaze to Dumbledore, who was still watching us calmly.
“Ron,” he said, his voice warm and steady, “I believe you’ve just saved us all from several more months of meddling, misinformation, and manufactured scandal. And possibly much worse.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“She kind of earned it.”
Dumbledore smiled slightly.
“Yes. Yes, I believe she did.”
Behind us, the other judges were muttering among themselves. Maxime looked irate; Karkaroff was scowling deeply and gesturing as if this proved Hogwarts was unsafe after all.
Dumbledore gave them one last glance, then gestured to the door.
“Come. Let’s return to the infirmary. I think our champions would like to know that the lake’s secrets are now somewhat better protected.”
Snape fell into step beside us, and the three of us left the staff room together.
Chapter 48: BOOK FOUR - LOOSE-ENDS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
LOOSE-ENDS
The week after the second task passed in a strange blur of shifting focus. One moment, the school couldn’t stop talking about underwater duels and last-minute rescues; the next, attention pivoted sharply toward the outside world again—toward trials, headlines, and new Ministry targets.
Harry’s victory was now official. The scoreboard confirmed what we already knew: his preparation, control, and first-place finish put him ahead of the other champions. No dragons, no moral loopholes this time—just skill and strategy. Most people gave him his due credit. The Prophet’s replacement journalist, Betty Braithwaite, even managed to write something vaguely respectful about it.
Rita Skeeter, on the other hand, had vanished entirely from public life. No one really knew what happened, but whispers ranged from Azkaban to a “voluntary retreat to Eastern Europe.” The truth hadn’t been published—but we knew it. And more importantly, so did the Ministry.
Hermione, unfortunately, wasn’t allowed to enjoy the quiet. A few students took it upon themselves to make pointed comments about being “Durmstrang’s darling” and “Krum’s captured prize”. She handled it with teeth-gritting patience, though I noticed she stopped walking through the Entrance Hall alone for a bit. Krum, to his credit, didn’t respond publicly. Just walked a little taller when she was near.
The real Ministry scandal had nothing to do with Hogwarts now. The upcoming trial of Barty Crouch Sr., scheduled for the 15th of March, dominated the headlines. The task force shifted targets quickly—less interested in Snape now, more focused on the next in line: Theodore Nott’s father.
Theo didn’t say anything about it, but I noticed he stopped lingering after class. Stopped arguing so easily. Whatever he was feeling, he kept it locked down—and I wasn’t about to pry.
And as for Snape… tutoring sessions continued like nothing had happened. Except now, there was something quieter between us. A small shift. An acknowledgement. He never brought up the lake. Or the beetle. Or the way his hand had gripped my shoulder before Dumbledore led us away. But I remembered.
Everything had mostly gone back to normal. Or what counted as normal for Hogwarts.
And just like that, February ended.
March arrived with snow melting on the windowsills and a vague smell of dragon dung coming from Greenhouse Four.
My birthday came and went.
Fifteen now. Not quite a boy, not yet anything else. Everyone acted like it mattered—Harry gave me a new wand holster, Hermione insisted on baking something with house-elf help, and even Snape gave a subtle, gruff nod at the start of tutoring that might’ve counted as recognition.
But underneath the cake and the cards and the jokes about growing up, something still sat in my chest like a lead paperweight.
No amount of meditation helped. No clever distractions. I’d tried the “wait it out” method, and it failed spectacularly. Puberty wasn’t some polite phase that would knock and ask for permission to be processed. It just barged in and made everything worse.
So I went to the only person I could think of who wouldn’t have a personal stake, and who had to keep it confidential.
Pomfrey.
My stomach twisted the whole way down the corridor. Every step felt like I was walking closer to something irreversible. I nearly turned around at least three times. Told myself I could come back tomorrow. Or next week. Or never.
But then I was there.
Right at the threshold of the infirmary.
And she saw me.
“Mr. Weasley,” she called from the far end, setting down a tray of potions. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone for another soak in the lake? The task is over, and I’d quite like not to see you frostbitten again.”
I tried to laugh. It came out as a weak exhale.
“No, no lake this time.”
She stopped mid-step, something shifting in her eyes as she took in my posture. My stillness. My twisted fingers and averted eyes.
She approached, calm and unhurried.
“You look uncomfortable, dear. Are you injured?”
I shook my head quickly.
“No. Not—no, I’m not injured. It’s nothing. I should—this was—stupid, I should just—”
She raised a hand before I could finish that sentence.
“Mr. Weasley,” she said gently, “whatever brought you here, I promise you—it’s not stupid.”
She gestured toward her office, already moving toward it without another word.
I followed. Because it was too late to turn back. Because she’d seen me.
Her office was warmer than the infirmary. Cosy, even. Books stacked along the shelves, a few potted plants near the window, a faint scent of something minty and clean.
She motioned for me to sit. I did, barely noticing the chair beneath me. My hands wouldn’t stop twisting in my lap. But the rest of me was rigid. My back straight. My feet planted.
She sat across from me, not behind a desk—just across. Still and waiting.
“So,” she said, kindly. “Tell me how I can help.”
I couldn’t look at her. Not really. I stared at her elbow, then the shelf behind her, then my own hands. Anything but her face.
“I don’t—” I started. Then stopped. Took a breath. Tried again. “I don’t really have the words.”
“That’s alright,” she said. “Take your time.”
Another breath. A swallow. My throat felt tight.
“I’m not here because I think there’s something wrong with me,” I said carefully. “It’s not that.”
She didn’t move. Just listened. Steady and open.
“It’s more like… there’s a fight happening in my head. And I don’t want it there. I don’t want to feel like I’m at odds with myself every time I look in a mirror. Or get dressed. Or hear how people talk to me.”
My fingers twisted in my lap. I didn’t even realise I was holding my thumb until it ached.
“I don’t want to be someone else. I don’t want to change who I am. I just want to stop feeling like I’m not real. Like I’m pretending to be someone I’m supposed to be. I want to like myself as I am. I want that. But I don’t know how.”
It came out raw. A little louder than I meant. But she still didn’t flinch.
“I’ve tried everything,” I went on, quieter now. “Meditation. Journaling. Mental exercises. Telling myself it doesn’t matter. Waiting to grow into it. But it just… doesn’t change. And I don’t know what else to try. And I’m tired.”
That was the closest I could get to saying I was scared without saying the word.
“And it’s not new,” I added. “It’s not some recent confusion. It’s not a phase. It’s been since I was born.”
That got me. Saying it aloud. I felt my chest tighten like it wanted to cave in.
Pomfrey gave a slight nod, patient and thoughtful.
“I see,” she said gently. “Thank you for telling me that, Ron.”
The use of my name—not Mr. Weasley —settled something inside me. Not all the way, but enough that I didn’t bolt.
She waited a moment, then asked,
“Do you feel more like a girl than a boy?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Some days, maybe. Some days I just don’t want to be a boy. Or anything. Just not this.”
She nodded again, calm and steady.
“There are words for these feelings,” she said. “And there are others who feel them too. You’re not alone.”
That nearly undid me. I had to grip the edge of the chair.
“There are many reasons a person might feel this way,” she said. “Some have to do with how we grow up, what’s expected of us. Some come from how we connect—or don’t—with the world around us. And sometimes it’s just something in us that doesn’t align the way we wish it would.”
She glanced at the cabinet behind her.
“I have a few things I can share with you. Magical perspectives on gender, body-mind resonance, identity work. You won’t find it in textbooks—it’s considered private health magic. But it’s real, and you’re not the first to ask for it. Would it help,” she said, “if I gave you some information? Some reading, some magical theory, some personal accounts? Something to help you sort what you’re feeling without pressure?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. Then more quietly, “Please.”
She stood and went to a small cabinet. Unlocked it. She returned with a small bundle—enchanted parchment that shimmered faintly at the edges, a worn booklet that looked like it had been read a dozen times, and a few folded notes clipped together with a charm.
“I’ve worked with a few students over the years. Some who felt like their bodies didn’t match what was inside. Some who didn’t feel like either category made sense. Magic doesn’t always align neatly with how people grow. Sometimes, some people need to change in order to align—”
“I don’t want to do anything drastic,” I clarified. “I don’t want to… change how I look, or get spells. I just want to stop hating the way I exist.”
Pomfrey looked at me for a long moment, kind and calm.
“That’s not drastic at all,” she said. “That’s human.”
She set the bundle in front of me.
“Start with these,” she said, setting them between us. “You can take them with you. No one else will see you reading them. They’re charmed for privacy. There are exercises, magical and otherwise. And if something resonates with you—or doesn’t—we can talk again. Whenever you want.”
I nodded slowly, my fingers brushing over the top page.
Then, hesitantly, I said,
“Thanks. For not making it weird.”
Pomfrey smiled—real, warm, no pity in it.
“There’s nothing weird about wanting peace with yourself.”
And just like that, I felt the tiniest bit closer to it.
“I’ll never tell anyone what you’ve shared,” she said. “Not unless you ask me to. And if you’d like help talking to someone else—someone at St. Mungo’s, someone outside school—I can arrange that too.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“You’re not broken, Ron,” she added, gently but firmly. “You’re becoming.”
That word. Becoming.
It settled into my ribs like warm light. I didn’t feel better, exactly. Not yet.
But I didn’t feel alone anymore.
And that was something.
I didn’t go back to the common room.
Didn’t go to the Library either.
Even with all the charms Pomfrey promised—private, confidential, magically shielded—I couldn’t bring myself to open those pages anywhere someone might see. The idea of even holding them in front of someone else made my neck feel hot, like I’d been caught nicking something off a shop shelf.
So I let my feet carry me where they wanted. Past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, back and forth three times, and there it was—the heavy wooden door, humming quietly with magic.
I stepped into the Room of Requirement and found exactly what I needed.
It was simple tonight. One high-backed armchair, scrubbed clean and worn soft. A low lamp burning beside it. A folded blanket, just in case. No windows. No clocks. Just quiet.
I dropped into the chair cross-legged, the documents clutched in both hands like something sacred.
I took a deep breath. And started reading.
The first page was titled in soft gold ink:
“Body, Mind, and Magic: A Guide for Self-Understanding.”
It wasn’t long. It didn’t try to sound like a lecture. The tone was gentle. Like someone had written it with a real person in mind.
“For some witches and wizards, magical puberty deepens their alignment with their body. For others, it creates tension. This is not a flaw. It is a reflection of a magical self seeking harmony.”
I kept reading.
Another page:
“Gender identity is not a fixed potion—it brews over time. For some, it never quite settles. You are not late. You are not lost.”
There was a story from someone who had once felt like they were watching their own life, instead of living it. They described the disconnect like wearing someone else’s robes all the time—“not uncomfortable enough to scream, but never quite your own.”
I sat with that one for a while.
There was also a page called “Anchoring Exercises for Dysphoric Episodes.”
One of them was underlined:
“Name five things that belong to you.”
I blinked at that.
Not objects —the page clarified. Not stuff. Things that were yours because they were part of you. Chosen. Felt. Lived.
I frowned. Thought about it.
One: My magic. It sounds dumb, but it’s mine. It listens to me. It likes me. That counts.
Two: My humour. That’s mine. No one can fake it like I can.
Three: My place beside Harry during every horrible thing we’ve been through. That counts too, right?
Four: My voice. It’s not the deepest or the strongest, but when I use it, people hear me.
Five: My cunning. I used to think it made me a coward. But now I think maybe it just means I want to be prudent and think before acting.
I breathed a little easier by the time I reached five.
The booklet suggested repeating those things to yourself—not aloud if you weren’t ready, just silently. Just to remind your magic what home felt like.
I tried it. Quietly.
My magic. My voice. My place. My humour. My cunning.
Still didn’t fix everything. But it slowed the racing thoughts. Like someone put the world back in order just slightly, like the seams of it didn’t chafe quite so much against my skin.
I read the rest. Slowly. Carefully.
Pages on magical resonance. Gender as a spectrum. On how some wizards wore skirts and some witches used swords, and none of it meant they were less than who they said they were.
At the end was a note. Handwritten. Different ink.
“You’re allowed to take your time. You’re allowed to ask for help. You’re allowed to stay exactly where you are until it feels like yours.”
I sat with that one too.
And then I tucked the booklets away, heart quieter than before.
Just me. Just this room. Just a bit more air in my lungs than I’d had all day. Or year.
Or ever since I was reborn.
Monday’s Potions class ended with the usual hiss of cauldrons and scrape of chairs as everyone packed up. My brew had turned out decent—not quite textbook perfect, but Snape hadn’t scowled at it, which I was counting as a success.
I was just putting the lid on my inkwell when Snape said, without looking up:
“Mr Weasley. Stay behind.”
My hand froze mid-motion.
I blinked at the back of his head, confused. Not panicked—just caught off guard. Was it about tutoring? We had our next session scheduled for tomorrow, same time as always. I hadn’t missed anything.
The others began filing out, a few curious glances thrown my way. Even Theodore gave me a look like “ what did you do this time?” before he ducked out behind Blaise.
When the door shut behind the last student, I stood, stepped toward the desk, and waited.
Snape didn’t speak at first. He finished jotting something in his lesson planner, then placed his quill down precisely before folding his hands over the parchment.
Then he looked up, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
“I was informed,” he said slowly, “that you visited the Hospital Wing over the weekend.”
I blinked. Who snitched? Not Pomfrey, of that, I was sure.
“…Yeah. I did.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
“Why?”
Something cold settled in my chest.
“…That’s private.”
Snape’s expression didn’t change.
“You are no longer training in the lake. You had no scheduled duels. No Quidditch. And I’ve given you no risky spells to test. So again—what did you do?”
I frowned, defensive instinct flaring.
“Nothing. I wasn’t hurt. Not like that.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Then what were you doing in the Hospital Wing?”
The accusatory edge in his voice made something sharp twist inside me. It wasn’t yelling. It wasn’t even particularly stern. But it felt… like doubt.
And that stung.
I folded my arms, jaw tight.
“That’s not fair.”
Snape’s brow lifted slightly.
“What isn’t?”
“That tone,” I said. “Like you think I’ve done something reckless. I haven’t. I don’t. You know I follow your rules. Always.”
He studied me in silence.
“I’m not lying,” I added, softer now but still tight. “You warned us about safety and boundaries, and I’ve kept every single one.”
“I’ve noticed other things,” Snape said after a moment. “Your posture. Your silences. The way you’ve been twitchy and distracted in class. Something is wrong.”
He wasn’t wrong, exactly.
I had been twitchy. Mostly because I couldn’t stop dreaming about him, which was just brilliant. Every time he bent over a cauldron or touched my wrist during tutoring, my brain decided it was a good idea to replay everything I was trying to repress.
Ridiculous. Pathetic. Not something I could ever say out loud.
I flushed and looked away.
“It’s not anything dangerous,” I muttered. “Or reckless. Just… private.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed further. Not angrily—more like he was sorting through possibilities. Trying to decipher a cypher with half the runes missing.
“Private,” he echoed. “You understand that I wouldn’t press if I didn’t believe it might affect your safety or judgment.”
“I get that,” I said quickly. “But it doesn’t. I swear.”
The silence stretched.
I didn’t flinch under his stare, but I felt the weight of it. Like he was dissecting me down to the last breath.
Finally, he leaned back slightly.
“Very well.”
I blinked.
Snape continued, tone quieter now.
“I won’t ask again. But you should know… if there is something you’re dealing with—something personal—you’ve already proven you know how to come to me. You’ve done it before.”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
Because he wasn’t wrong. I had gone to him for advice, help, guidance—for Harry, for myself. For tutoring, for safety, for comfort, I hadn’t even realised I needed.
But this?
No. I couldn’t bring this to him.
I looked at the edge of his desk.
“Right.”
He waited, but I didn’t say more. Eventually, he gave a single nod.
“You may go.”
I nodded once, turning away quickly before he could see how red my face still was.
I woke up tangled in sheets and gritting my teeth.
Again.
Same dream. Same heat behind my eyes. Same ridiculous, skin-prickling ache low in my spine. And of course—Snape.
I shoved the blankets off, irritated more than embarrassed this time. It had been happening too often to blush over. Apparently, my subconscious had decided it was obsessed, and there wasn’t much I could do but suffer through it and hope I didn’t walk into the man in question looking like I’d been hexed in the night.
I went through the motions of getting ready, just as I always did after one of these mornings, carefully. Cold water to the face, loose jumper to hide any lingering… symptoms, and a few stretches to shake the tension out of my neck.
Once I was dressed, I didn’t head to breakfast straight away.
Instead, I curled into my usual armchair in the common room with the booklet Pomfrey had given me. I wasn’t expecting answers, just something steady to put in my hands. The page I’d dog-eared last time caught my eye:
“Sometimes your body reacts to things before your mind has caught up. That doesn’t mean it’s lying to you—it just means it’s ahead of you. Be curious. Be kind.”
I read it twice.
Didn’t feel any kinder.
I was still stewing in it—frustrated and twitchy—when Harry came clambering down the stairs, dragging his bag behind him.
“Morning,” I said, tucking the booklet away before he could get a proper look.
“Mm,” he replied absently, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t even notice I’d spoken, not really.
We walked down to breakfast together in relative silence. He looked pale, like he hadn’t slept much. I kept glancing at him from the side, waiting.
When we finally sat down at the Slytherin table, Harry just stared blankly at his toast. Didn’t butter it. Didn’t reach for tea. Just… stared.
“Alright there?” I asked, nudging him.
Harry blinked slowly and turned his head.
“Huh?”
“You’re about five feet underwater, mate. Something up?”
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat, eyes drifting to the centre of the table.
“D’you ever have weird dreams?”
I froze.
I blanched.
“Oh my god, Harry —” I hissed, immediately looking around to see who might’ve heard that deeply cursed question.
A couple second-years were too busy bickering over jam to notice, but still.
“ Lower your voice, ” I muttered, glaring.
Harry blinked again.
“What? I meant like— disturbing. Not that kind.”
I exhaled slowly, relieved and still scarlet.
Harry rubbed a hand along his forehead, then his scar. He didn’t look like he’d slept any better than I had.
“I had this dream,” he said, quietly now. “It was… wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, just—it felt real. More like watching than dreaming. You know?”
My blood ran cold.
“Was your scar hurting?”
He nodded, not meeting my eyes.
“Not while I was asleep. But when I woke up… yeah. It burned.”
“Still now?”
“No. It stopped after a bit.”
I swallowed.
“What was the dream?”
He glanced at me, hesitant, then looked away again.
“I was in a house. Big, cold, creepy. I couldn’t move. Just… see. And there was this man there. Old. Scared. I didn’t recognise him. But he was talking to—”
He swallowed.
“Voldemort.”
I went still.
Harry kept talking.
“And someone else was there too. A servant, I think. Shorter. He was nervous. Kept saying he’d escaped from Azkaban. Kept calling him Master. ”
I felt something knot in my gut.
“Did you see his face?”
“Yeah. I recognised it. From the posters. The wanted ones. In the Prophet. And in Honeydukes’ window. It was Crouch Junior.”
I felt like my bones had gone cold inside my skin. My stomach had twisted itself into a new shape.
I knew this dream. I knew this memory. I knew what it meant.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was a vision. A real one. A murder. A conversation Voldemort actually had. Frank Bryce died that night.
And I couldn’t tell Harry any of it.
I forced my voice to work.
“That’s… that’s messed up, mate.”
Harry looked down at his toast again.
“Yeah.”
I wanted to say more. To tell him he wasn’t imagining it. That it had happened. That his scar meant something. That this was dangerous and real and connected to more than just nightmares.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not without unravelling everything.
So instead, I just said,
“We should tell someone.”
He frowned.
“I’m not going to Snape with a weird dream .”
“You could tell Sirius. Someone. Just… don’t sit on this alone.”
Harry nodded slowly.
And I went back to pretending we weren’t sitting in front of the beginnings of a war.
Care of Magical Creatures had finally gotten back to the good kind of chaos.
We were knee-deep in a niffler treasure hunt—literally, in my case, as my boots were half-swallowed by muddy turf. Hagrid had buried enchanted coins all over a wide patch of soil, and each of us had been assigned a niffler with a name tag and everything. Mine was called Grimble. Grimble was a menace. I adored him.
“Go on, that’s it!” I encouraged, watching him root around like a furry, jewel-obsessed mole on fire. “You get me enough coins and I’ll sneak you a sickle from my pocket later.”
He chirped delightedly and dove into another hole like it owed him money.
All around me, students were shouting over each other, cheering on their nifflers, and occasionally yelping when one went for a shiny buckle or earring. It was loud, messy, and fun —and I was just about to celebrate Grimble’s fourth gold coin when Hagrid’s voice cut through the noise:
“What’s he doin’ here? Must be urgent…”
I turned, half-curious, wiping my muddy hands on my jumper.
Snape was coming across the slope from the castle, fast and sharp, robes billowing behind him like he was trying to scare the grass into submission.
The chatter around us died down almost instantly. Students stared, some whispering, while others watched openly, as if a drama were about to unfold. Grimble even paused mid-dig, sensing the tension.
Snape stopped a few feet from the edge of the group, black eyes already locked on me.
“Weasley,” he said crisply, “you’re needed in the Headmaster’s office. Immediately.”
I blinked.
Panic coiled in my stomach. What?
Behind me, I heard someone snicker—probably Malfoy, never one to miss an opportunity to delight in someone else’s doom. Hermione and Harry looked up from their nifflers, confused and worried, but I didn’t get the chance to ask anything. Snape was already turning, expecting me to follow.
I trotted after him, heart thumping.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing criminal, as far as I know,” he said, voice dry. “The Ministry sent representatives. They’re here to take your statement regarding the animagus incident.”
“Oh,” I breathed. Then, “Wait, really?”
“Yes. And I suspect they won’t be gentle about it.”
I frowned, more nervous now.
“What do I even tell them?”
Snape didn’t slow his pace, but his tone shifted subtly, instructive and careful.
“You keep it simple. You learned the Revealing Charm in private tutoring because you were concerned about your best friend’s safety. Say you were paranoid after prior animagus incidents and requested the instruction.”
“…You mean like Scabbers.”
“We won’t be mentioning Scabbers.”
I nodded quickly.
“Right. So just… I asked to learn it. No mention of Pettigrew.”
“Exactly. You were cautious. I agreed to teach you. You’ve practised the spell since.”
“And when they ask why I cast it on the 24th?”
Snape glanced sideways at me.
“I would like to know that as well.”
“I had a bad feeling,” I muttered.
He was quiet for a beat. Then:
“Keep it at that. Sometimes instinct serves better than reason. Let them puzzle it out. And if they press—play dumb.”
“Right.” I nodded, more to myself than him. “Got it.”
“I’ll be in the room, but only in my capacity as your Head of House. I cannot answer for you.”
“I understand.”
We reached the stone gargoyle. Snape muttered the password (“Quince marmalade”) and the spiral staircase revealed itself.
The office was bright with winter sun and warm. Dumbledore stood waiting with two Ministry officers. One was a pale, thin man who looked like he ironed his shoelaces—rigid posture, jaw tight, eyes already narrowed like I was wasting his time. The other was an older woman with a heavy necklace and that terrifying kind of smile that said I’m being nice because you’re young and fragile. She reminded me a bit of Aunt Muriel in a better mood.
“Mr. Weasley,” the woman said warmly. “Thank you for coming.”
Snape took his position behind me like a shadow. I sat stiffly in the armchair they offered, knees locked, hands folded tightly. Dumbledore gave me a small nod, but otherwise stood aside.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the events on the twenty-fourth of February,” the woman said. “This won’t take long.”
The man beside her set a Quick-Quotes Quill on a scroll, tapped it once, and it began to scribble automatically.
“Please describe what happened, in your own words.”
I nodded slowly.
“I woke up underwater during the task. Harry brought me to the surface. We swam to shore. Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey checked us over. While we were waiting for the others to arrive, I had a bad feeling. I cast the Revealing Charm. That’s when I saw the animagus beetle. It was hiding in my friend’s hair. I grabbed it and gave it to Professor Snape. We took it to Mr. Rathbone and Mr. Bagman.”
The man scribbled notes beside the enchanted quill. The woman tilted her head.
“A ‘bad feeling’ prompted you to cast a high-level revealing charm?”
I nodded once.
“Yes.”
“Why do you know that spell?”
“I learned it from Professor Snape. During private tutoring.”
The man spoke now, cold and quick.
“Rather convenient, isn’t it? That you happened to know the exact spell to unmask an unregistered animagus—on the very day one appeared. Skeeter didn’t spy on any other students. Only you. Odd, that.”
Snape shifted behind me. I felt the chill of his disapproval rising—but I didn’t let him speak.
I leaned forward, voice clear and even.
“You’re mixing up cause and effect.”
That startled them. Even the quill scratched louder for a moment.
“She didn’t just stumble on the one fourth-year who could unmask her. She was already spying. She’s been trying to dig up dirt on my friend since autumn. I learned that spell because of her. And others like her. My friend is a public figure. He’s had animagi targeting him before. I asked to learn the charm because I didn’t want it to happen again. She took a risk by sneaking into the champions’ area. And she lost.”
The man narrowed his eyes. The woman glanced toward Snape, then Dumbledore.
They exchanged a silent moment. Then she turned back to me.
“Is there anything else you believe we should know? Something we haven’t asked?”
I paused. Thought about it.
“No,” I said. “I think that’s all.”
She gave a nod. The man flicked his wand and stopped the quill. Rolled up the scroll.
“Well then,” she said, rising. “Your statement will suffice for our records. If your presence is required at trial, we’ll inform your Headmaster or guardians.”
Snape tensed behind me. Dumbledore’s expression cooled just slightly.
“Understood,” said Dumbledore with a gentle nod.
“Thank you for your time,” the woman added as they turned to leave.
Once the door shut, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
Dumbledore looked at me kindly.
“You handled yourself admirably, Mr. Weasley. Clear, thoughtful, and direct.”
I shrugged, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Well. Always nice to have Ministry attention, not for a disciplinary reason.”
Snape exhaled through his nose, almost a snort.
Dumbledore chuckled.
And I finally relaxed back into the chair. Just a little.
Chapter 49: BOOK FOUR - THE THIRD TASK
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE THIRD TASK
By Easter, tutoring had shifted again.
The nonverbal charmwork was good—great, even—but Snape clearly thought Harry needed something sharper. Something harder. Something more like war.
So, duelling.
He moved us to the Charms classroom for it. Training mats, reinforced walls, and an unspoken agreement with Professor Flitwick that we wouldn’t accidentally blow up the desks. (Again.)
Snape had us working primarily on the Stunning Spell. We also practised disarming and shield work, but the Stunning Spell was the primary focus. Harry could cast it in his sleep. Me? I spent more time getting stunned than actually doing the stunning.
I always left those sessions aching all over—head throbbing, neck stiff, wrists bruised from being knocked down by impact after impact. My pride was also battered, but at least it was for a good cause. If Harry was going to survive the third task, he needed to be faster, sharper, meaner. Snape was trying to give him all three.
And truth be told… Harry was brilliant at it. Even Moody’s brutal DADA drills didn’t hold a candle to what he was doing now. He’d got so quick, he was landing Stunners before I could get my wand into position. Sometimes he even cast them nonverbally, and I swear Snape actually smiled when that happened. Not smirked— smiled. Like DADA was a language only they shared.
Me? I was crap. My reflexes were slow, and I didn’t like the idea of hurting people, not even in practice. Snape kept telling me duelling wasn’t about aggression, it was about control, but the moment Harry raised his wand, mine slipped from my grip like it wanted to surrender.
Still, I kept showing up. I always did.
At least the theory sessions were calmer. During one of them—one of those quiet afternoon tutorials in Snape’s office—I made a horrifying discovery.
Mum had been sending Snape baked goods.
“Since your second year,” he said blandly, not even looking up from the scroll he was annotating. “I assumed it was repayment for saving your limbs from Lockhart. A seasonal parcel arrives each Christmas and Easter.”
I nearly dropped my ink bottle.
“She— she sends you food? ”
Snape looked vaguely amused.
“Tins. Tarts. The occasional ginger biscuit. I’ve also received two questionable toffees, I believe were the twins’ doing.”
I couldn’t even respond. I was too busy having a small existential crisis. If she ever sent him a Weasley jumper, I might have to hurl myself off the Astronomy Tower.
By the end of May, Harry had become a duelling machine. And that was when everything changed.
Bagman called Harry to the Quidditch pitch to reveal the next task. And then, not long after, we were sitting in the tutoring room again—Snape behind his desk, arms folded, staring Harry down like he could extract the information from his skin if he had to.
“Well?” Snape said.
Harry looked grim.
“It’s a maze.”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
“Hedges,” Harry clarified. “They’re growing out of the pitch. Massive ones. There’ll be obstacles inside. Hagrid’s helping source the creatures.”
Snape exhaled through his nose.
“Wonderful.”
Harry looked deeply unenthusiastic.
“He’s probably going to pull in something that breathes fire.”
“That is not our concern,” Snape said shortly. “Our concern is preparation. So. What will you need to survive this maze?”
He picked up a piece of chalk and turned to the blackboard.
Harry frowned, thinking.
“Spells to fight creatures, definitely.”
Snape nodded and wrote:
—Creature Defence
“I’d say orientation spells,” I added. “Like a magical compass. Or something that tracks time. If you’re lost in a hedge, knowing where you are matters.”
Snape wrote:
—Navigation Charms
Harry perked up.
“Cutting spells. If the hedges are enchanted, I might need something to break through. Severing Charms, maybe—something strong enough to slice through if I’m cornered.”
—Severing / Cutting Spells
I leaned forward.
“Endurance training? If you have to run from something—or fight more than once—you’ll need stamina. Maybe some potions too. Pepper-Up, energy boosters, whatever we can carry.”
Snape paused at that.
“You’re not wrong.”
He wrote:
—Endurance / Stamina
—Potions: Emergency use
We all sat back, waiting.
Snape turned, eyed the board, then gave a short nod.
“Acceptable,” he said. “We will proceed with these categories in mind. Beginning next session, we’ll rotate through them. You’ll duel under simulated exhaustion. Cast orientation charms under pressure. You will, by the end of this month, be more prepared than any of the other champions.”
I swallowed.
Harry nodded, determined.
Snape’s voice softened just slightly.
“Your opponent is not the maze. It’s panic. Chaos. Delay. Our job is to remove those.”
Harry met his eyes and gave a slight nod. I watched it happen—this silent agreement between them. Teacher and student. General and soldier.
And I sat back in my chair, rubbed my shoulder (which was still sore from last night’s Stunner), and muttered,
“Brilliant. More ways to fall on my arse.”
Snape, for once, didn’t scold me. I’m not even sure he heard. He was already planning the next drill in his head.
And I, like always, would be there. Falling over. And getting back up again.
If it weren’t for Hermione’s amazing study planners, I think I’d have drowned in my disorganised chaos by now.
Every day was a whirlwind. Tutoring, endurance training, Library marathons, weekend runs, duelling drills that left my wrists aching and my knees wobbly. And in between all that, exams were looming like thunderclouds. Hermione kept everything—just barely—tethered together for me with colour-coded ink, rotating revision subjects, and gently redirected panic.
“Ron,” she said just yesterday, with that calm, stern look she gets, “you don’t need to study everything today. You need to study the things coming up first. Start with Herbology. And stop reading the Potions section upside-down.”
Merlin bless her.
Still, no matter how exhausted or mentally fried I felt, I never bailed on Harry.
Every weekend, we ran. Just the two of us. Hermione said she didn’t see the point of it—she preferred yoga and guided focus spells, which honestly sounded way more relaxing—but we stuck to our plan: two complete laps around the lake every Saturday and Sunday.
It was horrible. And it was brilliant.
My legs always ached by the end, and there was this persistent spot under my ribs that liked to cramp right as we hit the halfway mark. But running made me feel stronger. More there. Every time my feet hit the earth, I was reminded that this was my body. Mine to work with, to move, to push through whatever hurt was clinging to it.
Pomfrey had given me a muscle-soothing potion a few days ago when I’d limped in and tried to pretend I was fine. She didn’t even argue, just handed it over with a knowing sigh.
And now, here we were. Circling the lake again, both of us red-faced and puffing hard.
We finally slowed down to a jog, then to a walk. My legs were burning. My lungs felt like overused bellows.
Harry checked his watch, panting.
“Forty-eight minutes.”
I wheezed a little.
“Lovely. Bet you could outrun a Blast-Ended Skrewt now.”
Harry grinned, still breathless.
“That was the goal, yeah.”
I chuckled between gasps.
“Imagine whatever Hagrid tosses in that maze next week— you ’ll be the one running away this time, not me.”
He snorted.
“If it breathes fire, we both run.”
“Fair point.”
We walked in companionable silence for a moment, still catching our breath. The sun glinted off the surface of the lake, and I felt my heartbeat starting to settle, slower and steadier.
Then Harry glanced sideways at me.
“How do you feel about the third task?” I asked.
He considered that for a beat, then nodded.
“Good. Ready.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know my spells—Stunning, Impedimenta, Reducto, the Four-Point Spell. My Shield Charm’s strong. I can keep calm under pressure, and I’ve been training for weeks now. I know what I can handle. Even some of Hagrid’s more ‘questionable’ choices.”
I laughed.
“As long as it’s not a dragon again.”
“Merlin, don’t even joke.”
We both grinned.
Then Harry slowed slightly, thoughtful.
“Ron?”
“Mm?”
“I just… wanted to say thanks.”
I blinked. What have I done now?
“For what?”
“For everything,” he said, voice quieter now. “You didn’t have to train with me. Not for the lake. Not for duelling. Not for running in circles around this bloody lake every weekend.”
“I mean, it’s good for your heart,” I offered, mainly to deflect.
He gave me a look.
“You know what I mean.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, already feeling the flush creep up.
“It’s nothing, mate. You’d do the same for me.”
“I have to do this,” he said seriously. “I didn’t have a choice about the Tournament. But you—you chose to help. You’ve been in it since day one. I’m not sure I would’ve managed all this without you.”
I tried to shrug it off.
“Aw, man, don’t get all sappy on me.”
Harry laughed.
“No, I am getting sappy. You deserve it.”
He clapped me on the shoulder, and I tried to look anywhere but his face. I could feel my ears burning.
“You’re the best friend I could’ve asked for,” he added, “and I don’t say that enough.”
“Okay, now you’re making it weird.”
Harry just chortled at my pained expression and, mercifully, dropped the subject.
We walked the rest of the way around the lake with the wind in our faces and our hearts just a little lighter.
And me, still blushing, but smiling too.
For the first time since I started at Hogwarts, I didn’t feel like I was flailing during the practicals.
It was actually—Merlin help me— fun.
All those months of tutoring, all the bruises from duelling, all the late nights of spell drills with Snape barking critiques at us like a military commander—it had paid off. At least for me. Definitely for Harry.
My Summoning and Banishing Charms? Sharp. Clean. I sent a cushion flying across the room and caught it midair like I’d rehearsed it a hundred times. (I had, technically.)
Defense? My Shield Charm held firm, my Impedimenta hit centre mass, and while I still hesitated on some of the nastier hexes, I managed to land a good stinging jinx on the dummy without flinching. Still not a fan of hurting people, but I was beginning to understand the point of it, at least in controlled environments.
Potions? Easy. I brewed a perfect Pepper-Up with the steam rising exactly the right shade of pearly smoke. I knew it was right. I’d drunk enough of it this year to recognise the taste and the consistency blindfolded. Between my aching limbs and the cold from February’s lake training, that potion and I had practically formed a lifelong bond.
Transfiguration? McGonagall asked us to vanish a pair of buttons and then change their colour if we brought them back. Mine reappeared good as new and turned exactly the kind of bright, punchy orange she’d requested. The corners of her mouth twitched—her version of high praise.
Care of Magical Creatures? Well. Hagrid brought out one last Blast-Ended Skrewt for us to demonstrate our understanding of containment and observation. And I didn’t get maimed, singed, or set on fire. I considered that a win.
All in all, I was happy. With the practical side, at least.
The written bits were still up for debate. Especially History of Magic.
Which, of course, was the last exam of the lot.
Today.
I sat in the common room that morning, reviewing flashcards Hermione had made for me. I barely absorbed any of it. Dates and goblin rebellions swam in my eyes like a soup of meaningless misery. My brain was done.
But it wasn’t the exam that kept me distracted.
It was the third task.
It was happening tonight. Harry would be stepping into that bloody maze. And this time, there wouldn’t be dragons or deep lakes or eggs to decode—just surprises. Creatures. Traps. Spells. A hundred things hidden in the dark, waiting.
And the scariest part?
I didn’t feel afraid. Not like before.
No dreadful gut feeling. No twisting sense of wrongness like I’d had when Harry’s name came out of the Goblet. No whisper of danger. No vision from Harry. No mysterious warnings from Dobby. No weird behaviour from Moody. No sign of Crouch.
I’d been checking the Marauder’s Map every single day for weeks. Sometimes twice. Crouch had never appeared.
And while that didn’t necessarily prove anything, it felt like… something. Like maybe whatever had been planned—whatever Lucius Malfoy had schemed—had stalled. Gotten tangled up. Maybe Pettigrew’s death had disrupted everything.
Still no answers about why it all happened.
I knew it was Lucius. That much felt obvious. But beyond that… the motive was murky. Had he just wanted revenge? Was putting Harry in danger in the Tournament enough for him? A final jab back at us for outing his “colleague” Pettigrew?
Or maybe he wanted to shift the narrative. Get the Ministry barking up the wrong tree. If people were panicking about Hogwarts—about Dumbledore and Snape and the Tournament—then they weren’t looking at the real rot inside the Ministry itself.
It worked for a while. But not anymore.
Skeeter was out of the picture. The public was restless again. The third task was here, and whatever Lucius had tried to do, it hadn’t ended the way he’d wanted. No headlines. No explosion. No body.
Maybe it really was over.
Maybe this time, there wouldn’t be trauma. Just a straightforward ending to a twisted year.
Maybe.
And then I’d pass History of Magic and Ancient Runes and sleep for three days straight.
One step at a time.
“Potter.”
I glanced up just in time to see Snape approaching the Slytherin table, robes gliding behind him like always. His voice cut through the buzz of the Great Hall like a well-aimed Stunner.
Harry, who was midway through stabbing a sausage, blinked up at him.
“Professor?”
Snape raised an eyebrow, mouth already twitching with disdain.
“The champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast.”
“But the task’s not till tonight —”
“I’m aware of that, Potter,” Snape said flatly. “Your presence is requested regardless. The champions’ families have been invited to witness the final task.”
The faint sneer curling at the edge of his mouth finally made sense: Sirius. No doubt about it.
Harry’s chair scraped as he stood up fast.
“Thanks—uh, right. I’ll just—go.”
I gave him a mock salute.
“Try not to let him blow anything up before lunch.”
Harry snorted and disappeared through the side doors, Snape already stalking away before he’d even gone three steps. I scarfed down the rest of my breakfast before going to my first exam of the day.
The History of Magic exam came and went like a fever dream. I sat between Hermione and Blaise and did my best to answer something in every blank space. Whether any of it was accurate was up for debate, but I was fairly confident “Ulick the Oddball” had something to do with magical migration in the 14th century. Probably. Hopefully.
My hand was cramping like mad by the time we were dismissed.
Hermione stretched her fingers out like a pianist. I slouched.
“It’s over,” I said solemnly, tangling my arm through hers as we walked down the corridor. “We lived. Somehow. And now I am starving. I haven’t eaten in hours. I’m wasting away.”
“You had three pieces of toast,” she said without looking at me.
“That was hours ago! I’m hollow, Hermione. A shell of a wizard.”
She ignored me with practised ease. Honestly, I respected it.
When we reached the Great Hall, I spotted them immediately.
Mum and Bill were waving from our usual end of the table—both smiling, both looking pleased and relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen in months.
I beamed and dragged Hermione with me.
Mum pulled me into a hug that nearly cracked my spine. Bill followed with one of those half-arm, half-headlock things he always did.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mum said, smoothing down the front of my robes like I hadn’t just walked five feet from a classroom. “You look well.”
Bill grinned.
“Love the hair.”
“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Mum said sharply, glaring at the tiny ponytail I’d lazily tied up that morning.
I grinned, took it out just to dramatically fluff the length.
“See how long it is now?”
Mum sighed like she was witnessing a personal tragedy.
“You look like a rock musician.”
“Excellent,” I said, clearly winning. “That’s the goal.”
Across the table, Sirius was sandwiched between Fred and Harry, the three of them already whispering with the intensity of people absolutely up to something. I eyed them warily.
“Happy to see me, Ron?” Sirius called, grinning like a wolf.
“I was,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Now I’m afraid.”
Fred just wiggled his eyebrows at me.
“We’re brainstorming.”
“Please don’t,” I begged.
But lunch was brilliant, honestly. The Hall was loud and warm and filled with familiar voices. Fleur came by to say hello to Bill, which stunned me and left Bill looking quite smug. George bragged about how they had charmed Filch’s shoes to moo every time he took a step. Sirius tried to teach Ginny to throw food without getting caught. Percy was actually in the castle too and joined us for a few polite minutes before being called away by Rathbone for some “administrative purpose.” The food kept coming, and the conversations kept rolling.
It felt like home, despite the stone walls and high ceilings.
And for just a little while, it was easy to forget we still had one more thing ahead of us.
Eventually, Hermione glanced at her watch and sighed.
“Come on,” she said. “Ancient Runes.”
“Already?” I moaned, gathering my bag.
“You’ll be fine,” Bill said, ruffling my hair.
“Tell my ghost I died with dignity,” I said, and let Hermione drag me away to our final exam of the year.
Behind us, laughter followed all the way to the door.
It was time.
The sun was low in the sky, casting long golden shadows across the Quidditch pitch, which was now completely unrecognisable. The hedges towered over everything—tall, dark, and unnaturally dense. The maze loomed like it was alive, like it could close behind Harry and never let him out.
I’d spent the past week convinced this one would go fine. No dragons. No drowning. No kidnapping. Just spells, reflexes, and endurance. All things Harry had trained for. Things we’d worked on together. It had to go fine.
But now, sitting in the stands surrounded by my family, sweat clinging to the back of my neck, I wasn’t sure anymore.
Now, I couldn’t breathe right.
Now, I kept seeing things in my head—like the maze would spit him back out holding Cedric’s limp body, or worse, not spit him out at all.
I bit my thumbnail hard, only realising when Mum gently tapped my hand. I dropped it and forced myself to look forward.
The field below was buzzing with movement. Professors were speaking to the champions one last time. Hagrid, towering beside McGonagall and Flitwick, nodded at each of them before peeling off in different directions to take their positions around the maze perimeter. Mad-Eye Moody clunked toward one edge, wand in hand, eyes as alert as ever.
Then came the moment just for the champions.
Madame Maxime bent down and whispered something in Fleur’s ear, one large hand on her shoulder. Professor Sprout gave Cedric a firm, proud nod and a double thumbs-up. Karkaroff thumped Krum on the back in a way that looked more like posturing than encouragement.
And Snape stood beside Harry. Still. Straight-backed. Not touching him—he never did—but close. Watchful. Unmoving. Like a silent oath.
Then they left, and Bagman stepped into the centre of the field, wand at his throat.
“Sonorus!”
His voice boomed through the stands, bouncing off the hedges.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “The third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin!”
Applause erupted all around us. Mum clapped. Fred and George whooped. Sirius wolf-whistled so loudly it probably scared every owl in the Owlery.
Harry, who stood with the other champions just outside the maze entrance, turned toward the stands and waved. We all waved back. Hermione was beaming. I gave him a grin I hoped looked braver than I felt. My stomach was folding in on itself.
“Let me remind you how the points currently stand!” Bagman continued, voice ringing with theatrical glee. “In the lead, we have Harry Potter with eighty-eight points!”
More cheers.
“Close behind, Cedric Diggory with eighty-three!”
Wild applause from the Hufflepuffs.
“Viktor Krum, eighty-two! ”
The Durmstrang contingent stomped their feet like war drums.
“And finally, Fleur Delacour with seventy-six! ”
Even the Beauxbatons students in their powder-blue robes shouted her name.
Luoin had arrived not long ago, slipping into a seat beside Sirius and Bill, nodding politely at Mum. I was surprised to see him here, if I was being truthful. But it was still nice of him. The more familiar faces around, the better.
Bagman was still explaining the rules, but I wasn’t entirely listening until he raised his whistle.
“Potter will enter first. Followed by Diggory. Then Krum. And finally, Delacour.”
Harry stepped up to the maze entrance. My throat closed.
The whistle blew.
He disappeared between the hedges.
Cedric followed. Then Krum. Then Fleur.
I swallowed hard and exhaled like I’d just held my breath for three straight minutes. Now, I could do nothing but wait. I needed a distraction.
So, I slid into the empty spot next to Bill.
“What,” I said casually, “was that thing with Fleur at lunch?”
Bill looked down at me, smug.
“You’re too young to know.”
“Rubbish,” I said. “I’ve got to start preparing for my future sister-in-law.”
Bill choked on his butterbeer.
“ What?! We just met today! Why on earth do you think I’m going to marry her?”
“I didn’t say you, mate,” I said with a slow grin. “I was talking about Percy.”
Bill gave me a flat, deadpan look.
“Ha. Ha.”
Before I could press further, Bagman’s voice thundered over us again, and all of us fell quiet.
“Potter has encountered his first obstacle!” he announced. “A Blast-Ended Skrewt! Nasty little bugger. Looks like he’s cast a well-timed Shield Charm—dodged it! And—Reducto—he’s cut a path and kept moving! Fast, that one!”
The stands burst into wild applause. I could hear Hermione squeak beside me.
“Diggory has found himself caught in anti-gravity mist! He’s hovering—ah, no, clever boy, he’s cast an anchoring charm. And—yes!—he’s back on solid ground. Good recovery!”
A mix of cheers and gasps.
“Krum appears to be battling a boggart that’s taken the form of… oh, not sure what that is—some sort of spider with his mother’s face? Disturbing. But effective use of Riddikulus!”
I winced. Yikes.
“Delacour’s facing a hedge that bites! Not just metaphorically—yes, that’s an actual set of jaws. Clever charm to force it open—nicely done, Miss Delacour!”
Cheers from the Beauxbatons corner.
But then—
“Potter again! He’s met a giant spider—an acromantula, by the look of it! That’s… that’s a big one, folks.”
I was already gripping the edge of the seat.
“He’s dodging… deflecting… Impedimenta! Twice! No hesitation—clean work—he’s circling—Reducto to the leg, and it’s down! He’s moving on! Still not even winded, by the looks of it!”
My whole body was vibrating.
“Harry’s doing brilliant,” Hermione whispered.
“Like a machine,” I breathed.
It kept going. Bagman called out obstacle after obstacle—blinding mist, moving walls, some kind of enchanted fog that tried to whisper the champion’s worst memories into their heads.
But Harry handled them all.
Spellwork sharp. Strategy solid. Every move was something we’d gone over a dozen times in tutoring, or during one of our runs, or duelling, or that time we practised blindfolded with Snape yelling instructions in a voice like doom itself.
He was outpacing them. Getting closer to the centre.
And I was on the edge of my seat, heart in my mouth, gripping Bill’s hand without even realising it.
“Potter is nearing the centre!” Bagman shouted, his voice cracking slightly with the force of it. “He’s approaching—wait, yes! That’s a sphinx. He’s got a sphinx blocking the path!”
The crowd erupted in gasps and confused murmurs. Even Hermione looked alarmed.
“A sphinx?” she echoed, hands tightening on the edge of her seat. “Those are incredibly dangerous if provoked—”
“—They only attack if you answer wrong,” I muttered. “Or try to sneak past.”
Bagman was still going, theatrical as ever.
“I can’t hear what it’s saying—but it’s clearly speaking! Riddle, probably! Dangerous creatures, sphinxes—strong as manticores, and they don’t like being ignored! One wrong move and—”
“ Ludo! ” McGonagall’s voice barked from somewhere off to the side. “Do you mind ?”
Bagman muttered something sheepishly and quieted down.
I leaned forward, heart hammering in my chest. I wished I could see Harry’s face. See whether he was sweating. Panicking. Thinking.
Come on, mate.
Whatever the riddle was, he must’ve answered it correctly, because Bagman gave a delighted squawk a few moments later.
“He’s passed it! He’s passed the sphinx!”
The crowd erupted in cheers again, but I barely heard it—I was too busy watching the entrance of the maze, too busy shaking.
“And now—it’s Delacour! Fleur Delacour has also reached the sphinx—she’s hesitating… no—wait, she’s turning—”
“Running?” Bill muttered beside me.
Bagman confirmed it a second later.
“She’s sprinting! Something’s made her bolt—perhaps she saw Potter ahead? She’s gaining on him!”
Hermione clutched my wrist, fingers digging into my skin.
“She’s faster than he is,” she whispered.
“She won’t be if he sees the trophy first,” I breathed.
“Diggory is close behind! He’s on an alternate route, converging on the centre—brilliant footwork, Diggory—he’s bypassed the mist trap entirely—”
“Krum’s still stuck in that hedge trap,” Bill noted. “He’s going in circles.”
But I didn’t give a crap about Krum.
My eyes were fixed on the narrow gap in the hedge, and I was barely breathing.
“Potter and Delacour both see it! The trophy is in sight! They’re sprinting—side by side—neck and neck!”
My breath hitched. The stands had gone feral—roaring, cheering, names shouted from all corners of Hogwarts and beyond. The thunder of feet, the chaos of voices—it was all muffled to me, distant, drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears.
I could imagine it.
The two of them tearing across the last stretch of the maze. Hedges towering around them. The Triwizard Cup gleaming at the centre like a lighthouse.
“Come on, Harry,” I whispered. “ Come on. ”
“Potter’s diving—he’s—”
SLAP.
A flash of golden light.
And Harry was there.
Right in the middle of the field, knees bent, shoulders heaving, the Triwizard Cup clutched tight in his hands.
There was one second of stunned silence, like the whole stadium had gasped and held it—
And then it broke.
The stands exploded.
Everyone leapt to their feet. Fireworks burst into the sky from nowhere—maybe from the twins, maybe from the school itself. Horns blasted. Cheers echoed loud enough to shake the stone benches.
And me?
I stood there with my fists clenched and tears slipping down my face before I even knew they were there.
He’d done it.
He’d won.
He was safe.
And nothing else mattered.
Chapter 50: BOOK FIVE - BREATH OF FRESH AIR
Chapter Text
BOOK FIVE: RON WEASLEY AND THE SCARRY YEAR
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
BREATH OF FRESH AIR
Harry’s victory set Hogwarts alight.
Among our friends and family, it was all relief and pride. The Weasleys—those still at school and those who’d come to watch—looked fit to burst when Harry stepped off the podium in one piece. Ginny cried. The twins hoisted him up like he weighed nothing and paraded him around the field. Even Percy cracked a smile, which for him was akin to wild celebration.
Hermione was radiant with pride, and not a small amount of “I told you he’d manage.”
From the other champions, the reactions were mixed. Fleur was gracious, as always, and even kissed Harry on the cheek in congratulations, which turned him redder than a Howler. Cedric was solid and sportsmanlike, clapping Harry on the back and telling him he’d earned it. Krum… well, he didn’t say much, but he nodded at Harry across the table at breakfast the next day, and coming from Krum, that was basically a standing ovation.
The student body was chaotic in its reaction. Gryffindors went feral with celebration, of course, at Hogwarts having won the Tournament. Hufflepuff was quietly proud of Cedric, though a few of them admitted grudging respect for Harry’s performance. Ravenclaw debated the scores endlessly, as though Dumbledore would stroll by and ask for their opinion retroactively. Slytherin… didn’t say much. They never do. But I caught Theodore giving Harry a slight nod, and Blaise told me he’d bet on Harry in the final round and had no regrets.
The staff at Hogwarts were composed, as always. But there was pride behind McGonagall’s stiff upper lip. Flitwick kept dropping compliments “entirely by accident.” Even Madam Pomfrey, after poking and prodding Harry for injuries that weren’t there, said, “Well done, Mr. Potter. Try not to terrify me next year.”
Outside Hogwarts, things were even louder.
With Skeeter gone, her replacement at the Prophet—Betty Braithwaite—had a whole different take. Her articles cast Harry as the brave, reluctant hero: “ The Boy Who Endured. ” She painted him as an innocent lamb tossed into the arena with wolves, surviving each task with grit, humility, and the grace of someone far older. She didn’t seem to think he cheated. In fact, she speculated (not subtly) that his name had been entered as part of a greater Ministry conspiracy. I could practically hear Fudge’s teeth grinding from here.
It felt like the storm had passed.
And then, to add to the strange list of victories that year, something happened that had never happened before.
I got my exam results.
And for once, I actually gasped when I saw them.
Best in Defence Against the Dark Arts—well, technically. Harry hadn’t sat the final exam due to the Third Task, so his average didn’t count. Still, I’d earned it. I was top of the class. And in Charms, I came third. Third. Behind Hermione and Draco, which was annoying, but still—top three!
It was the first time I’d ever placed like that in anything academic. Ever. And I knew exactly why.
So the day before we all left for break, Harry and I went down to the dungeons one last time.
Snape looked up from a stack of parchment as we entered, frown easing into something that might’ve been a neutral expression. For him, that was practically smiling.
Harry stepped forward first.
“I just wanted to say thank you, sir,” he said, voice serious. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made it through the Tournament. Or if I did, I’d be in pieces. You trained me. You helped me think through every task. You saved me.”
Snape regarded him in silence for a moment. Then:
“You followed instructions. You didn’t get yourself killed. That was all I asked.” A pause. “But… your performance exceeded my expectations.”
Coming from Snape, that was basically a standing ovation and a trophy.
Harry smiled, a bit stunned, then nodded and muttered a quick goodbye before heading off to pack.
I lingered behind, fiddling with the cuff of my robe.
“I wanted to thank you, too,” I said. “Not just for helping Harry. But for being patient. With both of us. With me.”
Snape looked at me with something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
“I’ll keep sharp over the break,” I added. “Promise. I’ve got some theory books from Flitwick, and I’m going to revise DADA over the holidays. I want to hit the ground running next year.”
Snape gave a short nod.
“Good. Do not waste your momentum, Mr. Weasley.”
I felt something in my chest warm up a little.
“Have a nice summer, sir,” I said.
And then I left, already thinking about what I’d pack first.
The ride on the Hogwarts Express felt like a dream slowly unspooling. After everything that had happened—the dragons, the lake, the maze—now there was just… the countryside rolling past and the low hum of chatter in the corridors. People came and went, stopping by our compartment to congratulate Harry, to shake his hand, or to say they’d always believed in him. Some of them were lying. We could all tell. But Harry took it in stride, smiled politely, and went back to playing wizard chess or gazing out the window between conversations.
I sat across from him and Hermione, letting their voices drift in and out of my head. Every now and again, I’d sneak a glance toward the front of the train, wondering if I’d spot Luna wandering past. I hadn’t talked to her properly in weeks—months, even. Not since the Yule Ball, really. Things had just gotten so hectic. I’d been busy. But still, that wasn’t a good excuse. She deserved better, and I owed her some time. This summer, I’d make it up to her. I’d invite her over. If Mum didn’t mind. I hoped she wouldn’t mind.
The ride went quickly, all things considered. And then, with a screech of brakes and a final lurch, we were at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
We spilt out with the rest of the students, dragging trunks and cages through the press of steam and noise. The platform was full of parents waving, shouting, and reuniting. I spotted Mum immediately, waving from the edge of the crowd with Ginny already at her side.
I turned back toward Harry and Hermione, reluctant to let the year go just yet.
“We’ll write, yeah?” Hermione said, hugging both of us in turn. “Every week.”
“At least,” Harry nodded, gripping me by the nape. “And I’ll see you for my birthday. Earlier, if Sirius can swing it.”
We promised. We always did.
Then Harry’s uncle appeared, face like a pickled lemon, and hauled him away with all the grace of a Bludger. Hermione’s parents weren’t far behind, chatting warmly with Mum before hugging her and steering Hermione toward the car park.
And just like that, it was just us—me, Mum, the twins, and Ginny—heading out of the station, the sun dipping low behind the London skyline.
Summer had begun.
And for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe again.
Our first dinner back at the Burrow was halfway done when I finally worked up the nerve to speak over the clatter of cutlery and the twins’ latest argument about who was more likely to blow their eyebrows off before August.
“Hey—Dad, Percy,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “Can we talk about what’s been going on at the Ministry? Just… everything, really. I’ve got questions.”
Fred groaned dramatically and slid down his chair like I’d just cast a Silencing Charm on him. George chucked a pea at me in protest.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “If you're not interested, don’t listen.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t,” Fred muttered. Mum gave him a swat on the arm and told the twins to behave. Ginny rolled her eyes and went back to her stew.
But Dad and Percy both perked up, like I’d said the magic words. Percy adjusted his glasses and nodded, a bit too eagerly.
“Well, fire away,” Dad said, clearly pleased that one of us had inherited his passion for Ministry affairs.
I started with the obvious.
“So… What exactly happened ever since Pettigrew? Skeeter still mentioned him quite often in her articles. Are people really still talking about it?”
“Endlessly,” Percy replied. “And rightfully so. It’s changed how everything works. No one wants to admit it, but the fact that we put an innocent man in Azkaban and then let an actual Death Eater hide under our noses for over a decade? That’s going to haunt us for a long time.”
Dad nodded.
“The blow to public trust is massive. Every decision we make now is scrutinised twice over. And with Crouch Jr. still on the run, the press is only getting more brutal.”
“It is worse since the task force had to pause other investigations,” Percy explained. “They had to redirect resources. Crouch’s case demanded full attention. It took months of sorting through testimonies, memory records, and personnel files. But he’s been found guilty now. Life in Azkaban.”
Dad sighed, rubbing his temples.
“And now that it’s over,” he said, “they’re restarting the investigations. Every wartime case is being reviewed. And that means the Ministry officials involved, too.”
“Like Snape,” I said quietly.
Dad gave me a careful look.
“There are rumours that Fudge pushed for it personally.”
What the fuck. Snape was right; they only wanted a convenient scapegoat.
“To distract from the Ministry’s mess?” I ventured.
“Exactly,” Dad said. “Snape’s name is flashy. Controversial. He divides opinion. Perfect scapegoat if you want to rile up a few headlines and steer attention away from your own failings.”
I clenched my fork tighter.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Politics usually is,” Percy said with a sniff. “But that’s where Rathbone comes in. He’s already making waves at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He believes in transparency and reform. No more buried files or secret verdicts.”
“He seemed decent when I met him,” I said. “When I caught Skeeter and he believed me? That was impressive. I thought for sure he’d dismiss me.”
Percy preened a little at that.
“Yes, well. He has an eye for potential.”
“Lucky for you,” Fred muttered under his breath.
Percy ignored him.
“Without Skeeter writing her sensationalist trash,” Dad continued, “people are actually paying attention to the real issues again. Ministry accountability. Justice. There’ll be no sweeping things under the rug during the next trials. Crabbe and Goyle got off quietly when everyone’s attention was on the Tournament, but they were lucky. No one was looking.”
“But they’re watching now,” I commented.
Percy nodded.
“The Nott case is next. And that’s going to be different. There’s already talk in the Department. Some people think he might not get the usual non-guilty verdict.”
I let that sink in. One guilty verdict might start a chain reaction. Or a witch hunt. If he was guilty, then he deserved it. I wouldn’t feel sorry for him, but I would feel sorry for Theodore.
“Meanwhile,” Dad muttered, “Lucius Malfoy struts around like he owns the place. Merlin’s beard, I can’t believe he slipped out again.”
“Officially,” Percy said, “there was ‘insufficient evidence to override his previously accepted defence.’”
“Officially,” Dad echoed bitterly. “And now he’s trying to polish his reputation by pretending he’s the only sane voice against Hogwarts. Since the Prophet dragged Dumbledore, Lupin, Hagrid, and even Snape through the mud, Malfoy’s pretending he’s the only adult in the room.”
“And Fudge lets him,” I said.
“He needs support,” Percy said, frowning. “He’s gripping that seat so tightly, he’s got white knuckles. There are rumours he’s… not entirely well. The pressure’s getting to him. He sees conspiracies everywhere. And he wants to take more control over Hogwarts next year.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Just what we need.”
“Well,” Percy said, adjusting his glasses again, “hopefully Rathbone can rise through the ranks fast enough to balance the system before it collapses. He has vision.”
Dad raised an eyebrow.
“He’s got charm, I’ll give you that. Let’s hope he’s not too good to be true.”
Mum suddenly clapped her hands.
“That’s enough Ministry talk at the table, thank you.”
The others cheered, and Percy, Dad, and I exchanged glances.
But I was still thinking about Crouch. Malfoy. Nott. And the storm that wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. But at least Snape was safe from it.
Speaking of…
I cleared my throat.
“Mum?”
She looked up from her plate, eyebrows raised.
“Yes, dear?”
I felt the blush rising already.
“Er. Just wondering… were you ever planning on telling me that you’ve been sending care packages to Snape?”
The effect was immediate.
The twins froze, forks midair. Ginny snorted pumpkin juice into her napkin. Even Percy looked like he might have misheard me.
“ Care packages? ” Fred repeated, eyes wide.
“For Snape ?” George said, scandalised. “Our Snape? Bat of the Dungeons? Terror of the Cauldron?”
“That’s a gross misuse of baked goods,” Fred added gravely. “Do you know what treacle tart means to us, Mother?”
Mum rolled her eyes and wiped her hands briskly on a napkin.
“He’s done more for this family than any of you seem to remember. He’s kept Ron and Harry safe more than once, and he personally ensured Ginny was never alone after the Chamber incident.”
That shut the twins up faster than a Silencing Charm. Even Ginny looked surprised by that one.
Then Mum turned to me.
“And you, Ronald—I thought you’d defend me, at least.”
“I am defending you,” I said, flustered. “I think it’s… It’s great. Honestly. I’m happy you’re doing it. I just—maybe would’ve liked to know about it before I found out from Snape himself … years after you started.”
Mum blinked, then pursed her lips.
“Well. Does he like them?”
I threw my hands up.
“He was halfway through his toffees when I caught him. That’s got to count for something.”
Mum smiled, positively beaming, like she’d just been given the Order of Merlin.
“I knew he’d appreciate a bit of home-made comfort. That man’s been eating bitter lemon rinds and judgment for twenty years.”
Fred made a dramatic retching noise into his napkin. George pretended to faint.
“Honestly,” Mum huffed, “the way you all act, you’d think I was feeding poison to the Minister himself.”
I grinned, then took a sip of my juice, only to choke slightly when Mum turned back to me with a new gleam in her eye.
“Now. Tell me about your tutoring with Professor Snape this year.”
“Oh—uh.” I glanced at Percy for help, but he just looked intrigued. Traitor.
“It was mostly helping Harry train for the Tournament,” I said, carefully. “But I learned loads too. Stuff way beyond the curriculum.”
“Anything useful?” Mum asked.
“I’m first in Defence now,” I said, trying not to sound too smug. “Ahead of Hermione.”
That got the twins’ attention. Even Ginny sat up straighter.
“No way,” said George.
“ You beat Hermione?” Fred said, awed. “Blimey. What’s in those toffees you gave Snape?”
“Apparently not poison,” I said wryly. “Just… gratitude.”
Mum looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place. A little proud. A little exasperated. A little something else I couldn’t name.
But she said, “Good,” and that was enough.
It was the kind of warm summer afternoon that made you forget school even existed. I sat out in the garden, legs stretched in front of me, watching the twins tinker with a pair of miniature cauldrons that kept coughing out coloured smoke.
“Any news on Bagman?” I asked, not expecting anything good.
Fred snorted.
“Gone to ground.”
“Vanished,” George confirmed. “No trace. And not even a bronze Knut to show for it.”
“We tried everything,” Fred added. “Howlers, anonymous tip-offs, even a very tasteful poem about debt and honour.”
George sighed like a Shakespearean actor.
“But alas, our audience fled the stage.”
They grinned, but there was frustration behind the humour.
“How are you going to fund the joke shop now?
They glanced at each other, then Fred said,
“Let’s just say the Room of Requirement has been... exceptionally generous.”
George nodded.
“We also sold some of the prototype stock during Hogsmeade weekends. And we’re branching out to Diagon Alley this summer. Possibly Knockturn, if we’re feeling spicy.”
“Not Ottery,” Fred added. “Mum would find out in about two seconds.”
I laughed.
“You lot are going to get arrested.”
“Only if we get caught,” George grinned.
“Thanks again, Ron,” Fred said suddenly, looking genuinely grateful. “For the Room. We’d be nowhere without it.”
George echoed him.
“We owe you.”
“Guess that means lifetime discounts?” I joked.
They didn’t look like they thought it was a joke.
“Obviously,” Fred said. “We’re not monsters.”
I laughed, more touched than I wanted to admit.
I made a point of spending real time with Luna that summer. I hadn’t been the most attentive friend during the school year, not with the Tournament, tutoring, and everything else. But Luna didn’t bring it up once.
“It’s all right,” she said serenely, lying on the grass next to me with her hands folded under her head. “You were very busy becoming a hero.”
“That’s Harry,” I muttered.
“You were still brilliant,” she said simply.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just gave her half a smile and let the wind do the rest.
Ginny joined us more often than not. Apparently, the two of them had become closer this year, which made sense—Luna needed someone like Ginny, and Ginny… well, I think she needed someone who saw things a little differently. The two of them sprawled out on the grass, chatting about Snorkacks and Quidditch injuries like both topics were equally sensible.
It was weird and peaceful and surprisingly healing. Watching them laugh together, watching Luna’s smile go from dreamy to warm made me feel like maybe I wasn’t as much of a disaster as I’d been all year.
And I stopped feeling so guilty.
It was after dinner, the dishes clinking quietly in the sink by Mum’s wand as she hummed in the kitchen, when Dad gave me a look I recognised immediately.
Oh no.
“I thought we could take a little walk,” he said with a bright casualness that meant it absolutely wasn’t casual. “Nice night for it.”
I almost groaned aloud, but swallowed it. I was fifteen now, not thirteen. I wasn’t going to pull a dramatic face and stomp around about it. So I just nodded and followed him out the back door and into the garden.
The stars were out. It was one of those warm, still summer nights that made the grass feel soft underfoot. We passed the shed, then the orchard, and finally stopped under the apple tree where we could see the hills in the distance.
Dad coughed gently into his hand, then began.
“I thought… we should have a bit of a talk,” he said. “You’re getting older. And after this year—dragons and all—I figure you’ve earned a slightly more grown-up version of the conversation we had back when you were twelve.”
I let out a sigh, but it wasn’t mocking. Just bracing.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
He smiled, a bit relieved.
“Right then.”
He started with relationships. Respect. That you should always be able to be yourself with the person you’re dating. That feeling safe wasn’t optional—it was the foundation. He spoke softly but clearly about red flags: controlling behaviour, put-downs disguised as jokes, isolating you from friends or family, making you feel guilty for saying no to things.
“Even if no one’s yelling or hitting, you have to listen to your gut,” he said. “If something feels off, it probably is.”
I nodded slowly. I didn’t know much about dating yet, but it was good to know what to watch for—what I didn’t want.
Then came the sex part. I didn’t die of embarrassment, which was a miracle. I stared at the grass and tried not to squirm too much.
“When it’s okay to have sex,” Dad said carefully, “is when you both feel ready, you both want to, and you both respect each other enough to talk honestly. That includes safety—magical and otherwise—and full consent. No pressure. No games. No ‘I owe them’ or ‘they’ll leave me if I don’t.’”
I nodded again, more seriously this time. I liked the way he put it. Calm. Honest.
“It’s not about doing things because your friends are,” he added. “It’s about you. Your pace. You get to decide.”
We stood in silence for a few moments. The orchard creaked around us in the breeze.
Then I looked over at him.
“I’m glad it’s you,” I said, a bit shyly. “Talking about this. Thanks.”
Dad’s eyes softened. He looked like he wanted to ruffle my hair, but held back.
“You’re a good lad, Ron,” he said quietly. “And you’ve got your head on straight. I trust you to make good decisions. Just remember, you can always come to me. Or your mum. Or Bill, even.”
“Not Percy?” I joked.
Dad snorted.
“Maybe not Percy.”
We laughed quietly under the tree.
It was embarrassing. It was weird. But it was also kind of… nice.
And somehow, despite the awkwardness, I went to bed that night feeling a little more grown-up.
It was warm, sunny, and precisely the kind of lazy summer day we needed. Sirius’ house was becoming familiar and comforting.
We spent half the day outside. Harry said it was a bit ironic to be swimming again so soon after nearly drowning in February, and I told him we should’ve earned a lifetime pass to skip all future large bodies of water. He grinned and did a cannonball anyway.
Sirius was in full funny-uncle mode. He’d apparently learned exactly three “dad jokes” and was using them on rotation, mostly on Hermione, who barely disguised her groans. It was awful. We laughed anyway.
At some point after cake, when we were all slouched on loungers in the shade, Hermione said—very casually, like it wasn’t a big deal—that she was still corresponding with Viktor Krum.
Harry raised his eyebrows. I shot her a look and leaned forward with a grin.
“And? What’s he saying? Anything juicy?”
She flushed.
“It’s not like that. We’re just… friends.”
“Friends who send owls across continents?” I teased. “Sounds serious.”
Harry chimed in,
“Is that why you’re suddenly interested in Quidditch tactics?”
Hermione rolled her eyes and turned pinker by the second.
“You two are impossible.”
It was nice. No curses. No fire. No death traps. Just friends, teasing and laughing, on a warm afternoon that felt like it might actually belong to us.
When the Hogwarts letters came, I wasn’t even the one who opened mine. Ginny had snatched it off the table before I could and let out a squeal loud enough to startle the cat two houses down.
“You’re a prefect!” she shouted, waving the letter over her head like it was a Quidditch banner.
I blinked.
“What?”
Before I could snatch it back, Mum came running in from the garden, wiping her hands on her apron.
“What did she say? What’s happened?”
“Prefect!” Ginny said again and handed over the letter like it was a crown.
Mum gasped, both hands over her mouth. Then she pulled me into a bone-crushing hug before I could say a single word.
“Oh, my Ronnie,” she said, voice thick. “A prefect! Just like Bill and Charlie and—oh, Percy, come see!”
Percy arrived from the next room, already buttoning up his shirt like he had heard his name through walls and time. He looked at me, then at the letter Mum was holding out to him, as if it were a royal decree.
He took it, scanned it, and his face lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in ages. Not the stiff pride he wore when talking about his job, or the polished smugness when reciting Ministry policy, but honest, beaming pride.
“Well,” he said, and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Thanks,” I said, a bit sheepish. My ears were going red, I could feel it.
Percy gave me a very Percy speech after that—about responsibility, setting examples, and the importance of maintaining calm in the face of chaos, particularly where younger siblings and housemates were involved. I was half-listening and half-marvelling that he couldn’t stop smiling. It hit me then how much it really meant to him. That he wasn’t just proud of me—he was happy for me.
That kind of thing sticks with you.
Mum was dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron, already talking about gifts.
“We’ll have to get you something—something special, something memorable. A new watch, maybe? Or—oh, Percy got Hermes and a new set of robes when he made prefect, but maybe you’d like a cloak? We’ll go to Diagon Alley—”
I cut her off, grinning.
“Mum, really. I just want your raspberry cake. With loads of custard. That’ll do me just fine.”
She blinked at me, then smiled like I’d just named her Queen of England.
“You’ll have the biggest one I’ve ever baked.”
And she meant it. That evening, we sat around the table staring down at a monstrous raspberry cake layered with custard so thick it oozed when we cut into it. Seven of us, and we still barely made a dent. I ate way too much, obviously, and spent the evening lying on the couch groaning about my stomach.
But I was perfect. Percy was proud. Mum was beaming. And my stomach was full of sugar and victory.
I felt good. I felt seen. I felt… content.
Which, honestly, wasn’t something I felt a lot.
But I did that day.
What a lovely summer.
Chapter 51: BOOK FIVE - DECREE TWENTY-TWO
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
DECREE TWENTY-TWO
The prefect carriage had the usual air of self-importance. I’d barely stepped inside before a Ravenclaw seventh-year boy with an immaculate badge on his chest gestured for silence and began droning instructions like he’d been rehearsing all summer.
“The role of prefect is one of privilege, but also responsibility,” he said, with a tone that made me think he really believed it. “You’ve been hand-picked by your Head of House, and that is not a distinction given lightly. You are expected to be examples of conduct, discipline, and inclusivity—”
“Inclusivity,” the Head Girl, a tall Gryffindor with a perfect posture and a slightly superior smile, repeated. “That means being welcoming to students of all backgrounds.”
She turned ever-so-slightly toward me and Pansy, who sat with her arms crossed and eyes bored. I stiffened. Typical. One Slytherin with a blood complex, and now I’m lumped in too. I resisted the urge to scowl. Not the first time people made assumptions based on my tie.
“You’ll be expected to assist first years in acclimating to school life,” she continued. “Help them get to classes, patrol the corridors after curfew, and be a point of contact for other students.”
The Head Boy began rattling off patrol schedules.
“First rotation will be Macmillan and Brown. Then Corner and Patil. Parkinson and Weasley will patrol in two hours. One takes the left side of the train, the other, the right. Cover as much ground as you can.”
I nodded, noting the time. Pansy didn’t acknowledge it at all.
“You’re dismissed,” the Head Girl finished.
Hermione and I made our way out quickly. On the way to our usual compartment, a small, round-eyed first-year darted in front of us, sniffling miserably.
“Sorry—um, are you prefects?” he asked, blinking back tears. “I lost my cat. Hector. He’s very fluffy. And slow. And he—he’s gone.”
Hermione melted instantly.
“Don’t worry. We’ll help you find him.”
Three carriages later, we located Hector surrounded by giggling seventh-year Hufflepuff girls, purring like royalty as they fed him bits of pumpkin pasties. We returned the overly pampered feline to his owner, who thanked us with wide eyes and a hiccupping bow.
By the time we reached our compartment, I was ready to collapse. Harry and Ginny were already inside, trading Chocolate Frog cards. Luna sat beside Harry, chewing on a Sugar Quill and reading intently.
I flopped into the seat beside Luna.
She handed me half of her Quibbler without looking away from the article she was reading. I scanned the caricature of Fudge she was staring at—he was buried under towers of paper stamped TOP SECRET and SCAPEGOAT: HOGWARTS EDITION. I bit into a Chocolate Frog and snorted quietly. Couldn’t even argue with it.
Hermione took the other seat and launched straight into her rundown of prefects.
“Pansy’s the other Slytherin prefect,” she said, lips tight. “Neville’s the other Gryffindor prefect. There’s also Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw and Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan for Hufflepuff.”
“They should’ve picked Tracey,” Harry said flatly. “At least she’s got a brain.”
I nodded.
“Pansy has the spine of a flobberworm unless she’s sneering at people smaller than her.”
Hermione frowned.
“Dumbledore and Snape must have their reasons.”
I shrugged. Maybe.
“Have you read the news about school?” Luna asked suddenly, folding her newspaper.
We all turned toward her. Hermione looked wary.
“What news?”
“Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two,” Luna said mildly. “It says that if the Headmaster is unable to find a suitable candidate for a teaching position, the Ministry can appoint one themselves. They announced that they will replace the DADA teacher this year.”
“But Moody’s brilliant!” Harry protested. “Probably the best teacher we’ve had.”
“He was deemed unstable,” Luna said, sipping from a Butterbeer cap like it was tea. “Too paranoid for a classroom, apparently.”
I felt something clench in my chest.
“Do you know who the replacement is?”
“No,” Luna said with a shrug. “We’ll find out tonight, I suppose.”
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. If it was Umbridge… Merlin help us all. She was ten kinds of annoying just on the page. I didn’t need to live through it.
I took another bite of chocolate and went back to reading over Luna’s shoulder. No use worrying about it now. But still, a bad feeling was coiling in my stomach. The sort of feeling that always showed up when things were about to go terribly wrong.
After some time, I had to get up for my patrol. Hermione glanced up from her seat, gave me an encouraging smile, and I stepped out into the corridor.
The patrol was uneventful. A couple of nervous-looking first years asked where the toilets were, and I pointed them in the right direction. Other than that, everyone was behaving, or hiding their mischief well enough not to get caught. When I got back to our compartment, Hermione stood up and gave me a quick nod—her turn now.
The rest of the ride passed in comfortable chatter. Harry and Ginny debated which Chocolate Frog card was the rarest, Luna snuck half of my Liquorice Wand when she thought I wasn’t looking, and I read the latest bit of Quibbler conspiracy about goblins building a subterranean rebellion fleet. Normal train ride things.
When the train finally pulled into the station, Hermione and I gathered with the other prefects to supervise the disembarking. It was mostly smooth, though we did have to give a group of rambunctious fourth years a firm telling-off for nearly bowling over a group of terrified first years. That out of the way, I spotted Hagrid herding the tiny swarm of eleven-year-olds toward the boats and felt a rush of relief. Not our problem anymore.
We hopped into one of the carriages—thestral-drawn, though only Neville looked at them with recognition. None of us commented. I ended up sharing with Neville, Ernie Macmillan, and Hermione. Neville was cradling some humming plant with long, twitchy leaves. I decided not to ask.
We chit-chatted about our summers. Ernie was still pompous but good-natured as ever. Neville must have spent most of his time in greenhouses or watering cans, judging by the sunburn on his neck.
When we reached the castle, we all drifted apart. I followed the stream of green-robed Slytherins toward our table and slid into a spot beside Harry, who was already sitting with Blaise and Theodore. The moment I sat down, I noticed the air was… off.
Theo looked paler than usual, tense, like he hadn’t really slept. I didn’t need a signpost to figure out why.
“You holding up?” I asked him quietly.
He didn’t answer, just gave a little noncommittal sound and looked away. I let it be.
I turned to Blaise instead.
“So, what’d you do this summer?”
“Travelled,” he said. “A lot of France and the coast. My mother was chasing some rich wizard with an unfortunate marriage. Didn’t work out.”
“That sounds about right,” I said, grinning.
We quieted as the Sorting began. I watched a few kids shuffle off nervously in their direction, the Sorting Hat calling out names in its usual loud drawl. But I barely paid it any attention. My eyes were on the head table.
Snape was there, expression as neutral and unimpressed as ever. My heart gave a little kick when I saw him. For some reason, it always did. Like a reflex I couldn’t shake.
But then I saw the toad in pink sitting beside him. My stomach dropped. I sighed loudly. Harry leaned closer.
“You think she’s the new DADA teacher?”
“Yeah. Only reason she’d be up there.”
Harry squinted.
“She looks… nice?”
“She doesn’t,” I said flatly.
The food appeared—piling high and steaming, and for a few blessed minutes, we forgot the pink disaster looming over us. Blaise congratulated me on becoming a prefect. I smirked.
“Better be on your best behaviour around me now.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’d be terrified… if I thought you’d enforce anything.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
After the feast, Dumbledore stood up to give his usual beginning-of-year speech. I knew the routine. But then, halfway through his introduction of the staff, when he got to her—
“I would like to introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Dolores Umbridge—”
She stood. And she interrupted him.
Snape’s expression went from bored to something between murder and disbelief.
“Look at Snape’s face,” I whispered quickly to Harry, nudging him with my elbow.
Harry and Blaise both leaned slightly, caught sight of Snape’s unimpressed scowl, and snorted.
Her speech was long, tedious, and filled with sugar-coated venom. Most students zoned out halfway through. But I kept listening. I could read between the lines.
This was about Hogwarts. About the Ministry wanting its claws deeper in the school, to keep an eye on Dumbledore, and maybe to dig up anything they could on the staff to spin more stories.
When she finally finished, I clapped twice—more out of obligation than approval—and stopped.
I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut. Whatever Umbridge was here for, it wasn’t to teach.
And I really hoped there weren’t more skeletons in Hogwarts’ closets waiting to be discovered.
Because this year… this year already reeked of trouble.
Snape’s office was exactly how I remembered it—damp, echoing, and slightly too cold even with my sleeves rolled down. Same stacks of papers, same smell of parchment and potions, same way the shadows curled around the walls like they didn’t want to be seen.
But it was I who felt more out of place this year.
He didn’t greet me. He didn’t offer a seat.
He just looked up, quill stilled in his hand, and studied me for a long, slow moment. Then he said,
“You’re grinding your teeth.”
I unclenched my jaw with a snap.
“Sorry. It’s just—today was… frustrating.”
“Ah. The Umbridge experience.”
I let out something between a breath and a growl.
“Three periods of her in one day,” I said. “I could feel my brain shrinking. It’s all theory. No spells. No movement. Just a lot of her talking about how dark magic is a myth the Ministry doesn’t acknowledge.”
Snape hummed, then folded his hands atop the desk.
“You’re not wrong. Nor alone in your frustration.”
I blinked. That felt like more sympathy than I’d expected.
Snape stood slowly and crossed the room to the shelf near his blackboard. He spoke as he moved, voice as smooth and cutting as ever.
“You are, Mr. Weasley, entering the most critical year of your education to date. Not because of O.W.L.s—though I’m sure McGonagall has already thrown a fit about them—but because this year, the Ministry has taken a direct interest in controlling what you know.”
He turned, robes billowing slightly.
“I don’t intend to let that happen.”
I swallowed. My fists, which I hadn’t even realised were clenched, relaxed a bit.
“Good,” I said. “I don’t want to forget everything I worked for last year.”
Snape raised an eyebrow, then gestured to the centre of the room, the same cleared-out space we’d used for spellwork last year.
“Then let’s begin.”
I stepped into place.
But Snape hadn’t raised his wand yet. He just stood there, arms folded, and studied me again.
“You are stronger than last year,” he said, more to himself than to me. “More focused. You’ve lost some of that hesitation. But you still hesitate to strike.”
“I’m not a duelist,” I muttered, before I could stop myself.
“No,” Snape agreed. “But you need to be. Because your enemies won’t wait for permission.”
I looked up at him, unsure of how to answer that.
“So,” he continued, “this year we will focus on three things: first, offensive spellwork under pressure. Second, nonverbal casting in combat conditions. And third, the beginning framework of mental defence.”
He stepped closer.
“Which brings me to a question… Did you continue the mental exercises I gave you over the summer?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Snape looked at me longer than I expected. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifted. Not exactly approval. Just attention.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need that discipline. Not just to shield your thoughts, but to stay grounded when things escalate.”
He drew his wand at last. I mirrored him.
“Tonight, we begin where we left off: disarming, blocking, and redirecting spells. All nonverbal. And all with intent to win.”
A slight flick of his wand, and a jet of light was already flying at me.
I barely dodged.
“Welcome back, Mr. Weasley.”
I grinned, heart pounding, as I raised my wand again.
“Glad to be here.”
And just like that, the weight of Umbridge, the Ministry, and everything else fell away. There was only the clash of magic, the sharp scent of air split by spells, and the echo of Snape’s voice calling me to be better. Stronger. Quieter.
Ready.
Because I wasn’t fighting just to pass my O.W.L.s, I was fighting for what school wouldn’t teach me. And Snape was making damn sure I’d learn anyway.
The first two weeks of school felt like an endurance trial designed to weed out the weak-willed. If the professors had agreed on a joint mission to drown us under parchment and mental collapse, they were succeeding brilliantly.
History of Magic wanted a foot-long essay on the Giant Wars, which I was convinced had lasted less time than this assignment would take to write.
Potions had us knee-deep in research on the magical and alchemical uses of moonstones. I liked Potions well enough, especially after last year, but even I had to admit that Snape’s standards this term were brutal.
Charms gave us another foot-long essay, this time on the Descending Charm, which wasn’t even the flashiest spell. Just… useful. Boringly useful.
Transfiguration demanded what McGonagall called a “foundational piece” on the theory and limitations of the Inanimatus Conjurus Spell. Foundational. That word alone sounded like weeks of suffering.
Ancient Runes—don’t get me started. A worksheet the size of the lake. I didn’t even know there were that many runes in existence.
Only Divination gave me any form of joy. Our dream journal was finally a thing, and let me tell you, I had material. I couldn’t wait to write about the recurring dream where Draco Malfoy got kidnapped by an evil goat and no one cared. It wasn’t even scary. It was oddly satisfying. I’d been having that dream at least twice a year since my first year. This assignment might finally give me a proper interpretation, although I had strong suspicions it wasn’t symbolic so much as pure wish fulfilment.
Another one? Same goat. But this time it was Umbridge being dragged away while she squealed like a broken kettle. A bit darker, that one. But deeply therapeutic.
Especially now that Umbridge had been granted Educational Decree Number 23 and named herself High Inquisitor. Just reading that in the Prophet had been enough to ruin breakfast. She now roamed Hogwarts like a pink parasite, inserting herself into other professors’ lessons like it was her divine right.
She even invaded Ancient Runes last Thursday. Sat stiffly in the corner like a toad glued to a doily, scribbling in her clipboard while Professor Babbling taught seamlessly, despite all of us throwing silent glances like, Is she okay? Is she passing the inspection?
She’d better. Babbling was one of our best.
That Sunday, we all tried to forget about homework and decrees and inspections and professors. The weather was holding up for once, so Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Luna and I set up a little picnic by the lake.
“Do you think she’s trying to get someone fired?” Ginny asked, flicking breadcrumbs to the water.
“She’s not trying,” Hermione said, adjusting the picnic blanket. “She’s been empowered to. She can sack teachers if she deems them unfit.”
“Well,” Harry muttered, “Binns better start polishing his résumé.”
That got a chuckle. Even Hermione didn’t argue.
“I wouldn’t mind a real History teacher,” I said. “One who doesn’t drone like a dying lawnmower.”
“But what if she goes after Trelawney?” Hermione said, quieter now.
I frowned.
“Why would she? Trelawney’s weird, yeah, but she’s legit. I’ve seen her predictions come true.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced.
“Ron, you’re biased,” Ginny said lightly. “Every other sentence last year was about Mars and Saturn and whatever omens she talked about.”
“That’s not—” I began, then saw Harry and Luna nodding. “Oh, come on,” I groaned. “You too?”
They grinned. I dropped the topic.
“She’s not going to stop at the easy targets,” Hermione said after a pause. “She wants someone big. Someone who would make a statement.”
Ginny was the one to say it.
“What about Snape?”
I stiffened immediately.
“Snape’s untouchable,” I said. “He was cleared. There’s no reason—”
“The stain stays,” Luna said softly, as if repeating something someone else had once told her.
“Even if he was acquitted,” Hermione added, “it’s still on the record. And Umbridge doesn’t strike me as someone who cares about nuance.”
“She can try,” I muttered darkly. “And if she does, she’ll find out I can be worse than the twins when provoked.”
Ginny leaned forward.
“Oh? What kind of worse?”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“Planning something?”
I tried to make a mysterious face.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Luna blinked at me.
“We would, that’s why they asked.”
I snorted. Everyone laughed. And for a moment, the tension around the lake blew away with the breeze.
But I didn’t forget what Hermione said. Or Luna. The stain stays. And if Umbridge ever tried to use that stain against Snape, she’d have me to deal with. And I’d bring goats.
Harry lay back on the grass and let out a long, frustrated sigh.
“D’you know what would make this year bearable?”
I quirked a brow.
“Fewer essays?”
“That, and if Snape were teaching Defence full-time instead of Potions.”
Everyone blinked in disbelief.
“What.”
“I’m serious,” he said, eyes closed. “Last year, I learnt loads with him. More than I ever expected. I’m actually a bit disappointed the Tournament is over. It sounds ridiculous, but… that training was good. I felt ready for things.”
I didn’t say anything right away. I felt a bit warm in the chest, hearing him say that. Not because it surprised me—I’d known he respected Snape after everything—but because it still felt unreal to hear someone say it out loud, like Snape was a teacher worth missing. And coming from Harry, of all people?
Hermione nodded thoughtfully.
“You’re lucky, Ron. You still have the tutoring.”
That was when Ginny jabbed me with a grin.
“Yeah, Ron. You should share some of that top-secret training with the rest of us.”
I scoffed.
“Hah. No chance. Snape’s mine .”
Silence.
Hermione blinked. Harry turned his head slowly. Ginny’s grin stretched, delighted.
I froze.
“I—I didn’t mean—! I meant tutoring-wise! Academic ownership! Not—Merlin— not —” My ears were burning. “—not mine mine. That’s not what I—shut up, Ginny!”
Ginny was already doubled over, wheezing.
“Traitors,” I grumbled at the lot of them as Harry and Hermione started snickering too. Even Luna was hiding her smile behind a cup of pumpkin juice like the world’s most graceful assassin.
“Just—go ahead,” I muttered, flopping backwards on the grass. “Laugh it up. Hilarious.”
And they did.
Idiots. All of them.
But I didn’t mind that much.
The end of September had finally brought cooler mornings and the kind of chill that made getting out of bed feel like a full-body betrayal. I was halfway through stretching under the covers when I realised Harry was already up, sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and glaring at the floor like it had personally offended him.
“Morning,” I yawned, rubbing my face. “You alright?”
“Not now,” he muttered, standing so abruptly that his blankets fell in a heap behind him.
Right. One of those mornings.
We got dressed without talking, and the silence between us didn’t loosen by the time we reached the Great Hall. I automatically veered left, toward the Slytherin table, but Harry didn’t follow. Instead, he cut across the Hall like he hadn’t noticed, sat down beside Hermione at the Gryffindor table, and started piling eggs onto his plate with so much force I thought he’d shatter it.
Hermione blinked at him, then looked at me with a raised brow as I sat opposite them, just a little stunned.
Harry stabbed a sausage, jaw clenched. Then, without looking up, he said,
“Guess why I couldn’t sleep last night?”
We both just stared at him.
He dropped the sausage with a splat.
“I had a visit.”
Hermione and I exchanged a glance.
“Dobby,” he snapped. “Again.”
Oh no.
“He woke me up in the middle of the night, shaking me by the shoulder and making these awful, high-pitched noises. Took me five minutes just to make out what he was saying. And he still didn’t tell me anything. Just said he heard his master having a conversation, and I’m in danger. Again.” He huffed. “He looked like he’d seen a ghost and then drank a whole cauldron of caffeine.”
I clenched my jaw, heart thudding.
“Nothing at all? Not even something he didn’t mean to say?”
Harry shook his head, furious.
“Nothing. Just that it’s important, and I need to be careful. But of what? He never knows.”
“He was right last year,” I pointed out, trying to sound calm while my insides were very much not. “He warned you before the Tournament.”
“He did,” Hermione agreed. “I think we should tell someone about this.”
We all went quiet for a second, then looked at each other. Same thought.
“Snape?” Hermione asked softly.
“Snape,” Harry repeated, grimacing.
“We don’t have Potions today,” Hermione said. “We could wait until Friday.”
“No,” I said quickly, a little sharper than I meant to. “It’s better to tell him today. We shouldn’t sit on it.”
Hermione nodded.
Harry just grumbled, “Fine,” and kept stabbing his breakfast.
After classes, we made our way down to the dungeons. The corridor outside the Potions classroom was lit dimly, and the air felt thicker here. First-years were trickling out of the room, holding tiny corked vials like they’d just survived an ordeal. Which, to be fair, they probably had.
Some of them glanced at us curiously—Harry Potter and two prefects all loitering outside the classroom like we had something better to do than hex first-years. I gave one of them a smile and a half-hearted thumbs-up.
He blinked, then scurried away.
Harry snorted beside me.
“Smooth.”
“Shut up.”
When the last student left, we stepped in.
Snape was at the front of the room, bent over a tray of labelled vials, carefully counting and sorting them into rows. The click of the glass against the metal tray echoed through the quiet classroom.
Without turning around, he said dryly,
“What fresh drama am I blessed with this time?”
I stepped forward.
“Dobby. The house-elf. He’s back.”
That got his attention. Snape turned sharply, the last vial forgotten mid-movement.
“What did he say?”
Harry crossed his arms.
“That he overheard his master talking, and I’m in danger. Wouldn’t say anything else. Just vague warnings again.”
Snape’s face darkened.
“And he said nothing specific. No names, no places?”
“Nothing,” Harry said. “He was in full panic mode.”
Snape was quiet. Too quiet. His eyes narrowed slightly, then flicked to me. There was something different in his posture—tense, coiled. Like something just beneath his skin was buzzing.
“You know something,” I said before I could stop myself. “Don’t you?”
Snape’s gaze snapped to mine, and for a moment, I regretted speaking at all. There was something in his expression—too blank, too smooth.
“If I knew anything,” he said coolly, “I would tell the Headmaster. And he would tell you.”
“Would he?” I asked, squinting at him.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
I could see it, just barely—his shoulders tight, fingers flexing near the edge of the table. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And he wasn’t telling us. Couldn’t, maybe. But he knew.
I didn’t press. Not here. Not with Harry and Hermione watching.
Snape finally exhaled and said,
“Thank you for informing me. I will look into it. Now—off with you.”
Harry didn’t argue, still simmering. Hermione gave him a last, searching look before leading us out. I glanced back once before closing the door behind us.
Snape hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, looking down at the vials, but not seeing them.
Whatever Dobby heard, it was real.
And whatever Snape knew, he wasn’t ready to say it.
Not yet.
Chapter 52: BOOK FIVE - BLINDSIDED
Notes:
Sorry not sorry
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
BLINDSIDED
Hogsmeade weekends were meant for butterbeer, bad ideas, and sugary regret. We were ticking all the boxes.
Harry, Hermione, and I had wandered the whole village already—Zonko’s for a restock of chaos, Honeydukes for enough sugar to kill a troll, and even a short stop at Scrivenshaft’s so Hermione could “just check” if they had a new line of enchanted highlighters. They didn’t. What a shame.
Now we were nestled into a booth at the Three Broomsticks, a little squashed and very warm. The pub was packed with Hogwarts students and thick with the smell of cinnamon, ale, and wet cloaks. I was halfway through my second butterbeer, cheeks flushed and nose slightly runny from the chill outside, when I felt nature’s call tap insistently at the door.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, sliding out of the booth and weaving my way toward the toilets.
The loo was cramped and smelled vaguely of pine and regret. I took care of business quickly, yawning as I made my way to the sink. I reached for the soap and turned on the tap.
And then—
Something shifted.
A rush of warmth slid over me like sunlight through water. It wrapped around my chest and emptied my mind in one perfect breath. Every anxious edge inside me dulled, every thought melted away like mist in the morning. My hands still moved under the stream of water, but it felt like I was floating just above them.
I blinked slowly, and someone stepped out from a stall behind me. A man. Wizard robes. Wand out. Aiming it at me.
But I didn’t care.
Why would I? Everything was fine. More than fine. I could’ve floated away and never come back.
“Take the newspaper,” a voice said—not spoken aloud, but inside my head. Deep and calm and absolutely right.
My gaze drifted to the folded paper next to the sink.
I picked it up without thinking.
“Go back to your friends and give Potter the newspaper... go back to your friends...”
I hummed softly—just a little tune, not even a real one. The world had a strange echo to it now, as if I were walking through a dream.
I turned and drifted out of the toilet.
The noise in the main room barely registered. There were voices and clinks of glasses and laughter, but it all sounded far away. Fuzzy. Like it couldn’t reach me.
I glided through the crowd. Someone jostled my shoulder—I didn’t react. I just smiled faintly and kept walking.
There they were, still at our table. Hermione was laughing at something Harry said, both of them holding mugs of butterbeer, cheeks pink from the cold.
“...go back to your friends and give Potter the newspaper...”
I reached the table and stopped next to Harry.
“Here,” I said—or thought I said. I wasn’t entirely sure if the sound had come out.
I held the newspaper out.
Harry looked up, brow furrowed.
“What’s this?”
He reached for it.
The second his hand touched the paper—
Something jerked in my gut.
My feet left the floor. Wind screamed past my ears.
And then—
Color. Swirling, rushing, spinning.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.
The pub was gone.
Everything was gone.
I felt my feet hit the ground again, grass cool beneath my soles. Harry tumbled beside me, and I looked at him curiously, wondering why he was breathing so hard, scrambling for his wand like we were under attack.
Silly boy.
I felt wonderful. Light. Like someone had taken the mess of my brain and neatly folded it into a warm pile of blankets. Nothing mattered. Nothing hurt. I floated.
A pop echoed behind us.
"Take his wand… take his wand…"
Oh, of course. That made sense.
I plucked Harry’s wand from his grip. He said something—his mouth moved, but the sound was distant, like I was underwater. I smiled vaguely and held the wand in my hand. Two wands. That was funny.
The stranger from the toilet was here. I knew it before I even turned. He lifted his wand, and as I watched, his face—shifted. Moved like smoke and melted into something else. Familiar, maybe. But fuzzy. Unimportant.
Harry shouted something sharp and ragged.
He sounded so upset. That silly little man. Why would he be?
Then he dropped to his knees with a cry, clutching his head like it was on fire. I felt a slight nudge of unease at the sight, like something brushing the edge of a dream.
“Pull him to his feet.”
Yes. That would be better. Harry shouldn’t be on the ground. I took his arm and hauled him upright.
“Drag him to the headstone…”
The one behind us. Yes, that one. I didn’t know how I knew, I just knew. I dragged Harry toward it gently—he struggled, or maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure. My body moved easily, without resistance. The stranger was muttering something behind us, doing something with his wand.
When Harry was flat against the stone, cords coiled around him like angry vines, tight from his neck down to his ankles.
I frowned. That didn’t seem very nice.
Harry didn’t like it, I could tell. His face was twisted, and his eyes were glassy and wide with panic. I reached out a hand to untie one of the cords—
—but my hand was so heavy.
Later, I told myself. It could wait. What harm could it do?
“Check the tightness of the knots… check the knots…”
I knelt and did just that, tugging them a little, not too much. Snug. Not painful. I didn’t want to hurt him. I never wanted to hurt him.
“Ron…” I thought I heard him whisper, low and broken.
Or maybe I imagined it. I shrugged and checked the final knot.
"Gag him… gag him…"
Oh, right.
There was a soft black strip on the next tombstone. I lifted it—it felt like silk, like something from a fancy tailor’s box. Harry would like this. It was nice.
He tried to yell when I approached. I cradled his face and pushed the cloth gently into his mouth.
He choked. His eyes screamed.
That wasn’t right.
I didn’t like it. I started to reach again, to pull it out—
—but my hand fell back down, useless and slow.
He’ll be okay. He always is.
A sound made me look. Something slithered, low and wide and smooth.
A snake. The cutest snake I’d ever seen. Huge and graceful, curling through the grass like a ribbon made of oil. A girl, I thought. How did I know that?
She passed by me like a queen, and I wanted to touch her. She was perfect.
“Push the cauldron near the tombstone… push the cauldron…”
I turned and saw the great stone cauldron behind me. I pushed—it barely weighed anything. It rolled easily to the foot of the grave.
I smiled, proud of myself. I was strong. Helpful.
Harry’s eyes were red now. I gave him a little smile, too. Everything was fine.
“Start the fire…”
Easy. I drew my wand and lit a flame beneath the cauldron. The liquid inside heated fast, bubbling like soup on a stove. I liked the sound. I did that. Me.
The stranger returned. He had something in his arms. A bundle. A baby?
I wanted to coo, but—
“Step back.”
I stepped back.
The stranger did things. Complicated things. Waved his wand and said words. I didn’t understand them. It all looked boring, like paperwork or taxes. But then—
The steam erupted. Blinding white. It billowed out in thick clouds, hissing and swirling.
And then…
A man rose from the cauldron.
Tall. Pale. Empty as bone.
He said something, and I didn’t hear it.
“Robe him…”
Of course.
The black robes were nearby. I picked them up and draped them over his shoulders. They looked good on him. He laughed. I smiled. He was happy. I was happy too.
He turned, and the stranger—he was screaming.
His hand. Gone.
Or… had it ever been there?
Blood pooled in the grass. But the stranger didn’t look sad. He looked… proud.
Weird people.
The man spoke a lot. His voice went up and down like a storm rolling across the ocean. I couldn’t understand him. It was like trying to hear a speech from the bottom of a well.
Then others began to arrive. Whirls of robes. Faces behind masks. They knelt before the man. One by one.
I wondered if I should kneel too. But the voice was silent now, and I didn’t feel like doing anything unless it told me to. So I just stood there and watched.
One of the masked ones kissed the robes. Another one screamed when the man cursed him. He writhed.
I should’ve cared. But I didn’t.
Why didn’t I?
Then the man gave the stranger a new hand, shiny, silver, sharp-looking. The stranger wept and kissed the hem of the robe. Gratitude or madness, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
And then—then the masks fell away.
Their faces.
Misty. Shifting.
Until one wasn’t. One was clear.
Sharp cheekbones. Cold, beautiful eyes. Black hair like ink in water.
Snape.
My heart flared so fast I nearly stumbled.
He was here. My Snape. He’d come.
He would protect me. I was safe.
Then—
A scream.
Not just any scream.
Harry.
I turned my head.
He was convulsing, screaming through the gag, legs thrashing, ropes cutting into his skin. His eyes met mine.
And something inside me—
Snapped.
Like a whipcrack through my skull.
The warmth vanished. The fog shredded.
I gasped like I’d been underwater for hours, stumbling back as cold horror crashed over me.
That man… that thing rising from the cauldron—Voldemort.
The stranger with the twisted smile—Crouch Junior.
The masks—the masked ones —Death Eaters.
And Harry was in pain.
And I—
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.
I stood frozen, every inch of me screaming to do something, anything—but I just stared. Stared and stared and stared.
Voldemort’s voice was clear now, as if the fog in my ears had finally cleared.
“You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me. But I want there to be no mistake in anybody’s mind. Harry Potter survived by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all—when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him.”
He paused. Then added, almost casually,
“I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger.”
His red eyes gleamed.
“But first… Crucio .”
Pain.
Pain like I never imagined.
It’s me, not Harry—it’s me.
I fell to the ground with a scream so loud I felt my throat tear. My bones twisted in fire, my head felt like it was splitting down the middle, my eyes—they were going to explode, I knew they were.
I couldn’t do anything but scream. And scream. I wanted to stop, I wanted to be silent, I wanted to die —but I couldn’t.
Then—suddenly—it ended.
I choked on my breath, sucking air like it might save me.
But it didn’t last.
“Crucio. ”
The pain slammed back into me, even worse. My body jerked and seized uncontrollably. I couldn’t hear anything but my shrieks. I smashed the side of my head against the ground once, twice—hoping, begging it would knock me out, and end this.
Then—again—it stopped.
I was sobbing. Trembling. I couldn’t move. I was a heap of pain and breath and terror. Voices rose around me like waves crashing on a shore. I wanted to see, to listen, to do something —
—but my limbs wouldn’t respond. My body was unstrung, broken.
“I said, bow,” Voldemort commanded.
There was laughter. It feels like poison in the air.
I managed to roll onto my back. My head flopped sideways.
Harry.
Harry was screaming. He was down, then scrambling up. His legs barely held him.
And behind him—
Snape.
Still. Blank-faced. His eyes stared into nothing.
Then, suddenly—barely—his gaze shifted. Landed on me.
“I WON’T! ” Harry yelled.
I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t care.
I stared at Snape, silently pleading.
Please save him. Please.
You don’t need to save me. I’m nothing. But Harry—Harry matters.
He always mattered.
I looked straight into Snape’s eyes. I never did that. I knew what he could do with his eyes. But this time I wanted him to see.
Please hear me. Please.
His gaze moved to Harry just as—
“Stupefy! ”
“Avada Kedavra! ”
Red and green collided in the air.
And then—
A beam of gold.
Prior Incantatem.
The magic pulsed between their wands, holding them bound in light.
I dragged myself upright, every joint screaming. I leaned against a cold tombstone to find my balance. My wand—where’s my—
There!
I snatched it up with trembling fingers. Think, Ron. Think.
No portkey. No Apparition. No one’s coming. There’s no Dumbledore. Just me.
Harry and Voldemort were rising into the air, suspended by the beam of magic.
Death Eaters were shouting—frantic, unsure. The beam was frightening them.
But two of them—two weren’t shouting. They were looking at me.
Malfoy. Snape.
They were coming for me.
My mind spun—and then, like lightning through fog, the answer came.
“DOBBY! ” I screamed. “ DOBBY! ”
Malfoy stopped in his tracks.
“Why are you calling for my elf, boy?! How do you know Dobby?!”
Pop.
The sound of salvation.
Dobby appeared beside the tombstone. Eyes wide, ears flapping.
“Save Harry Potter! ” I yelled.
Dobby didn’t wait.
The instant the golden beam explodes into light—
Dobby launched.
He wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist and disappeared.
Pop!
Gone.
Relief crashed over me in a wave so powerful I nearly collapsed again. I did it. He’s safe.
But the joy lasted a heartbeat.
Voldemort howled.
Tombstones exploded. Curses flew wild. Lucius Malfoy turned to me with murder in his eyes.
He shouted something—Latin, sharp.
I screamed “ Protego! ” but it’s like trying to block an axe with a napkin.
The curse hit me in the throat.
Agony tore through me. I felt blood , so much blood . My hands shot up instinctively to stop it, to hold it in —but there was too much.
I couldn’t breathe.
Black bloomed in my vision.
I heard someone scream—louder than I thought possible.
Then—
Pop.
A voice cried out, distant, panicked—
And then—
Nothing.
I woke up slowly. The world came back to me in pieces.
The dull ache in my throat was the first thing I registered. Then the dryness. Then the familiar ceiling of the infirmary. Then the strange weight of quiet around me.
I blinked groggily and turned my head to the right.
Harry.
Asleep in the next bed, his face half-buried in the pillow, one arm flopped over the edge of the mattress. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and I let out a slow breath of relief. He was alive.
Next to him—Sirius. Curled up in a chair, arms folded tightly, head resting against the wall behind him. The lines on his face looked deeper than I remembered. His jaw was clenched even in sleep, like he was still trying to fight off whatever nightmare had dragged us all here.
My head spun, heavy and aching. I tried to hold onto the memory of what had happened, but it was like grabbing smoke. There’d been pain—more than I thought I could bear. And before that… light? Screaming. My screaming. And Harry’s.
And before that—
A graveyard. Cloaks. A man with red eyes. A circle of masks. A golden beam between wands.
My stomach twisted.
I turned my head to the left, expecting another empty bed or curtain.
Instead, I saw Snape.
Asleep. In a chair. Arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly forward. There was a harshness to his posture, even in rest—like he couldn’t relax fully, even now. Even here.
I stared. He didn’t stir.
A strange kind of cold bloomed in my chest. I thought of the graveyard. Of Voldemort’s voice. Of the ring of Death Eaters standing around us in masks and cloaks and terrible silence.
And Snape. Standing still. Expression blank. His eyes like stone.
For a second—no, longer than that—I wondered if he had been discovered.
Had they figured him out? Had he been exposed?
But… no. He was here. He was still here. If they had discovered him, he wouldn’t have made it out. They wouldn’t have let him.
So he’d played his part.
Even when I was screaming.
Even when Harry was fighting for his life.
I swallowed hard, and the pain flared up in my throat again. I coughed—a raspy, wet noise that broke the silence like a dropped plate.
Snape jerked awake instantly, his head snapping up. He looked at me, disoriented for a heartbeat.
Then he stood. Quick, sharp movements. Like it had been rehearsed.
He crossed the space between us and reached for the glass on my bedside table. One hand slid behind my head, gently lifting me from the pillow, the other guiding the glass to my lips.
I drank slowly. His fingers in my hair were steady, but cold.
“Thanks,” I rasped when the glass was empty.
He didn’t answer. Just helped me back down and returned to the chair beside me, sinking into it like the air had been knocked from his lungs. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, face in his hand.
I lay there, blinking at the ceiling, trying to work out what parts of me were still real.
Had it been real? All of it?
I remembered the voice in my head—the calm, contented fog. The feeling that everything was fine, even as I tied Harry to a tombstone. The snake. The cauldron. The wand in my hand that didn’t feel like mine.
My stomach churned.
But Harry was here. He was alive. I could hear his breath. I could see the edge of his scarred forehead peeking through his fringe.
And Snape was here too. Looking like he’d been flayed open and stitched back together by regret.
I didn’t speak. Neither did he. But the questions piled up inside me like snow: How did we get back? Was it really Dobby? Did Snape get caught? Was he hurt? Was the Order—
But I didn’t ask.
Because for now, Harry was breathing. Snape was here. I was alive.
That was enough.
So I simply kept watching him. The way his fingers pressed against his mouth. The tightness around his eyes. Like he was bracing himself for something. An explosion that hadn’t yet come.
He looked like he was in pain. Not the physical kind.
Something deeper.
“It’s okay, sir,” I said quietly. “It’s over. We all survived.”
He let out a sound. A strangled sort of breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“No,” he said. “You are not okay. And it is not over.”
I blinked. He still hadn’t looked at me. Just stared ahead, unmoving.
“I failed you, Ronald. I failed both of you.”
“You didn’t,” I said, in a breathy, tired voice. “You did what you had to do.”
“There is always more one could do,” he said softly. “And I… I chose silence. I watched, and I did nothing. Not when you screamed. Not when he raised his wand. Not when—”
He stopped abruptly. His voice cracked around the words he hadn’t said.
My fingers found the edge of his sleeve. I tugged gently.
“You couldn’t do anything. Not without giving yourself away.”
He still didn’t look at me.
“You’re the only one who thinks that,” he said after a moment. “You weren’t awake when your parents arrived. When Black saw the damage. When Potter looked at you. You didn’t hear what they said to me.”
I didn’t need to.
I could imagine it well enough. They’d been angry. Scared. Furious.
And Snape had been there. Easy to blame.
I swallowed thickly. My throat ached with more than pain now.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “They just… They’re scared. That’s all.”
He finally turned to look at me.
His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked exhausted. Hollowed-out.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. Very quietly. “Not after what happened.”
I didn’t stop. I held his gaze, even though it made my heart ache.
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” I said.
“You’re looking at me like I deserve sympathy,” he snapped—but his voice broke, just slightly. “Like I am worthy of kindness. I am not. Not after—”
“You are,” I said. “You are to me.”
He stared at me. I could see him trying to pull away—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I was still holding onto his sleeve, and I didn’t let go.
“They’re upset because I’m hurt. They need someone to blame. You’re always the convenient scapegoat. It’s unfair, and I’m sorry for whatever they said. They’ll come around. They always do.”
Snape dropped his gaze, and his eyes drifted down to my neck. I brought my hand to it. Felt the thick bandage. Where Lucius Malfoy tried to slit my throat.
Snape’s voice, when it came again, was barely more than a whisper.
“The curse Malfoy used was old. And dark. It will scar.”
“I’d rather have a scar and still be breathing,” I said. “Don’t you?”
Snape’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, or just pain too big to hide.
There was a sound behind us. A soft throat-clear.
We both turned.
Dad stood in the entrance of the curtained ward, mug in hand, his eyes going between me and Snape, down to my fingers still curled in his sleeve.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t yell.
But he said, quietly,
“You should go.”
Snape straightened slowly. He didn’t shake me off. But I knew what that tone meant.
I gave his sleeve one last squeeze, then let go.
He looked at me. A strange expression in his eyes.
“Swift recovery, Ronald,” he said quietly.
Then he left.
And I lay back, closed my eyes for a moment.
The questions could wait.
Dad took the seat Snape had vacated, still observing me. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just wrapped his hands around mine and held on tight.
“Mum?” I asked.
“Sleeping,” Dad said. “She needed a Calming Draught.”
I nodded, my throat gave a twinge.
“Are you in pain?”
“A little. Is Harry okay?”
Dad nodded, eyes shining.
“Cruciatus,” he said softly. “Cut on his arm. But nothing lasting. Same for you. Apart from the…”
That’s when he broke down.
Tears spilt silently.
“I’m alive,” I told him. “We’re both alive.”
He cried harder.
Fat, noisy, desperate sobs.
I didn’t let go of his hand. I let him cry. And I didn’t cry with him.
Not right then.
Because someone had to be steady for once.
And I was still here.
Still breathing.
Still holding on.
I woke up slowly again, and this time, it wasn’t silence that greeted me.
It was voices. Low ones. Tense.
I blinked, and the ceiling above me swam into focus. It still hurt to breathe too deeply, but the air didn’t burn like before. I turned my head and saw everyone.
Mum was the first to notice I was awake. She gasped and rushed to my side before I could even speak, her arms wrapping around me so tightly I thought she might pop my stitches.
“Oh, Ron—my baby—my sweet boy—”
She was crying again. Her tears soaked into the side of my hospital gown. I let her hold me. I didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
“Molly,” Dad said gently. “You have to let him breathe.”
Dumbledore added softly,
“Perhaps we should let him speak. He deserves that.”
Mum pulled back a little, just enough to see my face. She held my cheeks like I was five again, her thumbs stroking under my eyes.
“Are you in pain?” she asked, breathless.
“Not much,” I rasped. “Just sore.”
Her lip wobbled.
When the storm calmed and Mum’s handkerchief was soaked through, Dumbledore cleared his throat.
“If you feel strong enough, Ronald, Harry… we would like to understand what happened.”
We both nodded.
Dumbledore gestured for the others to sit. Mum reluctantly backed up, but stayed right beside me. Dad retook the other chair. Snape stood in the corner, arms folded, silent. Watching.
“I’d like to start with how it began,” Dumbledore said. “What do you remember?”
I took a deep breath.
“I went to the loo,” I said. “In the Three Broomsticks. That’s where it started. I was washing my hands, and I… I felt something. Like all my thoughts emptied out. Like I was floating. Happy. Calm.” I hesitated, then added, “I didn’t even feel scared when the stranger came out of the stall. He pointed a wand at me. But I didn’t care.”
I glanced at Mum. She was pale. Her lips pressed tight.
“There was a voice in my head. It told me to take the newspaper. Then, to go back to the table. And to give it to Harry.”
Harry picked up from there, his voice quiet.
“He walked up and just handed it to me. No explanation. I didn’t even have time to say anything. The second I touched it—boom. Portkey.” He shook his head. “I knew something was wrong, but Ron… he wasn’t there. Not really. I’ve never seen him like that. Empty.”
I looked down at my lap.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” I said. “I was still under it. Even in the graveyard. I took his wand. I dragged him. I tied him down.”
Sirius’s jaw clenched. Mum squeezed my hand.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want to,” I whispered. “But it felt right. Like I was helping.”
Harry reached across and brushed my arm.
“You were gone, mate. It wasn’t you.” Then he turned to the adults. “Voldemort gave a speech. To his Death Eaters. Said I only survived as a baby because of luck. That he was going to kill me in front of them all to prove he was stronger.”
Mum made a choking noise. Dad rubbed her back.
Harry’s voice hardened.
“Then he Crucio’d Ron. Twice. For minutes. ”
I saw the horror dawn on their faces. Mum looked like she might throw up.
“You should have done something,” she snapped, suddenly glaring at Snape. “You were there—you just stood there and let my baby be tortured— ”
“Mum!” I said sharply. My throat protested, but I powered through it. “Stop. Don’t—don’t say that. He couldn’t .”
Her eyes snapped to mine.
“He’s a spy,” I said. “He’s our spy. He couldn’t risk it. If he had moved—if he had even flinched—we’d both be dead.”
“But—”
“Mum. Please .”
She was crying again, but quieter now.
Dad put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t upset him, Molly. Not like this. He’s healing.”
Mum pressed a hand to her mouth and nodded tightly.
We waited a moment. Let everything settle.
Then Harry kept going.
“Voldemort wanted to duel. And… our spells collided. The beams connected, and then—” Harry’s voice faltered. “I saw my mum. My dad. And… others. They came out of Voldemort’s wand. They helped me.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard.
“Then the connection broke. And—someone grabbed me. I didn’t even see who it was, not right away. We Apparated, landed right in the middle of Hogsmeade. I told him—whoever it was—to go back for Ron. And he did.”
Harry looked down, brow furrowed.
“I still don’t get it. It was Dobby, but… I don’t know how he was there. Or why he came then. He’s always just shown up to give me vague warnings—never actually did anything to stop things from happening. This time he didn’t warn me. He saved me. Saved us. I don’t understand it.”
“Dobby came at Ron’s call,” Snape said quietly.
Everyone turned to look at me.
I blinked.
“I… I was trying to think. How to save us. We couldn’t Apparate. The portkey was most likely one-way. And Snape couldn’t act. So I… I thought of Dobby. I shouted for him.”
“And he came,” Harry added. “He came back for Ron, too. Got him out before Voldemort could curse again.”
“Where is Dobby?” I asked, suddenly. “Is he okay?”
There was a silence. Sirius looked away.
“He’s dead,” he said. “There was an old spell on him. From his master. One meant to punish betrayal. It… his master must have triggered it when Dobby saved you. Killed him instantly.”
I stared.
Dead.
Dobby was dead.
I thought of the books. The little elf with socks and a smile. A grave. Friends.
He had none of that now. No freedom. No grave. No one.
He died a slave.
Tears pricked behind my eyes. I blinked them back and took a slow breath. I wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not when we had so much to do.
Harry glanced around.
“So… now what?”
Dumbledore straightened.
“While you both were resting, I sent messages to the old members of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order is reforming. And tomorrow morning, I go to the Ministry to inform them of Voldemort’s return.”
That landed like a slap.
Mum gasped.
“Albus, are you sure? The Ministry—Fudge—he’ll never believe it. He’s been trying to undermine you for over a year.”
“He has,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But the truth does not become less true because it is denied.”
“You could lose everything,” Dad said. “Your position at Hogwarts. Your influence. They’ll try to smear you. Discredit you completely.”
“They may,” Dumbledore agreed. “But we cannot allow fear of consequence to silence us. The world deserves to know the danger that is coming.”
Sirius leaned forward, jaw tight.
“Do you think they'll believe you? After all the damage Fudge has done to your reputation?”
“They will not,” Dumbledore said without hesitation. “But that does not mean we shouldn’t try. Their disbelief will not stop Voldemort from acting. At best, it buys us time. At worst, it reveals who is still willing to stand with us.”
“What about the Prophet?” Dad asked. “They’re practically Ministry-owned now. You’ll be painted as a madman. Or worse.”
“Then let them,” Dumbledore said. “The tide will turn eventually.”
“What about Ron and Harry?” Mum’s voice was tight. “What if people try to say they made it up? What if someone accuses them of lying? The papers—”
“They won’t be alone,” Sirius said fiercely. “The Order will back them. And there were witnesses—people in Hogsmeade saw them disappear. And come back bleeding.”
“They’ll say it was a prank,” Mum muttered bitterly. “Or staged. They always twist it.”
Dumbledore folded his hands.
“That is why we act quickly and in unity. The Order is already moving. And if Ron and Harry are willing, their testimony may help others believe—eventually.”
There was a short silence after that.
The kind that only happens when every person in the room is too exhausted to argue but too afraid to agree.
It was all well and good, but I personally had a more pressing concern now.
I looked at Snape across the room, then back at Dumbledore.
“Is Snape safe?” I asked, my voice quiet but firm. “Does Voldemort know he’s a spy now? Is his cover still intact?”
Snape didn’t flinch, but his gaze cut toward me sharply. For a moment, he didn’t speak. I couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he was surprised I’d asked. Maybe he wasn’t.
On the other hand, Mum’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“You still care about him ?” she asked, voice cracking, looking toward Snape.
“Yes,” I said, voice calm. “And I care if he’s safe.”
Everyone was silent for a beat.
Snape’s expression barely shifted, but his eyes did.
“The Dark Lord blames the escape on Lucius,” he said. “It was his house elf, after all. And a servant’s betrayal reflects on the master.”
“The elf was Lucius Malfoy’s? ” Dad said, stunned.
“Why would he help you?” Mum asked.
But I didn’t care about those questions. Not now.
“So… you’re not suspected, sir?” I asked. “Even after the Ministry cleared you last year?”
Snape met my eyes.
“Several Death Eaters were cleared. I am no more suspicious than any of them.”
“And your… position?” I asked quietly.
“Secure,” he said. “My role is intact. And so, for now, is my life.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
“Good,” I said.
That was what mattered.
That, at least, was something we hadn’t lost.
Chapter 53: BOOK FIVE - TIS BUT A SCRATCH
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
TIS BUT A SCRATCH
I woke up to the sound of voices and shuffling feet. When I blinked fully awake, the hospital wing was a riot of red hair and muffled emotions.
Fred and George were bickering gently at the foot of my bed. Ginny stood nearby, arms crossed, looking like she wanted to both hex and hug me. Hermione was already by my side, eyes red, gripping my hand tightly. And Harry—awake now—was sitting up in his own bed across from mine, Sirius hovering beside him like a worried shadow.
Everyone stopped the moment they saw I was awake.
Hermione burst into tears and threw her arms around me. Fred and George followed with exaggerated salutes, which didn’t quite hide how pale they were. Ginny leaned over and kissed my forehead, and I just let her.
“What the hell, Ron?” Fred said. “You vanish during a butterbeer break and come back with half your throat missing?”
“Rubbish timing,” George added. “We had a bet running on who’d get cursed first this year. You weren’t even in the top five.”
I gave a weak smile.
“Glad to ruin your odds.”
They laughed, but it sounded strange. Brittle. Hollow. It was just a sound to fill the silence no one wanted to sit in too long.
Luna arrived not long after, walking in like she’d been here all along. She had a small, lumpy pouch with her—probably full of runes or something equally mysterious. She sat beside me, studied my face carefully, then said,
“You still have your soul. That’s good.”
Fred blinked.
“Reassuring, that.”
Luna just tilted her head and added,
“You should eat more sunflower seeds. They’re good for post-traumatic energy repair.”
Hermione looked like she was about to argue with that, but then just squeezed my hand tighter instead.
Not long after that, Mum and Dad returned, looking freshly showered but no less exhausted. And with them was Percy.
He stopped at the foot of my bed and stared at me like he didn’t quite believe I was real.
“Percy,” I croaked.
He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the distance in two strides and pulled me into a tight, sudden hug.
Real. Full-body. Bone-aching.
Not one of his usual stiff, back-pat formalities.
“I’m okay,” I mumbled against his shoulder. “Really.”
“I know,” he said into my hair. “I know. You were brilliant. I’m proud of you.”
I pulled back enough to look him in the eye.
“You believe me? About everything? About Voldemort?”
His expression didn’t even flicker.
“Yes. Of course I do.”
“It’s just—” My throat tightened. “That matters. To me. That you believe me.”
He squeezed my shoulder, and this time, I hugged him back with everything I had. Like I wanted to keep him with me, grounded and solid.
Maybe I squeezed too hard. But he didn’t complain.
I pulled back and looked around the room. Everyone was quiet again, watching us. Emotions were running high. Too high. Time to ruin it.
“So…” I cleared my throat, which hurt like hell, and said, “You know, if I wanted a cool scar, I was thinking more lightning bolt, less ‘failed guillotine victim.”
Silence.
Mum looked horrified. Hermione stared at me like I’d kicked Crookshanks. Percy paled.
Fred, George, and Sirius all groaned in unison.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Ron,” Dad muttered, rubbing a hand down his face—but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Ginny snorted.
“Idiot.”
Luna just nodded, solemn as ever.
“Humour is a valid trauma response.”
That’s when Madam Pomfrey arrived, bustling over with a look that said she wasn’t in the mood for nonsense.
“I need the rest of you to give us a moment,” she said, already reaching for her supplies. “I must change Mr. Weasley’s bandage.”
They all filed out slowly, gathering around Harry’s bed. Hermione lingered beside me until Mum tugged her gently away. Pomfrey closed the curtains around my bed with a sharp whoosh.
“Right, Mr. Weasley,” she said, setting down a tray. “We’re going to redress your wound. I’ll talk you through everything as I go.”
I nodded. My throat ached with the effort.
“Professor Snape neutralised the dark magic in the cut before it could spread. You owe him your life, you know.”
“Will it… will it come back? The curse?”
She shook her head.
“No. It’s inert now. The wound is now inactive, but it remains cursed. It’ll scar. You’ll feel pain from time to time. But it won’t worsen.”
I took a shaky breath.
“Okay.”
“Would you like to see it?” she asked.
My fingers twitched.
“Not yet. Not when it’s still swollen and fresh.”
She gave a gentle nod.
“That’s your choice. You’ll need to face it eventually.”
“Just not today.”
“Fair enough.”
She opened a small jar and began dabbing a cool, stinging ointment onto the wound. I hissed through my teeth.
“This one is his as well,” she said, almost gently. “Professor Snape brewed it himself.”
That helped. If it was Snape’s, I knew it would work. I closed my eyes and breathed through the sting.
“He also administered two blood-replenishing potions yesterday,” she added. “You’re healing well.”
When the bandages were secured again and the potion for pain was in my hand, she stepped back.
“Drink that, and you’ll rest easier.”
I obeyed.
She opened the curtains again and made her way to Harry’s bed.
“Now—your turn, Mr. Potter. I’d like a word alone.”
Curtains closed.
The others drifted back to me, one by one. Mum returned to my side, gently smoothing the sheets. She tucked a curl behind my ear.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired,” I said honestly. “But okay.”
“You’re pale,” she fretted. “Your hands are cold.”
“I’ll live,” I murmured, not quite up to cracking another joke yet. One was enough. Hermione and Percy still looked like they hadn’t recovered from the first.
Mum brushed my fringe back with gentle fingers.
“You need proper rest, love.”
Then she looked up at the others. She stood and turned to face the cluster of siblings and friends gathered near the beds. Her voice was kind but firm—the voice that brooked no argument when she was done playing hostess and ready to be Mum again.
“All right now, that’s enough for today. He needs quiet. So does Harry.”
Ginny opened her mouth to argue, but Dad rested a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. One by one, they stepped closer to say their goodbyes.
Percy was the first. He squeezed my hand and said softly,
“We’ll talk again soon, all right?”
“Thanks,” I whispered. “For coming.”
He gave a slight nod and left without fuss.
Fred and George followed. Fred leaned down to whisper,
“Try not to get yourself cursed next Hogsmeade trip. It’s bad for business.”
George gave me a quick, fierce hug.
“We’re proud of you, ickle Ronnie.”
“Tell Harry bye for us,” Fred added, glancing toward his bed. “No way we’re risking a scolding.”
Ginny kissed my forehead again and said nothing at all.
Luna, who hadn’t spoken in a while, took my hand and placed a small feather in it.
“For luck,” she said. “And protection.”
“Thanks, Luna,” I said, managing a faint smile. “See you soon?”
She nodded serenely.
“Yes. I’ll come back with crystals and sunflower seeds.”
She left without further explanation.
That left only Hermione.
She wrapped her arms around me again, holding on like she wasn’t ready to let go yet.
“You scared me,” she murmured into my shoulder. “Both of you.”
“I know,” I said.
She stepped back but didn’t leave right away. Instead, she settled in the chair beside me.
“I’ll wait until Pomfrey finishes with Harry. I want to say goodbye properly.”
Mum didn’t object. She just turned her attention back to me and began fussing with my blanket.
“You look even paler than you did ten minutes ago.”
I didn’t argue. I let her tuck the blanket up to my chin. No more jokes for now. Not with Mum hovering. Not with Hermione’s eyes still glistening beside me.
A moment later, the curtains around Harry’s bed swished open. Hermione immediately darted over.
“Goodbye, Harry,” she said softly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, managing a small smile.
“If you’d like to leave, you’re free to go,” Pomfrey told him. “The injury is treated. But you’re welcome to remain if you’d rather rest here without interruptions.”
Harry looked at Ron, then back at Pomfrey.
“I think I’ll stay.”
Monday morning came like a slap to the face.
The hospital wing had been quiet. Soft-spoken. Contained. But the Great Hall was loud. Not in volume, necessarily—though cutlery scraped and voices murmured—but in eyes. So many of them. Everywhere.
The moment Harry and I stepped through the doors, the room shifted.
Gryffindors sat frozen, mid-bite. Hufflepuffs nudged one another and stared. Ravenclaws stopped reading to lean across their benches and whisper. And Slytherins…
They didn’t gasp or murmur, but they turned in near-unison, silent and sharp-eyed. That made it worse, somehow.
I kept walking.
Harry didn’t say anything. He flanked me, shoulders squared, like we were going into battle. Which—well, I guess we were.
We took our usual seats at the Slytherin table, across from Theo and Blaise.
Theo tensed the moment I sat. He looked pale and rumpled, like he hadn’t slept. He was staring at me, or maybe the bandage on my neck. Either way, I stared right back.
“Did you know?” I asked, voice flat.
Theo blinked.
“What?”
I didn’t elaborate. He knew what I meant.
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t know anything was going to happen. I still… I still don’t know what did happen.”
I didn’t drop my gaze. I studied him—the way his fingers clenched around his cup, the way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. But there was fear in his face, not guilt. Not lies.
I let it go.
“Hm,” I said, and reached for the eggs. My hands were steady.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harry watching me. I felt his gaze flick to Theo, then back to me again. He didn’t speak. Just reached for a piece of toast like I had.
It was like we were pretending we hadn’t just come back from Hell.
People were still whispering. From down the table. From across the room. One of the second-year Slytherins—Malcolm something—was gawking so openly, I wanted to throw my fork at him.
Then Blaise leaned in, his eyes sharp but not unkind. He glanced at the bandage on my neck.
“You alright?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Had a close shave,” I said dryly.
Harry choked on his juice.
The owls came in like they always did—swooping down in a swirl of feathers and flapping wings. A few startled yelps came from the Gryffindor table as a somewhat overzealous barn owl dropped a parcel squarely into someone’s porridge.
I barely glanced up.
Theo’s owl arrived with quiet precision, dropping the Prophet neatly in front of him. He picked it up, smoothing the pages with automatic fingers. Blaise leaned over his shoulder to read.
“Theo,” Harry asked after a second, nodding to the paper. “What’s on the front?”
Theo blinked, then flipped the paper around slightly to scan it.
“Skeeter.”
“What?”
“She had her hearing,” Theo said. “Unregistered Animagus, obviously, and spying on students during the Tournament. The Ministry fined her and suspended her press credentials. Temporarily.”
“That’s it?” Harry said, disbelief edging into his voice. “That’s the front page ?”
I didn’t even blink.
Harry looked at me.
“You’re not surprised?”
I reached for my pumpkin juice.
“Remember what Dumbledore said. The Ministry doesn’t believe us.”
Harry made a noise low in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a groan.
Theo turned the page.
“Oh,” he said softly. “It’s about my father.”
Blaise read over his shoulder.
“‘Final Verdict: Nott Cleared of Allegations. No Connection to Former Death Eater Activity.’”
Harry shot to his feet.
“ He was there! ” he said, loud enough that heads turned. “He was there in the graveyard with the others!”
I grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back down.
“Harry—don’t—” I hissed.
“But they’re just lying! ” he spat. “They’re acting like it never happened!”
“They are,” I said, trying to stay calm. “That’s the point. They’re going to use this to ‘prove’ there’s nothing to worry about. That all the dangerous Death Eaters are already in Azkaban.”
Theo said nothing. He didn’t defend his father. He didn’t deny it. His face was pale, his eyes lowered.
Millicent Bulstrode shifted uncomfortably a few seats down. Tracy Davis was frowning into her teacup, as if it might start whispering state secrets.
Harry gritted his teeth.
“Theo. Is there anything— anything —about Saturday?”
Theo flipped the pages, frantic now. One, two, three—he scanned headlines, his hands slightly shaking.
“There,” he said, stabbing the page. “Back corner.”
Blaise read aloud, voice flat.
“‘Minor Magical Mishap in Hogsmeade. What began as a hoax among students ended in a small panic during a routine field trip. Only minor injuries reported.’”
Harry surged halfway out of his seat.
And then I laughed.
I didn’t mean to.
It just happened.
It wasn’t a nice laugh. It tore its way out of my chest like glass. I doubled over, coughing, wheezing, then laughing again, because minor injuries? Was that what a slit throat was now? Was that what screaming under Crucio for minutes was?
Tis but a scratch?
I couldn’t stop.
Harry stared at me, horrified.
“Ron?”
I clutched the edge of the bench, choking on my own breath. My side ached. My throat burned.
But I couldn’t stop laughing.
It came in awful bursts—hiccupping, wheezing, chest-heaving laughter. The kind that left my throat raw and my ribs aching. It wasn’t funny. Nothing was funny. But the words minor injury kept echoing in my skull like a broken spell.
I dimly registered movement near the head table. Chairs scraping. Robes sweeping.
Then Snape was there.
He crouched beside me, his hand firm on my shoulder, his other catching my wrist like I might collapse.
“Ronald,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Look at me.”
I tried. My eyes were blurred with tears, but not the crying kind. Or maybe they were. My stomach hurt. My neck throbbed. I couldn’t breathe properly between the laughter and the gasps.
“Breathe,” Snape ordered, his grip tightening just a fraction. “In. Slowly. With me. Now.”
I sucked in a ragged breath. Tried again. It caught halfway in my throat and turned into another half-choked laugh.
Footsteps approached fast. McGonagall.
“What’s happening?” she asked sharply, but not unkindly. “Is he—?”
“He’s overstimulated,” Snape said. “Too much, too fast. We’re taking him out of here.”
He hauled me gently upward, one hand braced around my back, the other steadying me by the elbow. I didn’t argue. I couldn’t have if I wanted to. The world tilted sideways for a moment, and Snape’s arm held me upright.
McGonagall stepped in on my other side, shielding me from view of the other students as we turned toward the staff exit behind the head table. She shot a withering look down the table—half the Slytherins flinched under her glare.
“Eyes on your food,” she snapped. “This is not a spectacle.”
I heard Harry call after me, his chair scraping loudly as he stood.
“Mr. Potter, sit down,” McGonagall said, not looking back. “Your friend is in good hands.”
I didn’t see what happened after that.
Snape guided me past the doors, through a quiet corridor, and into the staff room. The sudden silence made my ears ring. A low fire crackled in the grate. The air smelled of tea leaves and parchment.
McGonagall opened a cupboard and pulled out a goblet. Snape eased me into an armchair—old, deep green, probably enchanted for comfort—and only then let go of my arm. I slumped back against the cushions, still trembling faintly, my breathing uneven.
McGonagall handed the goblet to Snape. He poured something from a flask in his robes into it and then pressed it into my hand.
“Drink,” he said.
I obeyed.
It was bitter. Burned slightly going down. Calming Draught, definitely, maybe with something extra. My fingers stopped shaking after a minute. My throat loosened. My brain felt like it was slowly unclenching.
I closed my eyes.
They didn’t speak.
Not until my breathing evened out and I felt like a person again, not a ghost shaking apart.
When I opened my eyes, Snape was watching me. So was McGonagall. Not with pity—thank Merlin—but with something quieter. Wariness. Concern. Understanding.
“I’m okay,” I said hoarsely. “Just—God. That article. Minor injury. That’s not funny, but it’s still hilarious. Like Malfoy didn’t redesign my fucking neck.”
McGonagall stiffened beside me.
“Language, Mr. Weasley,” she said sharply—out of habit more than anything, but her voice trembled just slightly at the edges.
Snape didn’t correct me.
He didn’t even blink at the profanity. His eyes stayed locked on mine, searching, measuring. His lips were pressed thin, in something close to restrained fury.
“Do you find it funny?” he asked quietly.
The kind of quiet that made your bones colder.
I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “But I can’t stop laughing about it anyway.”
McGonagall inhaled through her nose, like she was fighting to keep her expression neutral.
“That article,” I muttered, voice breaking around the words. “It made it sound like we faked it for attention. Like I tripped over my shoelace and gave myself a paper cut.”
McGonagall reached over and placed her hand gently on my shoulder. Her touch was careful, almost formal. But not cold.
“We know what happened, Mr. Weasley,” she said. “You do not need to justify your pain.”
Snape said nothing.
But the way he stood beside me, tense and still, said everything. Like he wanted to smash something. Or someone.
And for once, I didn’t feel the urge to make a joke about it.
Snape quietly took the goblet from my hands and refilled it.
“Drink again,” he said, softer this time.
And I did.
The rest of the day dragged. My neck ached. Not constantly, but in pulses—hot and dull and angry. It flared when I turned too fast or laughed too hard, or just when I remembered.
The whispering followed us all the way down the corridor. It never stopped, not even when I turned around to glare once or twice. The stares didn’t lessen either. Like people expected us to spontaneously combust, or start spewing details about what had happened in the graveyard.
They didn’t ask outright. Not yet.
They were still gauging what was safe to say. What was real. What wasn’t.
The looks weren’t cruel—just cautious. Nervous. Everyone wanted to know, but no one wanted to be the first to poke the trauma and see if it bled.
Harry and I had Potions first. Of course.
Snape didn’t acknowledge anything in front of the class. Not even a glance. He called roll as always, then began the lecture about the Draught of Peace. Normal. Steady. Flat.
But when I went to collect a set of ingredients for Harry and me, I fumbled a jar and nearly shattered it.
Snape was beside me in half a second.
He didn’t say anything—he just caught the jar with one hand and righted it. Then, almost too quickly to notice, he steadied my wrist with two fingers, adjusting my grip so I wouldn’t drop it again.
It was quiet and unspoken. But it meant the world.
Still, the pain pulsed under my collar. Not as bad as yesterday, but enough to make me sweat through half the lesson. I didn’t dare shift the bandage—just gritted my teeth and kept going.
No one spoke to us during the lesson. Not even the Gryffindors.
Not even Hermione, and she was sitting two tables away with Neville.
She kept sneaking glances at us. Her eyes were dark and worried and a little red around the edges, but she didn’t push.
Not yet.
We finished class without explosions—miracle enough—and packed up without waiting for stragglers. Blaise gave me a nod on our way out. I nodded back.
It was weird, the kind of solidarity that comes from not asking questions you both know the answers to.
We skipped lunch in the Hall.
I didn’t want more staring. Harry didn’t want more questions. Instead, we holed up in an unused classroom on the third floor with sandwiches and pumpkin juice from the kitchens. It was quiet. It was almost normal.
Until Luna found us.
She didn’t say hello—just walked in like she’d been invited. She held out a little paper sachet and handed it to me.
“Sunflower seeds,” she said.
I blinked.
“Thanks?”
“They grow well in painful soil,” she added, then patted my hand once, looked at Harry, nodded, and left the room without another word.
Harry and I just stared at each other.
“I’ll be honest,” I muttered. “That was probably the most comforting thing anyone’s said all day.”
He didn’t argue.
History of Magic was next. Ravenclaws this time.
We took seats near the back—Harry looked pale and tired, and I felt like I was moving underwater. The pain was manageable, but I kept feeling like I needed to stretch my neck. Every time I did, it twinged like fire.
No one talked during Binns’ lecture—not that anyone ever did.
But eyes kept drifting our way.
Even Padma Patil looked like she wanted to say something. Terry Boot was scribbling something on parchment with sharp, fast strokes. I didn’t know if it was notes or a theory about Voldemort’s return.
Behind me, someone whispered the word “graveyard” and got elbowed into silence.
Harry kept tapping his fingers on the table, a nervous rhythm he didn’t seem aware of. When Binns droned about Giant wars, Harry leaned closer and whispered,
“Do you think they’ll always look at us like that now?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was: maybe.
And we both already knew it.
By late afternoon, the pain was constant again. Dull, but gnawing. Like something chewing at the edge of my jaw and spine.
I didn’t wait for Pomfrey to come and find me.
I headed to the Hospital Wing before dinner, as she had told me to.
She greeted me with a slight nod, shut her ledger, and ushered me to a bed. Curtains drawn. Familiar routine now.
“How’s the pain?”
“Four,” I said honestly.
“Good,” she replied, handing me a goblet. “That means the potions are working.”
I downed it. She peeled the bandage back carefully.
“Do you want to see it today?”
I hesitated. Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
She brought the mirror.
I stared.
The scar wasn’t bleeding or open. It had closed. But the skin around it was still inflamed and dark, redder than the rest of me. It curved from the underside of my jaw down diagonally, ending right at the slope of my shoulder. A thick line of damage.
Big. Ugly. Obvious.
I wondered what it had looked like when I first got here. Probably not something I could’ve survived without Snape and Pomfrey pulling off a miracle.
And it made me angry.
Because I had finally reached a place where I could live with this body, where I could look in the mirror and not flinch.
And now Malfoy had changed it again. Made it something to hide again. Made it a mark I couldn’t forget.
I looked at it for a long time. Until my chest tightened.
Then I looked away.
“You can go on,” I said. “I’m done.”
She applied the ointment—Snape’s, she told me—and rebandaged it gently.
When she asked if I wanted to talk, I said,
“Not yet.”
She let it go.
And I left the curtains behind feeling tired, sore, and worn thin.
But still standing.
Still walking.
Still here.
Tis but a scratch.
After dinner, Harry and I skipped the common room entirely and headed straight up to our dormitory. The last thing either of us wanted was to sit under the weight of a hundred stares while pretending to do homework we barely cared about. Up here, at least, it was quiet. No whispering. No gawking. Just our two desks, our unfinished essays, and the steady scratch of quills against parchment. It was the first real moment of peace we’d had all day.
Or it had been, until the door opened.
Malfoy.
He stood in the doorway like he was debating whether to actually step in. His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he looked tense. Edgy. Like he’d rehearsed something but wasn’t sure of the lines anymore.
I glanced at Harry, who stiffened beside me. His fingers tightened around his quill.
“What do you want?” I asked, keeping my voice even.
Draco stepped inside and shut the door behind him. It clicked a little too loudly in the quiet room.
“I just thought you should know people are getting tired of your story,” he said flatly. “All this whispering about Death Eaters and You-Know-Who coming back. There’s no proof. Just a lot of drama and you two in the middle of it.”
Harry snorted but didn’t look up.
“And now people are saying my father was there,” Draco continued. “That he tried to—” He stopped himself. “Is that what you’re telling people?”
I looked him in the eye.
“I saw him,” I said.
Draco blinked.
“In the graveyard. He was right in front of me. He said something, then he cast the curse. I saw his face. I felt the curse hit me.”
Harry looked up now, but he stayed quiet, letting me speak.
Draco’s mouth opened, then shut. He stared at me like he wasn’t quite sure what I was saying.
“You’re lying,” he said at last. But it didn’t sound convinced.
“I’m not.”
There was silence. Then Draco looked away, his jaw clenched.
“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “If he was there. He didn’t tell me anything.”
I kept watching him, trying to read his face—was he telling the truth?
But whatever else Draco Malfoy was, I knew what fear looked like. And it was written all over him now.
“You didn’t,” I said finally. “I believe that.”
He glanced at me, surprised.
But I looked back down at my parchment and didn’t say anything more.
Beside me, Harry raised his eyebrows, but followed my lead, bending back over his work.
Draco stood there a moment longer, then turned and left without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Harry gave it a beat, then said,
“Well. That didn’t go how I expected.”
“No,” I murmured. “Me neither.”
And it hadn’t. Because I hadn’t expected him to look gutted.
And I definitely hadn’t expected to feel sorry for him.
Chapter 54: BOOK FIVE - BROKEN RECORD
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY
BROKEN RECORD
The days that followed blurred into one another. Nothing happened and everything happened.
Hagrid was gone. No announcement, no fanfare—just gone, like he’d vanished into the forest one night. Professor Grubbly-Plank showed up to teach Care of Magical Creatures as if it were the most natural thing in the world, not even blinking when students asked about Hagrid.
I told Hermione and Harry not to make a fuss.
“He’s on a mission,” I muttered under my breath, “and it’s better if no one notices he’s missing.”
They both nodded, but Hermione looked like she was biting her tongue bloody.
The Prophet didn’t run any follow-up on the so-called ‘Hogsmeade Hoax.’ Instead, it was full of fluff—exploding bonbons recalled by Zonko’s, a Ministry-sponsored feature on cauldron safety. Hermione tore a hole through one of the pages, just flipping it angrily.
Students kept asking questions—some curious, some nervous, some nasty. The common ones:
“Were you really kidnapped?”
“Was it really You-Know-Who?”
“Did you fight him?”
“Did you see any blood?”
“Why aren’t your parents pulling you out of school?”
“Was it staged? Some political thing?”
Harry stopped answering after the second day. I gave vague responses, mostly deflecting. Letting the mystery ferment was easier than fueling another round of panic or disbelief.
The rumours bloomed on their own. The main one was that we faked the whole thing to support Dumbledore’s agenda. Secondary ones were wilder—someone said we ran off for a weekend to do some illegal magic ritual and got caught. Someone else said Harry was trying to summon his dead parents and it went wrong. I heard someone whisper that I’d been “nearly beheaded.”
And, well—after my bandages came off, I couldn’t exactly argue with that one.
The scar stretched from just under my jaw to the base of my neck, angry red and unmistakable. It didn’t need explaining. Everyone stared. No one said anything to my face, but I heard them. In corridors. At lunch. Whispering.
“He almost died.”
“You-Know-Who’s mark?”
“Looks like an execution wound.”
“Do you think he was meant to survive?”
The professors didn’t comment, though most of them flinched when they first saw it. Even Flitwick went pale.
The twins saw it and turned into stone-faced versions of themselves. Ginny just swallowed hard and touched my arm like she needed to be sure I was real. Luna didn’t say a word when she saw it—just blinked very fast.
And me? I hated it. Not for the pain—it barely stung now—but for how it made me feel every time someone’s eyes went wide before they looked away. I hated the idea that I looked like a victim.
Malfoy had kept his mouth shut in public. Blank and quiet. No snide remarks. No casual cruelty. Not since the dormitory.
I heard whispers about his dad now, too. Some students avoided Draco like he were carrying something contagious. Others followed him with that same nervous fascination as a slow-motion train wreck.
When we crossed paths in class, he didn’t meet my eyes.
Umbridge hadn’t approached us yet. She addressed the entire school during one class change, stating that “Dangerous rumours will not be tolerated” and that “students are encouraged to report suspicious behaviour or conversations.” But so far, no personal run-ins. She was watching, though. I could feel it.
Like she was just waiting for an excuse.
Friday morning arrived with low clouds and tension taut as a bowstring.
We had Defence Against the Dark Arts for almost the whole day. One period before lunch, and a Double period just after lunch. It really was cursed enough on its own. But just as the bell rang and everyone was packing up to go to lunch, Umbridge’s sugary voice rang out like poison wrapped in silk.
“Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, if you would be so kind as to stay behind a moment.”
Harry stiffened beside me. I nudged his arm lightly, just once. Warning.
The others filed out. Blaise gave us a sidelong glance as he passed. Hermione lingered a moment, eyebrows pinched, before I gave her a subtle shake of the head. Not now.
The door closed.
Umbridge smiled. It was like watching a crocodile smile—something that could eat you alive and not spill a drop.
“Boys,” she said, folding her hands on the desk like we were at tea. “I want to express how terribly sorry I am that you’ve had such a distressing week. Truly. I can only imagine how awful it must have been to be caught up in such… confusion.”
Harry’s fists clenched on the table.
I spoke before he could.
“It was unpleasant, yes,” I said neutrally.
Umbridge tilted her head slightly.
“Of course. It’s perfectly natural, when faced with such stress, to perhaps… misinterpret events. To be frightened. To hear things that weren’t quite said. To remember things differently than they happened.”
Harry was breathing hard through his nose. His knee bounced under the table.
“You think we made it up,” he said and he sounded like he said it through gritted teeth.
I kept my eyes on Umbridge.
“Not at all,” she said sweetly. “I simply think that when students begin telling wild stories—about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returning, about Death Eaters rising—it causes undue panic. Alarmism is dangerous, Mr. Potter. You must understand that, Mr Weasley, as a Prefect.”
I forced myself to smile.
“I do understand that, Professor. Which is why I haven’t told any stories.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, a smile still pasted on.
“And Mr Potter?”
Harry looked ready to launch over the desk. I jumped in again.
“Harry hasn’t, either. We’ve both been focusing on recovery. Our friends know what happened because they were there when we got back from Hogsmeade. We haven’t spoken to the press. We haven’t made any statements.”
“Yet rumours persist,” she said, tone cooling. “And I do not want this school environment to become… toxic. We must promote a sense of stability and safety, not fearmongering and rebellion. Do you understand?”
I nodded once.
“We do.”
Harry snapped,
“You’re calling it a rumour when I watched him come back— ”
“Harry,” I said sharply, turning toward him. “Let it go.”
I met his eyes and held them. Not now. Not here.
He stared at me, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might snap. But then he nodded. Once. Barely.
Umbridge leaned back, smiling.
“Very good. I knew you were reasonable boys.”
I didn’t answer.
She let us go after that. We walked out in silence, not speaking until we were halfway down the corridor.
Harry’s voice was shaking.
“You know she’s going to do everything she can to shut us up.”
I nodded.
“Which is why we don’t explode in front of her.”
“She’s calling us liars.”
“I know.” I paused. “But I’d rather she think we’re liars than paint targets on our backs for the Ministry to aim at. If we give her a reason, she’ll use it.”
Harry exhaled hard through his nose.
“I hate her.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t we all.”
I stood outside Snape’s office door for a full thirty seconds before raising my hand to knock. Not because I was scared—I wasn’t. Not exactly. But there was something tight in my chest, something that had been there all week. I couldn’t name it. I just knew that coming back here, to him, after everything that had happened… it mattered. More than I wanted it to.
The door opened almost before my knuckles touched the wood.
Snape stood there, stiff as ever, expression impassible in the flickering torchlight.
I stepped in without waiting for an invitation. I always did. That was part of the rhythm we’d built these past couple of years. But tonight, I noticed the way his eyes tracked me more sharply than usual. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he wasn’t sure if I’d come to learn or to scream.
I sat in the usual chair. He closed the door.
Silence stretched. He walked around the desk and paused by the shelf of protective wards, his hand hovering over a rune-etched box. I cleared my throat.
“I want to change the lesson tonight,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“I want to learn to fight the Imperius.”
Stillness. Then slowly, he turned to face me.
“That is not a light request,” he said. His voice was smooth, but the tension in it was unmistakable. “You do not learn to resist an Unforgivable Curse in an evening.”
“I don’t care,” I said, gripping the arms of the chair. “I need to start somewhere.”
A pause.
Then, to my surprise, he inclined his head. No argument. Just a quiet acceptance.
“Very well,” he said. “Then we begin with the theory.”
He moved to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. Lines and circles appeared in rapid succession. A simplified human mind, magical influence layered over it like a parasite.
“The Imperius Curse,” Snape said, “is the most insidious of the Unforgivables. Not because it causes pain or death. But because it takes you from yourself.”
I swallowed. The memory of that blissful emptiness in the Three Broomsticks bathroom rose in my throat like bile.
“You are not forced to comply,” Snape continued. “Not in the usual sense. The curse does not override your body—it dulls your mind. It removes the part of you that questions, that reasons, that resists. You are not aware of being controlled. You simply… agree.”
He looked at me then, and I looked back, refusing to blink.
“But there is always a sliver,” he said. “A thread of you that remains. If you know how to find it. If you train your awareness. You can grip that thread and pull yourself out.”
He dropped the chalk.
“The first step is learning to recognise when something foreign is in your mind.”
He raised his wand. I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t sure if that was bravery or stupidity.
“I will not cast the curse yet,” he said. “We begin with sensation. With mental pressure. Close your eyes.”
I obeyed.
“Now,” he said, “focus inward. Imagine your thoughts like a closed room. A room that is entirely yours. The walls are lined with memories, feelings, instincts. Look around that room. Know it.”
I did. I imagined the room. Mine was warm and cluttered. Messy shelves, old Slytherin banners, crumpled letters. Familiar.
“Now,” Snape said, “I will press lightly against your mind. Not invade. Not manipulate. Just… press.”
I felt it. A subtle weight. Like someone had leaned against the other side of the door to my room.
“That,” Snape said, “is what foreign magic feels like. Gentle. Almost nothing. But not you. Focus on that difference.”
I did. Over and over, we repeated the exercise. Snape pressed, I named where the feeling was—behind the left eye, just above the brow, somewhere in the chest. He nodded every time I got it right. Sometimes he made the pressure stronger, colder. Once he tried to mimic the Imperius buzz—the warm, golden drift I remembered from the curse. It made my stomach turn.
When he finally stepped back, my neck was damp with sweat.
“You’re ready,” he said.
I nodded.
He pointed his wand at me.
“Imperio.”
I didn’t float this time. I didn’t smile or drift or feel peaceful.
But I did feel the suggestion.
Stand up.
It felt like my own thought. Like something that had always been there. A good idea. Comfortable. Right.
My knees twitched.
No.
That wasn’t me.
It’s fine. Just stand. There’s nothing wrong with it.
But there was.
I forced my muscles to stay still. My breathing was shallow. My heart raced. My head was foggy. But I knew the command wasn’t mine.
Stand. It will feel good. Everything will feel good.
I clenched my fists.
“Stop,” I rasped.
The spell lifted.
Snape’s eyes were locked on mine.
“Excellent.”
I slumped back in the chair, panting.
“That,” he said, voice low, “was what resistance feels like. That thread you pulled—it was you.”
“I want to do it again,” I said.
We did.
Again. And again.
The third time, I failed. I stood up without realising it. I felt warmth bloom in my chest. The instruction had been to walk to the door.
I took three steps before I felt the wrongness. Then stopped.
“Stop!” I shouted.
The spell broke.
“Good,” Snape said. “You caught it earlier. That is progress.”
I sank back into the chair.
“It’s horrible,” I muttered. “It feels… nice.”
“That is the trap,” Snape said. “Pain, you can fight. Pleasure, comfort—those are harder to question.”
We took a break. He gave me water. Didn’t say anything sentimental. Just waited.
I didn’t thank him. Not yet. But I was grateful.
When we resumed, he didn’t cast it again until I asked him to do so.
This time, I won. All the way through. The spell hit, and I braced myself, and I remembered the mental room. My room. My space.
When the command came— kneel —I said, in my own head, no.
It felt like a rock thrown through glass. The spell shattered around me.
I opened my eyes. My breath was heaving. I was shaking.
Snape lowered his wand.
“Well done,” he said.
And it wasn’t the sarcastic tone. It was real.
I nodded, too tired to speak.
“Once a week,” he said. “That’s how often we’ll practice. It must be regular.”
I nodded again.
And then he added, quieter,
“You did not have to come.”
“I did,” I said.
We looked at each other for a moment. There was something solid between us. Something wordless and earned.
I left without another word. But I felt steadier than I had all week.
Snape had taught me how to hold onto myself.
And for the first time since the graveyard, I believed I could.
The second week started quietly—too quietly.
By Monday, Hagrid was still gone. No explanation, just Professor Grubbly-Plank showing up again with her matter-of-fact instructions and perfectly adequate lessons. Harry looked at me over breakfast like he wanted to ask, but I just gave him a slight shake of the head. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and I said, like it was obvious,
“It’s normal. Probably off on one of Dumbledore’s errands. Don’t make a fuss.”
I said it loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, too. We couldn’t afford to draw attention to anything, least of all Hagrid’s absence.
Tuesday morning, it began.
The Prophet arrived with an article, not the front page, but on top of page three. “Dumbledore’s Decline? Sources Report Strange Behaviour at Hogwarts.” The title alone was enough to set the whole Hall buzzing. By the time we got to class, half the school had read it and was quoting it. It mentioned how Dumbledore had marched into the Ministry claiming Voldemort was back—how he was becoming erratic in his old age, clearly not fit to lead, especially after years of questionable decisions: a werewolf teacher, a half-giant gameskeeper, a suspected ex-Death Eater still on staff, and an unstable ex-Auror last year.
The whispers at school sharpened overnight.
Wednesday’s article hit even harder. “Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf? Potter’s Past and Present Outbursts Scrutinised.” They dragged up everything: Harry claiming he hadn’t put his name in the Goblet, his involvement in catching Pettigrew, his trauma. The tone was one of polished sympathy, but the message was clear: Harry was unstable and confused, and Dumbledore was using him to push some private agenda.
Ron Weasley was never even mentioned. Not once.
But I was there. I had a scar on my throat that students kept trying not to look at. And Harry? Harry was seething. I saw it in every tight-lipped glare and clenched jaw.
By Friday, the pressure broke again with a follow-up piece: witness statements from Hogsmeade, questioning the whole “incident.” A handful of older students were quoted as saying we’d probably pulled a prank and gone too far. “The Weasleys are known for jokes,” one said. “Maybe this time it just wasn’t funny.” The Prophet never once contacted us for our side of the story.
Saturday, two weeks to the day, came Fudge’s article.
“Relic of the Past,” the title read. He gave an exclusive interview. Said Voldemort was long dead, that the Ministry was working tirelessly to uncover any lingering threats, and that this “rumour mill” was hurting public morale. “Not a single convicted Death Eater has turned out to be lying about the Imperius,” he said. “The past is the past. Let us not give power to shadows.”
And then came Monday.
Educational Decree Number 24.
All students were strictly forbidden from “speaking publicly about unverified threats to public safety” or from “causing moral panic.” Posters of the decree were pasted all over the corridors.
Some students mocked it. Others looked relieved. But the tension was everywhere. Friendships strained. Common rooms filled with silence and side-eyes. Ravenclaws started holding whisper-only study sessions in corners. Gryffindors whispered about Umbridge being a Ministry spy. Slytherins said nothing.
Harry and I didn’t say a word in public. And everyone knew it.
We were the ones who weren’t talking. And that silence spoke volumes.
I woke with a start.
Heart pounding, breath catching—like something had just left the room, or slipped through the edge of a dream before I could grasp it. I sat upright, blinking into the darkness. At first, I couldn’t tell what had jolted me awake.
Then I heard it.
A sound. Soft, choked. A stifled whimper from the bed above mine.
I kicked off the blankets, bare feet hitting the floor. The curtains around Harry’s bed were slightly ajar, just enough to see a sliver of movement beyond them. I pushed them open the rest of the way.
Harry was thrashing in his sleep, face pale with a sheen of sweat, fists clenched around the sheets like he was gripping them for dear life.
“Harry,” I whispered, but he didn’t stir.
I shook his shoulder.
“Harry. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”
He jolted with a gasp, eyes flying open. Wild, unfocused. He looked right through me.
“It’s me,” I said quietly. “It’s just me.”
His breathing was ragged. His hand scrabbled around blindly for his glasses, and I handed them to him. He shoved them on with shaking fingers, still staring at nothing.
“Want some water?” I asked, already reaching for the glass on his nightstand.
But he didn’t answer.
Instead, he climbed out of bed without a word and pulled on his nightrobes. I did the same. We didn’t have to talk about it. We’d done this before.
The common room was quiet and empty, the fire low but still alive. We sat in the large armchairs nearest the hearth, curling our legs under us, letting the warmth wash over our bare feet.
For a while, neither of us said anything. The quiet stretched comfortably between us, heavy with exhaustion but edged with something raw.
Then Harry spoke, his voice rough.
“You died. Again.”
I turned to look at him.
“In the dream?” I asked.
He nodded.
“This time… Voldemort used the Cruciatus on you. A third time. And he—he wouldn’t stop. I kept begging him. I was on my knees. Screaming. But he just kept going.”
His voice cracked. He rubbed his hands over his face.
“And then when he finally did stop, you weren’t… You weren’t there anymore. I mean, your body was. But your mind—” He swallowed. “You were just lying there. Staring at nothing. Not blinking. Not breathing right. Like you were gone. I couldn’t get through to you.”
I didn’t say anything at first. Just reached across and squeezed his hand. Hard.
“You’re here,” he whispered, as if he needed me to say it back.
“I’m here,” I said. “We made it out.”
He nodded, but it was mechanical.
I leaned back, staring into the fire.
“I won’t lie. Sometimes I wake up and think I’m still there. Still bleeding out, waiting for someone to find me. And I have dreams too. Dobby, mostly. Or the curse. Or the pain.”
He looked over at me, and I gave him a faint, tired smile.
“But we’re alive. We’re healing. You pulled through. I pulled through. We didn’t break, Harry.”
He looked down at our joined hands, then back at the fire.
“Sometimes I think I did.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “You’re still you. You’re still fighting. That’s the important part.”
He was quiet for a while, then said,
“I wish I could forget it all.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “But maybe we don’t need to forget. Maybe we just need to keep walking. Together. One day at a time.”
He didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t let go of my hand either.
We sat like that for a long time. The flames crackled softly beside us, casting flickers of gold and orange over the stone floor. Outside, the castle slept.
Inside, we were still learning how to breathe. But we were doing it together. And that made all the difference.
The third week began with another whisper behind every open newspaper.
The Prophet’s latest headline didn’t scream, but it didn’t need to.
“Dumbledore’s Obsession: Is the Headmaster Still Fit to Lead?”
It wasn’t new, just more of the same, but now it compiled everything into one. His decisions over the years—Lupin, Hagrid, even Snape—lined up as evidence of “questionable judgment.” They quoted Ministry officials who said he was unstable. They asked why someone like that was allowed to remain in charge of children.
Harry read it in silence that morning, eyes flicking back and forth across the page with a clenched jaw. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t need to. I already knew what it would say.
By Tuesday, the second article dropped.
“Where Are the Weasleys?”
It speculated why I hadn’t been seen at home. Why my parents were being tight-lipped. Why my brothers hadn’t publicly commented. They made it sound like my family was hiding something. Like I was some kind of shameful secret being swept under a rug.
Hermione was fuming.
“They make it sound like you faked your assault!”
“It’s fine,” I muttered. “It’ll blow over.”
But it didn’t. On Wednesday, the Quibbler—bless them—published a satirical piece about the whole mess. A full-page cartoon of Fudge stuffing a cork into a lion’s mouth labelled “The Truth,” while he yelled at reporters that “The Weather Is Perfectly Fine.”
Most students laughed. Some cut it out and pinned it to their dormitory walls. Hermione kept a copy in her bag. But the Ministry didn’t laugh.
On Thursday morning, Educational Decree Number 25 was nailed to the wall outside the Great Hall.
“All professors are henceforth forbidden from discussing political matters with students.”
Signed by Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor.
We all knew what it meant. She was silencing the professors, just as she had tried with us. And worse—she’d started summoning students to her office. To “ask questions.” To dig for dirt. To build a case.
The twins caught wind of a new rumour spreading after that. Some clever little fifth year had told a first year that the whole graveyard story was just advertising for a new line of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products—some fake-kidnapping prank item that was being tested for market.
Fred and George were furious.
“I can’t believe they think we’d do that,” George growled.
“We do a lot of things, but faking that ?” Fred added, his tone sharp with guilt.
“You think we should say something to them?” George asked me quietly after dinner.
I gave a tired shrug.
“Not like they’d believe you either way.”
They exchanged a look.
“We’re sorry, Ron,” Fred said.
“Yeah,” George added. “It was funny being famous for chaos. But this isn’t funny.”
I gave them both a tight smile.
“I know. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
It didn’t stop them from pacing the corridor outside Umbridge’s office that day. I think they wanted to punch someone. Or maybe just have someone to argue with.
The rest of the week blurred.
People still whispered. They still stared. The older students didn’t ask much anymore. Most were too unsure which side was safer. But younger ones…
Friday morning, as I was leaving Charms, three first years clustered in front of me and Harry. Two Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw. One of them, a tiny thing with braids and a nervous frown, looked up at me and said:
“Are we… allowed to ask about the near-beheading?”
Harry went stiff beside me. I blinked down at them.
“I’m not sure,” I said gently. “But maybe that’s something to talk about with someone like Professor Sprout or Flitwick. Not me, alright?”
They nodded and scattered. I didn’t tell them they’d been braver than most.
By the end of the day, my scar ached. The cold always made it worse. I didn’t mention it. I didn’t want more pity. I wanted normalcy, so I forced myself to act like nothing hurt, like everything was fine.
But I could feel the glances. The discomfort. And the fact that the bandage was gone now—that didn’t help.
The scar ran jagged across my neck in full view. People tried not to look. But they still did. Some flinched. Some stared openly. I heard things. Rumours. Whispers that I’d been nearly beheaded. That I died for a few seconds. That I’d been cursed never to speak again, and that the scar was why I was silent.
It was always something.
The worst part wasn’t what they said. It was that none of it came close to how it actually felt. And no one wanted to ask the real questions.
So I kept walking. Kept answering with shrugs or silence. Kept pretending the mould still fit, even though it didn’t.
Because anything else would mean admitting I’d changed. And I wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
Chapter 55: BOOK FIVE - OLD RUMOURS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
OLD RUMOURS
By mid-November, the attention had finally faded. The whispers quieted. The curious glances stopped following us through the corridors like ghosts. Between the Ministry’s decrees, the Prophet’s garbage, and Slytherin’s landslide win at the first Quidditch match, people had moved on.
I was relieved.
It was the first time I could walk into the Great Hall and actually breathe. No whispers. No stares. No first years gawking at my scar like it was about to start bleeding again.
Of course, the relief was mainly public. Privately, I still woke up nearly every night, chest tight and throat dry from silent screaming. Harry, too. Sometimes I heard him breathing fast in his sleep across the dormitory. But we never mentioned it. I just listened. And every morning, I wrote what I could remember into the Divination dream journal like Trelawney asked. Mine read like a horror anthology with the gory bits blurred out. Harry’s… was fiction.
Total fiction.
He never put his real dreams down. Always made something up about being chased by Fanged Frisbees or stuck in a teacup storm.
It frustrated me a little. He was just lying to the journal, like it didn’t matter. But I also got it. Some things were too sharp to write down. So I didn’t push.
Today, we were meant to interpret our partner’s dream again. Weekly routine. And I was glad I’d had a dream that wasn’t just another twisted graveyard echo. Unfortunately, it had gone a bit… off track. Nothing classroom-appropriate, anyway. So I censored it down to a cosy cottage, a warm fire, tea with my “spouse,” and some banter about dinner. I left out the part where my “spouse” decided I’d be the main course.
Harry finished writing his usual creative entry. Then he handed me the journal.
I read it.
My breath stopped.
I looked up at him, keeping my expression casual.
“Weird one,” I said. “You know what’s behind the door?”
Harry just shrugged.
“No idea. I was just dreaming it, I guess.”
I knew that corridor. The locked door. It wasn’t a dream. Not the kind Trelawney would ask for, anyway. But I didn’t push. I needed to think about what to do about Harry’s vision.
Instead, I cleared my throat and read from my copy of The Dream Oracle by Inigo Imago.
“A locked door can symbolise a desire for understanding or power, or feeling cut off from something you want to know. The corridor means you’re being tested or walking an unfamiliar path. The dark part suggests confusion or fear.”
Harry nodded, as if that was fine and believable. Like he hadn’t just described one of the Department of Mysteries’ most well-guarded rooms. I handed his journal back.
“Your turn,” I muttered and gave him mine.
He flipped through the pages and read the tea-and-dinner scenario with raised eyebrows.
“Your spouse, huh?” he said, glancing up with a smirk.
I flushed scarlet.
“It was just a dream. Shut up.”
He didn’t shut up. He chuckled under his breath and read the interpretation with a little too much relish, going on about domestic contentment and future stability, and how the fire meant warmth and affection.
Then, he flipped through the dream dictionary, searching. Didn’t say what for. But when he found it, he cleared his throat dramatically and read aloud, voice low, eyes gleaming.
“‘Dreaming about a romantic dinner with a teacher figure may symbolise unacknowledged admiration or power dynamics in waking life…’”
I groaned.
“You’re the worst.”
Harry just grinned and raised an eyebrow again, lips twitching.
“Ron. ‘Spouse.’ Cosy fire. Unspecified teacher.”
“Shut up,” I hissed, trying not to laugh. “Seriously, shut up.”
“Just saying,” he said, leaning back. “Pretty cosy. Hope Snape likes tea.”
I threw a pillow at him.
We laughed until class ended. And for once, it didn’t feel forced.
What a sassy little gremlin.
By the end of November, I was pretty sure my brain was melting inside my skull. Ravenclaw had flattened Hufflepuff in the last Quidditch match of the year yesterday, and between that and the mountain of homework and essays piling up, I didn’t even know what day it was anymore. And still—still—Hermione wanted to add to our load.
“We need to do something about Defence,” she said, the second we sat down in the Library to do our Defence essay. “We’re not learning anything useful. If we’re going to survive real life, we need training.”
Harry and I looked at each other. He didn’t say anything, but I could see the frustration on his face. I knew exactly how he felt. Umbridge’s lessons were a joke. A dangerous one.
Hermione kept going.
“You’ve both fought Death Eaters, and You-Know-Who himself. We can’t just sit around reading about counter-jinxes when the world is on fire.”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes.
“I get it, I do. But we can’t just start training people left and right. We’ll get caught. Or worse.”
Harry leaned forward, jaw set.
“What if we don’t invite ‘people’? What if we just do it ourselves? The lot of us. The inner circle.”
That was more like it.
“I agree,” I said. “Just us, for now. Me, you, Hermione, Ginny, the twins, Luna. That’s it. If it works, maybe next term we can consider more options. But only if we’re sure.”
Hermione nodded slowly.
“Okay. That’s reasonable. But where? Clubs are banned, and if we try to ask for a room, Umbridge will know.”
I grinned.
“I know a place.”
Harry blinked at me.
“You do?”
“Yeah. I’ll show you as soon as we finish this essay.” I nudged my parchment with a grimace. “Priorities.”
Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.
“Kill me now.”
Hermione, of course, beamed.
“Thank you, Ron.”
Harry’s knee was bouncing for the rest of the study session. I didn’t think he even noticed. As soon as we were done, we left the Library and headed up to the seventh floor. I made sure no one was following, then walked past the blank wall three times, thinking about a place to train. A place no one could find.
A door appeared. I pushed it open.
Inside was perfect. Big open space, padded walls, duelling dummies. A room straight out of a dream.
“Whoa,” Harry whispered, stepping inside.
Hermione looked stunned.
“Where are we?”
“Room of Requirement,” I said. “Discovered it in third year when I wanted to be alone. Showed it to the twins so they’d stop hovering. Haven’t really needed it since.”
Harry turned to me.
“Do you know any other secret rooms?”
I thought about it.
“Not off the top of my head. Apart from the teachers’ weed room.”
Hermione squinted.
“Weed room?”
I snorted.
“You know. Where they smoke to forget about us.”
She rolled her eyes. Harry huffed a laugh.
We decided it was perfect. Sat right there and started planning. Harry had the most ideas—probably from all the extra lessons with Snape and the stuff he’d picked up from Moody. We wrote everything down. Disarming, shielding, dodging. The basics first.
Then Hermione asked, a little hesitantly,
“Do you think we could teach the Patronus too? Eventually?”
Harry looked at me. I shrugged.
“Sure.”
“Yeah. We can do that.”
Hermione smiled and jotted it down on her list.
We agreed to tell the others soon. Hermione would talk to the Weasleys when she got back to the tower tonight, and we’d tell Luna at breakfast—but quietly. No point in painting a target on our backs.
This was the start of something. Something we actually had control over.
I hit the stone floor hard and rolled, my wand barely staying in my grip as another Stinging Hex crackled past my ear. I got to my knees just fast enough to throw up a Shield Charm between myself and the dummy labelled Hermione, then flicked another spell over my shoulder at the oncoming attacker.
It connected. The other dummy— Harry —kept moving behind me, following a track along the far wall as if he were circling for a flank. I had to think quickly and act even faster. My shield flickered and faded, but I was already twisting, casting nonverbally again, another block, another hex, another breath dragged in like my lungs were packed with wet wool.
My robes stuck to my back, sweat soaking through. Every muscle in my shoulders screamed. My fingers ached from the tight grip on my wand.
“Enough,” Snape said, voice cutting through the haze like a blade.
I dropped my stance, panting hard. My legs felt like jelly. My arms like lead. The two dummies froze in place, and the classroom—no, the duelling ground Snape had turned it into—fell into silence.
I bent double, hands on my knees, trying not to drip on the floor.
Snape paced toward me, his footsteps sharp but unhurried. I caught the barest flick of movement from the corner of my eye and spun toward it, but nothing. Just the echo of a test. A drill. A reminder that he sometimes still hit me with the Imperius Curse mid-lesson to keep me on my toes.
Lately, I was resisting it. Even when it came without warning. Not always, but enough.
“You are improving,” Snape said, stopping beside me. His voice had none of its usual contempt, but also none of the praise that might have meant more. “You are still slow to prioritise targets. You hesitate too long between spell chains. And your defence suffers when you focus on protecting others.”
I nodded. Still panting. Still soaked through.
“But you are improving,” he said again, quieter.
“Thanks,” I muttered, straightening up and wiping my face on my sleeve. I didn’t want to sound too grateful, but I didn’t want to hide it either. Not after everything. “Before I go… I’ve got something to ask.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt either. That was as close to an invitation as I was going to get.
“I was wondering,” I said, forcing the words out past the hesitation, “if I could have the Map back. The Marauder’s Map.”
Snape’s eyebrows twitched upward.
“Why?”
“Me, Harry, and Hermione—we’re starting a study group. For Defence.” I shrugged one shoulder, trying to look casual even though I knew exactly how much risk I was putting on the table. “Hermione’s idea. She’s right—we’re not learning anything in Umbridge’s class. We need practice.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I figured we’d be careful,” I went on. “We’re only inviting people we trust. Just a few for now. We’re going to use the Room of Requirement.”
Now that got a response. His brow creased slightly.
“The what?”
“It’s a hidden room on the seventh floor. You walk past the wall three times, thinking about what you need, and it appears. I found it by accident in third year.”
“And you did not think this worth mentioning?”
I winced.
“Didn’t need it till now. And I showed the twins, so they’d stop hovering. But I didn’t think it was useful until… well. Now.”
He crossed his arms, dark eyes fixed on mine.
“Describe the magic. Is it a conjured space? An extension charm? A stabilised transfiguration?”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“No idea. It feels… old. Real. Solid. It changes depending on what you want. Gives you stuff. Furniture. Gear. Books, even.”
He was silent for a long moment. Thinking. Weighing.
“It may prove useful,” he said eventually. “If it is truly self-concealing, Umbridge may not detect it. Still…” He turned slightly, cloak rustling. “You must be cautious. No matter how clever the location, it only takes one mistake. One leak.”
“I get it,” I said. “That’s why I want the Map. To check the halls before we leave the room. Make sure we’re not being watched.”
Snape narrowed his eyes.
“And you intend to share it?”
“No,” I said. “I mean… I’ll use it when needed. I won’t show anyone. Not even Harry. Just me.”
Another long pause. Then, he moved to his desk.
He opened a drawer and reached inside. When he turned back, the folded parchment was in his hand.
He stared at it for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to give it back. Like the thing itself was dangerous. And maybe it was.
Then he held it out to me.
I took it carefully. The parchment felt warmer than it should’ve. Or maybe that was just my hand, still shaking from the last duelling exercise.
“Do not speak of it,” he said. “Do not display it. Do not look at it where others can see. I trust you to be discreet.”
“I will,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I trust you, Mr. Weasley,” he said quietly. “Find a way.”
I nodded. Clutched the Map tighter.
“I will,” I said again. Then I turned, heading toward the door. “Good night, sir.”
He didn’t answer, but I didn’t need him to.
I slipped out, cloak swinging behind me, and tucked the Map inside my robes like it was something sacred. Something sharp. Something that just might save us again.
I asked for something simple, something warm, open, with lots of space and soft mats underfoot in case someone tripped on a miscast charm. The Room of Requirement didn’t disappoint.
The walls stretched wide and tall, lined with mirrors on one side and bookshelves on the other. Dummies stood at attention in corners, and practice targets glimmered in rows near the back. There were racks for wands, training robes, even a few enchanted cushions slowly hovering near the ceiling for who knew what reason. Probably to land on if we somehow managed to launch ourselves mid-hex.
Everyone was already there when Harry and I stepped in. Ginny was stretching, wand tucked behind her ear. Fred and George were play-duelling, throwing harmless sparks at each other while Luna watched them with quiet amusement. Hermione was rearranging parchments on a small table she’d conjured in one corner.
She looked up as we entered, eyebrows rising.
“What took you so long?”
“I wanted to get something,” I said, and I turned to the empty corner of the room and asked aloud, “Could I have a sonograph player, please?”
A low pop. A beautiful mahogany box appeared, its stylus arm floating neatly into place. The moment I touched it, a record started spinning, and upbeat jazz poured into the room.
The change was immediate. Fred threw his arms in the air and started dancing like an idiot. George joined him a second later. Ginny laughed and clapped in time. Luna twirled once, offbeat but content.
Hermione stared at me like I’d grown an extra nose.
“You brought music?” she asked, incredulous.
“We’re revising spells, not attending a funeral,” I said, holding back a grin. “It’s not like duels happen in silent little bubbles. Thought we’d simulate a noisy battlefield.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“That’s not how sound dynamics work—”
“Come on, Hermione,” Harry cut in, already loosening his wrist. “It’s not a bad idea. Besides, we could use some fun. We’re not here to be miserable.”
She sighed, rolled her eyes, and muttered something about “boys,” but didn’t protest again.
“Alright,” I said, clapping my hands once. “First session. We’re going to revise every offensive and defensive spell we know. Doesn’t matter how basic—just cast them right. Posture, precision, and power.”
“And don’t forget pronunciation,” Hermione added, already moving toward Ginny to help her with her Disarming Charm.
Harry and I moved through the group, helping where needed. Luna had surprisingly perfect form, even if her spell choices were... unconventional. Fred and George were fine with the flashy stuff, but sloppy on some of the basics. Ginny had a determined streak I hadn’t seen in a while, and I caught Harry watching her with a proud little grin.
The music helped more than I expected. People were relaxed. Smiling. Casting. Laughing when a spell backfired or fizzled. I helped George correct the wrist flick for Expelliarmus and reminded Luna to angle her Protego lower.
It was the most normal I’d felt in weeks.
Even with the scar pulling tight against my skin every time I turned my neck, even with the phantom ache that flared in the cold corners of the room, I felt like me again. A sweaty, exhausted, hopeful version of me.
“Good work,” Harry called over the music as we took a break. “This is what we need. We don’t have to be the best. We just have to be better than whoever’s coming for us.”
Hermione gave him a look that was halfway between concern and approval. I clapped Harry’s shoulder.
“You’re doing great,” I said quietly, just for him.
He truly was.
Ginny flopped down on one of the conjured cushions near us and pulled her hair into a messy ponytail that mimicked my own.
“Alright, we’ve shown you our duelling prowess and our complete lack of nonverbal spells. Your turn, prefect.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“My turn?”
“Yeah,” she said, flashing me a grin. “Show us something Snape’s been teaching you in your fancy little private sessions.”
Fred and George immediately perked up.
“Oh yes, Professor Weasley,” Fred said, bowing low. “Please dazzle us with your dark arts expertise.”
“Preferably something explosive,” George added.
“Or dramatic,” said Ginny.
“Or both,” said Luna dreamily.
Hermione looked mildly alarmed, but curious. Harry just turned and raised an eyebrow at me, clearly expecting something extraordinary.
Great.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Most of it’s not flashy,” I said. “It’s drills. Repetition. Casting under pressure.”
“Pressure like what?” Fred asked.
I hesitated. There was no way I could mention the Imperius training. Not unless I wanted to deal with Hermione’s horror and Fred’s panic, and Harry spiralling into guilt. No. That was just for me and Snape. No one else needed to know how badly I’d failed the first few times. Or how it had felt, floating just outside myself, unable to stop my own body.
So I stuck to the truth that I could share.
“Snape sets up these duelling scenarios,” I said. “Where I have to protect someone—well, usually a dummy—with spells flying at me. The idea is to keep your focus split: attack, defend, and keep whoever you’re protecting from getting hexed.”
“Blimey,” said George. “That sounds—”
“Really boring,” I cut in, trying to keep the mood light. “It’s not dramatic. It’s just casting the same spell over and over while yelling ‘don’t you dare hit Harry’ at a dummy.”
Harry snorted.
“I’d pay to see that,” he muttered.
“Yeah, it’s riveting,” I said. “Protego Maximo! Again! Blocko! Puncho! Whoops, I’ve killed the dummy. Minus ten points.”
That got a laugh. The tension I’d felt curled up in my gut loosened a bit. I didn’t want to lie to them, but I couldn’t tell them the whole truth either. Not about that part of it. Not yet.
“So you’re not going to give us a display?” Ginny asked, tilting her head.
I smiled wryly.
“You want a display? Fine.” I turned toward the nearest training dummy and flicked my wand. “Expelliarmus!”
The dummy’s wand went flying, clattering somewhere near Fred’s foot.
“There. Riveting.”
Everyone clapped dramatically.
“I’m overwhelmed,” said Hermione dryly.
“Truly, an artist,” said Luna.
But they were all grinning. They were happy to tease. And more than anything, I was happy to let them.
Better this, I thought, than silence and stares. Better this than what came before.
The stone corridor stretched out ahead, dimly lit by wall sconces and moonlight filtering through stained glass. I walked a step ahead of Pansy Parkinson, not out of rudeness, but because I couldn’t stand walking beside her anymore. Every few feet, I caught her sneering at me in my peripheral vision. Lips curling. Eyes darting sideways. That same barely-suppressed grimace she always wore like a second skin around me.
At first, I tried ignoring it. Like I always did.
But tonight it grated on me. Maybe it was the scar tugging at my neck in the cold. Maybe it was my exhaustion. Maybe I’d just had enough.
I stopped mid-step.
She halted, too, an exaggerated sigh escaping her lips.
“Oh, what now?”
I turned to face her.
“Alright, Parkinson. What exactly is your problem with me?”
She blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You keep looking at me like I just crawled out of the lake. You’ve been doing it for months. And I’ve never even spoken more than three sentences to you outside of patrolling. So what the hell is your problem?”
Her mouth twisted into a smirk.
“You want a list?”
I crossed my arms.
“Sure. Why not? Sounds like you’ve been compiling it for months.”
She stepped closer, her voice low and sharp.
“Fine. Let’s start with the obvious. That thing on your neck. Don’t think everyone hasn’t noticed. It’s hideous.”
I stiffened.
“Then there’s your hair. Like a badly-maintained broomstick. And your face—”
“Okay,” I said flatly. “I get it.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” she said, eyes flashing. “You strut around like some war hero just because you got yourself almost killed. You think that makes you special?”
“I think it makes me someone who got almost killed,” I muttered.
She scoffed.
“And don’t think people don’t know about your little arrangement with Snape. Every week, you slink off to his office like it’s some grand secret. Like we don’t know what’s happening behind that door.”
That again? It was so old.
“It’s tutoring,” I said flatly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
She laughed. A sharp, ugly sound.
“Oh, sure. ‘Tutoring.’ That’s what you’re calling it now?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“What do you want me to say, Parkinson? That I spend the hour learning how to hex someone into next week? Because that’s exactly what I do. Sorry if that doesn’t fit your little scandal fantasy.”
She sneered at me, eyes glittering.
“Right. Because Snape is known for his warm, nurturing mentorship of hopeless cases. You’re not even subtle about it. The rest of us actually have to earn our marks. You just bat your eyes and call him ‘sir.’”
I clenched my jaw.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me. Or him.”
“Don’t I?” she spat. “Everyone sees the way you look at him. It’s disgusting. You think just because he tolerates you for some reason that gives you special status? Merlin, you’re pathetic. It’s bad enough you’re some needy little charity case—we’re supposed to pretend it’s not revolting that it’s two blokes ?”
Whoa.
What a bitch.
My stomach twisted. My throat burned where the scar still hadn’t fully healed. I didn’t retort anything. There was nothing to say.
“You’re disgusting,” she finished, voice thick with disdain. “A teacher’s pet with a martyr complex. You don’t belong in Slytherin. You’re a joke.”
I stared at her. I wasn’t even angry. Not yet.
Just so confused.
“We’ve barely spoken,” I said slowly. “I don’t even know what I ever did to you.”
She stepped back, something flashing behind her eyes—something uncertain—but it vanished as quickly as it came. She opened her mouth to retort—
But a sudden voice behind us cut through the tension like a blade.
“Oi! Parkinson, Weasley! You’re late for check-in!”
We both turned, startled. Another prefect—Jones from Hufflepuff—strode toward us from the main staircase, irritation written all over his face.
Pansy glared at me one last time before turning on her heel and marching off down the corridor without another word.
I watched her go, trying to scrub the aftertaste of her words from my skin.
Ugly. Disgusting. A joke.
I ran a hand over my neck, over the thick cloth where the scar sat like a permanent curse.
I told myself I didn’t care.
I wasn’t sure I believed it.
The tutoring session had been going well, for once. Snape was drilling me through a sequence of disarming and shielding combinations, barking corrections with that usual dry disdain. I was sweating like a Quidditch player in July, but I was proud of myself. I wasn’t just holding my own—I was improving. He hadn’t said it out loud, of course, but I could tell.
Which is why I was caught entirely off guard when, in the middle of a particularly tricky spell sequence, Snape froze.
His wand didn’t move, but his head turned sharply toward the door. His nostrils flared.
Then he moved like lightning.
He strode across the room and yanked the door open so fast it hit the wall with a deafening crack. There, in the corridor, caught mid-crouch like a dog sniffing around, was Pansy Parkinson.
Snape’s expression turned to stone.
“Well,” he said, voice deathly calm. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Pansy straightened up quickly, but not quickly enough. Her face flushed bright pink.
“I—I had a question about last week’s potion. I thought—maybe—”
“Save your breath.” His voice cut through her stammering like a knife through silk. “If you had a legitimate question, you would have waited until morning. Or knocked. Not crouched outside my office like some petty thief.”
She flinched.
“This is your only warning, Miss Parkinson. For this violation of my privacy and disruption of a private lesson, you will serve detention with Mr. Filch. Two nights. If I catch you here again, the consequences will escalate. Are we clear?”
She looked like she might argue—just for a moment—but then her eyes flicked to me. And her mouth twisted in that same sneer I’d seen so many times in the corridors. That same look of disgust, like I’d stepped in something vile and tracked it through her life.
“Crystal,” she said.
Then she turned on her heel and walked off. But not before shooting me one last searing glare, like I’d personally ruined her life.
I stood there, completely baffled. My wand was still raised halfway between a spell and nowhere.
“What the hell is her problem?”
Snape closed the door with a sharp click and turned back to me. His robes rustled like thunder. He looked tired all of a sudden.
“We’ll meet in a different location next week,” he said shortly. “Use the Map to be sure the corridor is clear. And if necessary, disillusion yourself.”
I nodded, trying to process what had just happened.
“I genuinely don’t get it,” I said, wiping the sweat from my neck. “I mean—I never did anything to her. Why does she hate me that much? Is it the blood traitor thing? Or…?”
Snape didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, voice low and dry,
“Sometimes, Mr. Weasley, people don’t need a reason to hate. They simply need a target.”
He flicked his wand at the dummy still standing by the wall, and it collapsed in a heap of cloth and stuffing.
“That will be all for tonight.”
Chapter 56: BOOK FIVE - UNDERGROUND
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
UNDERGROUND
The Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six was announced at breakfast.
“By order of the High Inquisitor,” Filch croaked from the front of the Great Hall, his voice cutting through the chatter like a rusted blade, “all private tutoring sessions between staff and students must now be formally registered and approved. Effective immediately.”
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. The words echoed in my skull. I didn’t need to look up to feel Snape’s gaze across the Hall.
But I looked anyway.
Our eyes met.
No nod. No twitch. Just the barest narrowing of his eyes. Calculating. I forced myself to swallow a mouthful of eggs and turn back to Harry before anyone could notice.
He leaned closer, whispering,
“What are you going to do with—”
“Don’t say names,” I cut him off sharply. “Not here.”
He nodded, eyes dark with understanding, and went back to shovelling toast into his mouth. We didn’t talk again until we were walking to the Room of Requirement, shoulders hunched and footsteps quiet on the stone floor.
Inside, the others arrived in pairs and trios, cheerful and full of energy, but I could tell the decree was on everyone’s mind.
As soon as the door shut behind Ginny, Hermione turned toward me.
“Well?” she said. “Are you going to tell us what happened?”
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck.
“Pansy happened,” I muttered. “She interrupted the session last night—tried to catch us in the act. Snape slammed the door open before she could peek in, gave her detention.”
“Merlin,” Ginny said. “What’s her problem?”
“That’s what I said!” I threw up my hands. “I don’t even get it. She’s always looking at me like I personally murdered her dog, but we’ve barely exchanged five words in five years.”
Harry frowned.
“I didn’t even realise she hated you that much. She sneers at everyone. I thought that was just… her face.”
“I didn’t know either,” Hermione added. “Have you ever actually spoken to her?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, during patrol on Tuesday. She was acting weird again, so I asked what her problem was. She went off. Said I was disgusting. Called me a teacher’s pet and accused me of doing—stuff—with Snape.”
The room didn’t go quiet like I expected. Instead, Fred let out a loud, unimpressed snort.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “That old one? Again?”
George rolled his eyes.
“That’s so 93. Can’t she find a new rumour already?”
Ginny gave a dry little laugh.
“It’s practically Hogwarts folklore at this point.”
“She really said that?” Hermione asked, arms crossed, more exasperated than shocked.
“Yup.” I shrugged. “Said everyone in Slytherin knows what I’m doing with him behind closed doors.”
Harry made a face.
“Ugh.”
“Honestly,” Fred said, “if people still believe that rubbish, it says more about them than about you.”
“Yeah,” said George. “Also, if she wants it to feel scandalous, she needs a new spin. Add some drama. A forbidden love affair in the potions storeroom or something.”
“Stop,” I said, even as I laughed a little despite myself. “Don’t encourage them, please.”
“Point is,” Harry said, looking around, “we’ve all heard that kind of rot before. We know it’s not true. Let her stew in her own bile.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, grateful even as I rolled my eyes. “Still weird, though. I don’t get why she’s so obsessed with me lately.”
Hermione shrugged.
“Some people just hate seeing someone they don’t understand.”
I blinked at that.
But before I could think too much about it, I caught the time.
“Anyway,” I said, “we’re not here to waste breath on Pansy’s personal issues. We’re here to train. Chop chop, wands out. Come on, Professor Potter. Let’s go.”
Harry grinned and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Prefect Weasley.”
Just like that, the air lightened. Wands were drawn, music buzzed from the sonograph in the corner, and the training began.
On Monday, I’d planned to stay after Potions to talk to Snape about the new decree—figured that’d be the quietest way to ask without Umbridge hovering. But the moment I stepped into the dungeon, I stopped short.
She was there.
Pink, smug, clipboard in hand. Like a fungus blooming where no one wanted it. My stomach dropped. I didn’t even look at Snape; I just slid into my usual seat beside Harry and cursed the bloody Ministry under my breath.
Obviously, I couldn’t stay after. Not with her there scribbling notes and fake-smiling like the devil in a frilly cardigan.
The rest of the week stretched out in front of me like some cruel punishment, and I spent every night hoping Snape wouldn’t cancel our tutoring altogether because of that toad-faced menace.
It wasn’t just about the spells or the duelling. I needed those sessions. Needed them because they kept me sharp, focused, steady. And because they were the only time I had Snape to myself, when he wasn’t sneering or posturing, but just teaching. Just… himself. If that was taken away too, I didn’t know what I’d do.
By Friday morning, I was a ball of nerves and frustration. I practically shoved Harry toward the Great Hall and wolfed down breakfast, barely tasting it.
“Slow down,” he mumbled through his toast.
“No time,” I hissed. “We’ve got Potions first.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.
And guess what? She was there again.
Standing in front of Snape’s blackboard like she owned the place.
I muttered darkly,
“Doesn’t she have a job?”
Harry snorted.
“Apparently, this is it.”
We sat at our usual bench—Hermione and Neville already flipping through their notes—and I spent the entire lesson glaring at the back of her head, willing her to disappear in a puff of over-sweetened perfume. Thankfully, it was a theory lesson. No exploding cauldrons. Still, I could feel my jaw clenching tighter every time she wrote another line on that bloody clipboard.
At the end of class, Snape handed back our essays on Wit-Sharpening Potion. I barely glanced at mine, even the big black O at the top didn’t catch my eye. Under normal circumstances, I might’ve smiled. But not today.
Instead, something clicked in my brain.
I stared at the parchment. Snape knew she’d be here. He had to have guessed. And if he knew, maybe—just maybe—he left something more than a grade.
As soon as we were out of the dungeon, I shoved the parchment deep into my bag, fingers tingling with the thought.
The rest of the day was pure torture. Triple DADA with Umbridge. Three endless periods of reading and copying and pretending we didn’t already know that half the things in the textbook were useless in an actual fight. My eyes blurred over the same paragraph about defensive theory at least four times.
Harry nudged my knee once. Then again. I blinked and tried to focus.
“Don’t stab her with your quill,” he muttered once, lips twitching.
I managed a weak smile. But truthfully, if she’d gotten any closer, I might’ve risked detention just to knock that smug little smile off her face.
After the last bell finally rang, I was out of my seat like I’d been shot from a cannon. Harry and Hermione followed, both of them looking equally drained and disgusted.
We made a beeline for the Library, and the second we sat down, I yanked out my essay.
I whispered the incantation, wand tip just above the bottom of the parchment. Ink shimmered to life right below my final sentence. Not bold. Not flashy. Just one line.
The Room, same time.
I stared at it, heart skipping. The capital R had to mean the Room of Requirement. What else could it mean? Still, there was a risk. If I were wrong, I’d be pacing in front of a blank wall like an idiot.
Harry and Hermione were staring at me now.
“What?” Harry asked, low and cautious.
I shrugged and leaned toward him.
“Can I borrow your dad’s cloak later?”
His brow arched, questions dancing in his eyes, but he didn’t ask. Too risky here.
“Yeah, sure,” he murmured.
I nodded. Eyebrows up. Tried to say I’ll explain later telepathically.
Harry did the same. His face was stupidly serious, like he was concentrating on Legilimency or something.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“You both look ridiculous.”
I grinned for the first time all day. Maybe even all week.
“Yeah, well,” I said, “ridiculous is safer than reckless.”
She hummed disapprovingly, but I could tell she was relieved to see me smiling again. Even if it was just for now.
After dinner, I waited until the corridors thinned out. Slipped into Harry’s cloak and climbed out of the dungeons, the Map open in my hands and every step silent.
I moved carefully, checking the Map every few seconds. No names behind me. Plenty in front, but none close enough to worry me. When I hit the fourth-floor landing, I spotted a familiar shape striding up ahead—Snape, heading the same way.
A stupid grin tried to stretch my face. I bit it back and followed, soundless. Just a shadow trailing behind the swish of black robes.
We climbed past the fifth floor. Then the sixth. A group of Ravenclaws ducked into an empty classroom behind us, but none turned our way. Seventh-floor. No one with half a brain lingered around Filch’s corridor, and I could feel the hush wrap around us as we passed his office.
I checked the Map one last time. No names. No one but us.
We turned into the right corridor. The one with the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of the trolls in tutus.
That’s when I lowered the hood.
Snape didn’t flinch. Didn’t startle. Just turned his head slightly and glanced toward the space where I’d be.
“Evening,” I said.
He didn’t say anything. Not out here, not where someone could overhear.
I walked past the tapestry three times, thinking I need a safe room to train in. One where no one will find us.
The door appeared. I opened it, and we stepped inside.
It was the same as before. Wide open space, tall bookshelves, even the little table by the door where I dropped the cloak and the Map.
Snape shut the door behind him. Then his voice, low and measured:
“The cloak?”
“Harry’s. I borrowed it.”
Snape nodded slightly. Then I couldn’t help but ask:
“Did you know you were being followed?”
He tilted his head a little.
“No. You finally learned to mask your breathing and footsteps. Well done.”
I tried not to beam like a third-year. Tried and failed. I caught myself smiling and smoothed my face back to a neutral expression. Sort of.
We didn’t waste time.
“The decree,” I said.
“Yes.” He moved toward the centre of the room, surveying it. “It was written for us. She has no interest in restricting Flitwick’s office hours or Sprout’s greenhouse help. This was about me. And you.”
He said it with certainty, and it made my skin crawl a little. The idea that someone was watching us that closely.
“She won’t let it go,” I said.
“No. Fudge sent her here to dig up scandal and rot. We will not give her that satisfaction.”
My heart jumped into my throat. For a second, I thought that meant he was ending the sessions. That he’d decided the risk wasn’t worth it. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Snape continued before I could spiral too far.
“We’ll adjust. A new day each week. I’ll tell you the next date when we finish each session. No pattern, no routine. If she tracks me down, she’ll find nothing.”
Relief poured through me so fast it made my head swim.
“If you still wish to continue,” he added, eyes sharp as glass.
“Of course I want to,” I said way too fast, way too loud.
He raised a single brow.
I coughed.
“I mean, yes. Obviously. It’s useful. Makes sense.”
“Mmm.”
He let me sit with my awkwardness for a moment, then slowly turned to take in the room again.
“This would have been ideal for Potter’s training last year.”
I nodded.
“Yeah. I didn’t even think about it then.”
“Pity.”
And then suddenly, I felt it. Slipping into my head like cool water—like silk. That suggestion, gentle and terrible:
“Apologise.”
I laughed before I even thought about it.
“Really?” I said. “You waited all week just to throw that at me?”
His lips twitched.
“You didn’t expect it. That’s the point.”
“You’re petty,” I said, still laughing, but shaking it off. “Ridiculously petty.”
“Petty people survive. Now focus.”
And just like that, we began.
I duelled. Protected the dummies. Cast silently. Dodged. Countered. Defended.
I sweated through everything I was wearing and grinned like an idiot while doing it. Because I was learning. Because I was improving.
Because I was here, and he was here, and we were still doing this. Still making space in the mess of it all to keep me sharp and sane.
And because—though I’d never admit it to anyone—I was a little thrilled by it all. The secrecy. The risk.
Our secret. Our cause.
And I’d guard it with everything I had.
The end of the term couldn’t have come fast enough.
Hermione was off to ski with her parents, looking torn between excitement and guilt. Luna had some kind of eccentric winter ritual planned with her dad—she said something about frost spirits and nettle wine, and I didn’t ask more. But this year, for the first time ever, Harry and I weren’t staying at Hogwarts for Christmas.
We met in Dumbledore’s office with the rest of the family—me, Ginny, the twins, and Harry. I half expected some weird holiday speech, but Dumbledore wasted no time.
“You will not be going to the Burrow,” he said calmly, fingers steepled on his desk. “You’re being sent to a more secure location—Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.”
“The Order of the what?” George asked, frowning.
“You’ll be briefed when you arrive,” Dumbledore replied, rising to stand beside the fireplace. “Your parents will explain. One at a time, please.”
I was the first to go, stepping into the green flames and calling out,
“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”
I tumbled out of the fireplace into a cold, shadowy kitchen and was immediately caught in a hug.
“Oh, Ron,” Mum said into my shoulder.
Then she pulled back to look me over, her hands warm against my arms. I saw her eyes flick to my neck and her smile falter for half a second. She didn’t say anything about the scar, just tutted and said,
“You look peckish.”
“That’s because I am,” I grinned.
She smiled back at me properly this time.
Then Harry arrived, and she did the same routine—hug, assessment, worrying over invisible ailments. He bore it better than I thought he would. Fred and George came next, then Ginny.
“Where’s Dad?” Ginny asked, scanning the room.
“Still at the Ministry,” Mum said.
Sirius stepped into view from behind the door and offered me a firm handshake.
“Ron.”
“Sirius,” I nodded, surprised at the warmth in his voice.
When everyone was finally gathered in the kitchen, Mum gave each of us a little something to nibble on—crackers, bits of leftover roast—while she started preparing lunch. I offered to help, mostly to stay near her, and she lit up.
“Oh, that’s lovely, dear. Here, peel these carrots. Knife’s there.”
Behind me, the twins were already peppering Sirius with questions.
“What’s the Order of the Phoenix, then?” Fred asked.
“Yeah, never heard of it,” George added. “Sounds dramatic.”
Ginny was looking between them, expectant. Sirius raised an eyebrow.
“You mean your parents never told you? I figured you already knew—Harry does. So do Ron and Hermione.”
That got a loud, dramatic shriek from all three of them.
“You knew?!” Ginny gasped at me.
“Oi, that’s not fair—” Fred started.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” George followed up, looking mock-affronted.
Harry and I just shrugged at the same time.
“It’s supposed to be secret,” Harry said simply. “We didn’t tell anyone.”
I peeled carrots through the noise, hiding a smirk.
“They’ll fill you in,” Sirius said, amused. “You’ll get the full rundown soon enough.”
Mum sent Ginny and the twins to set the table. Then she took a slow breath and turned to me as the noise quieted slightly.
“How are you, love?” she asked softly. “Does it still hurt?”
I didn’t answer right away. It was sore today, aching a little under my collar. The scar always felt worse in the cold. But I saw the lines of worry around her eyes, the way she kept stealing glances at my neck. She’d had enough stress this year.
“I’m fine,” I said.
She gave me a look, the kind that always saw right through me, but she didn’t push. She just nodded and handed me another carrot.
Behind me, Sirius was pulling Harry aside, voice low as they stepped into the hallway.
I kept peeling. My mum was beside me. Everyone was safe.
It was perfect.
Then it was lunch, and someone came through the front door that I definitely hadn’t been expecting.
“Bill!” I stood so fast my chair scraped back hard, but Ginny beat me to the door. All of us piled into the hallway as he shrugged off the cold, laughing as each of us pulled him into a hug one by one.
“What are you doing here?” Fred demanded.
“Didn’t think we’d see you till New Year,” George added.
“Did the goblins finally sack you?” Ginny grinned.
“Better,” Bill said with a smirk. “I applied for a desk job in London. Closer to home. And—” He glanced at Mum, then Sirius. “—to help with the Order.”
That set off a fresh wave of questions from the twins and Ginny, all at once.
“Okay, okay, wait—” Ginny pushed her hair out of her face and looked between Mum and Bill. “Can someone finally explain what the Order is? You keep saying it like we’re supposed to know.”
Mum sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. Sirius leaned against the table with a smug sort of smile.
“It’s not a club,” Mum warned immediately, eyes narrowing like she already sensed how this would go. “It’s not a game, and it’s not something to be taken lightly.”
“It was originally formed by Dumbledore,” Sirius said. “Back in the first war, before Voldemort fell. We were a resistance group, made up of wizards and witches who refused to join him, or turn a blind eye.”
“Dad was in it,” Bill added. “Mum too. And Uncle Fabian and Gideon. So were Moody, Hagrid, McGonagall, even Snape now—though he’s a newer addition.”
Ginny’s mouth had fallen open slightly. Fred and George were wide-eyed.
“So basically,” George said slowly, “we’re staying at the headquarters of a secret rebel group dedicated to fighting You-Know-Who.”
“That’s bloody brilliant,” Fred finished.
“No,” Mum snapped, voice firm and clear. “It’s dangerous. And terrifying. And bloody or not, you three are far too young to be involved.”
“But we’re not—” Ginny started.
“You’re not,” Mum said over her. “Not yet. You can help in other ways—being alert, passing on things we ought to know, yes. But you will not join. You will not ask again. End of discussion.”
Ginny scowled but didn’t argue further. Fred and George exchanged a glance that said this wasn’t the end for them, not by a long shot.
I stayed quiet. I already knew all this, but hearing it again and seeing my siblings’ reactions made it hit differently. This was real now. Not something hidden in secret meetings or whispered after curfew. We were sitting in the heart of it, eating lunch at a table that probably used to host Death Eaters, surrounded by people preparing for war.
And we were only fifteen.
Harry set his fork down.
“Is Hagrid really on Order business?”
Mum paused mid-chop.
“How do you know that?”
“Ron told me.”
Her gaze swung to me.
“And how do you know about it, young man?”
“Lucky guess,” I said quickly.
Before she could say anything more, Fred leaned back in his chair and smirked.
“The family mystery-sniffer strikes again!”
“Truly uncanny,” George said solemnly. “We should bottle it.”
Mum groaned and turned back to the vegetables.
“Ronald, please don’t sniff anything else.”
So, of course, I took in a loud, dramatic sniff of the air.
Everyone burst out laughing except Mum, who shot me a look that could have melted steel. But Harry’s face had gone serious again. He turned toward Sirius.
“Do you know where Voldemort is? What he’s doing?”
“You’re too young to—” Mum started.
“He deserves to know,” Sirius interrupted, his voice gentler than usual. “After what happened. After seeing Voldemort come back.”
Mum frowned.
“Dumbledore said we weren’t to tell Harry more than he needs to know .” She emphasised the last words as if she were quoting him exactly.
“Exactly,” I said. “We’re not asking for every gruesome or secret detail, are we? Just an overview. Just the main idea of what he’s doing. Nothing more, Mum. Just the bare minimum.”
Mum sighed, and we all knew that sigh. The one where she’d decided arguing was more exhausting than giving in.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But not too much, Sirius.”
Sirius nodded and turned back to us.
“What do you want to know?”
“Where is he?” Harry asked. “What’s he doing?”
“For now, he’s lying low,” Sirius said. “There haven’t been any disappearances or deaths. At least none we can confirm. That’s not to say nothing’s happening—but if it is, he’s covering it well.”
Harry frowned.
“Why hasn’t he killed anyone? Isn’t that his thing?”
“Because he doesn’t want attention yet,” Sirius said. “He’s not ready. His comeback didn’t go as planned.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “He wasn’t planning on us surviving.”
The room went still.
“Exactly,” Sirius said, meeting my eyes. “He didn’t want Dumbledore to know. But now he does. And now the Order’s back.”
Harry leaned forward.
“What has the Order been doing?”
“Sabotaging his plans,” Bill said. “Finding out what he’s up to before he can act on it.”
“And what is he planning?” Harry pressed.
Sirius sighed.
“He’s trying to rebuild his army. Wizards, witches… werewolves. Giants. That’s why Hagrid’s gone. He’s trying to convince the giants not to join Voldemort.”
There was a long pause as that sank in. The kitchen felt colder than before.
I spoke next.
“And what’s the Ministry doing? Is anyone besides Fudge using their brain these days?”
Bill gave a wry smile.
“That’s tricky. Fudge refuses to believe Voldemort’s back. He’s making sure everyone sees it as some elaborate scheme by Dumbledore.”
I snorted.
“Yeah. We’ve seen the articles in the Prophet.”
Harry looked up at that, sharp and determined.
“Shouldn’t Ron and I tell the press our version of events? Let people hear the truth?”
Sirius gave Harry a sharp look, but his eyes glinted with approval beneath it.
“I think it’s a bloody good idea,” he said. “About time someone took control of the narrative. The Prophet’s been doing nothing but dragging your names through the mud—yours and Ron’s and Dumbledore’s. If it were me, I’d have spoken up ages ago.”
“No,” Mum snapped before Sirius could continue. “Absolutely not. They’re children, Sirius!”
“And what do you think Voldemort sees when he looks at them, Molly?” Sirius bit back, voice suddenly cold. “Children? Or obstacles?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about what he sees,” Mum growled. “My son nearly died. I won’t let him be used as a pawn for the press—”
“I’m not suggesting he be used!” Sirius snapped. “I’m saying he deserves to speak for himself. They both do!”
I flinched as their voices rose. Ginny shrank back in her chair. Even the twins were quiet now.
“Alright,” Bill cut in firmly. “Enough. Both of you.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was commanding enough to cut through the tension. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Mum, Sirius—just stop for a second. Maybe there’s merit to both points, but we need to breathe, yeah? Dumbledore might already have a plan. Let’s talk to him before we do anything rash.”
Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly. Mum turned her head and stared at the fire, jaw tight.
I cleared my throat.
“I’d rather not feed the press yet anyway. Not while Fudge is still in power or throwing his weight around like this.” I picked at a frayed thread in the tablecloth. “It’s bad enough that Umbridge is targeting Snape. And me.”
Mum turned back toward me sharply.
“What do you mean, she’s targeting you and Snape?”
I froze. Bloody hell. I hadn’t meant to say that.
Ginny, ever the chaos saviour, jumped in.
“It’s because of that new decree. About student-teacher tutoring sessions needing Ministry approval.”
Mum’s eyes snapped to me.
“You’re still being tutored by Snape?”
I blinked.
“Yeah. Since third year. You were there.”
Her expression tightened in a way that made my stomach twist. She didn’t just sound shocked—she sounded… angry. Damn. She was still angry at him? I thought that she would have calmed down and seen reason by now.
“And what is he tutoring you in now?” she asked, voice low and suspicious.
I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t like that tone. Didn’t like what it implied.
“Duelling,” I said, voice flat.
She opened her mouth again, but something in me flared. Not fury—not yet—but something raw and defensive. I felt my fists clench under the table.
“He’s training me to survive the next time I face Voldemort.”
The name landed like a dropped cauldron. Mum flinched. Ginny’s face drained of colour. One of the twins muttered, “Bloody hell.”
No one spoke.
And no one asked anything else.
Bill was the one to break the silence again, carefully measured.
“Alright,” he said, quieter now. “We’ll talk to Dumbledore later. See what he says about the press. Might be that waiting is the best move. For now.”
The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but it softened, at least.
Harry cleared his throat and jumped at the opportunity.
“So we’ll wait, then,” he said, echoing Bill. “We won’t say anything to the press.”
After that, Mum decided we’d asked enough questions and gotten enough answers. She clapped her hands and told everyone to unpack. The twins groaned, Ginny muttered something about not having that much stuff anyway, and Harry glanced at me before following Sirius out of the kitchen.
But she caught my sleeve before I could move.
“Ron. Stay.”
I froze.
The others left, Sirius guiding them out, Ginny calling dibs on the biggest room, Fred and George cracking jokes already. Bill didn’t follow them. He leant against the counter, arms crossed, watching without interfering. That only made my stomach knot tighter.
Mum’s face was tight with something I couldn’t name. Worry, maybe. Or something worse.
She folded her arms, her fingers twitching.
“I want to talk about your sessions with Professor Snape.”
“Why?” I asked immediately, sharply. “What exactly are you trying to find out? What kind of answer are you hoping for, Mum?”
She didn’t answer straight away. Just stared at me like she was trying to work out a complicated potion with missing ingredients.
“I want to make sure you’re safe,” she finally said. “Protected. From harm. Any kind of harm.”
“So does Snape,” I shot back. “He’s been helping me survive since third year. And you and Dad were all for it. You were glad .”
“That was then,” she said, voice a bit higher now. “Things are different now.”
“Different how?” I asked, eyes narrowing.
My fists balled up before I even realised. I wanted to hear her say it. Plainly. No sugar-coating. No dancing around it.
“What’s changed, Mum?”
She fumbled.
Then she said it. Almost.
“You’re older now, and you’re—you’re a handsome boy, Ron, and—”
I didn’t let her finish. My blood turned hot in my veins.
“What are you accusing him of?”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything!” she snapped, but there was fear under the anger, I could hear it. “I’m just—”
“Sounds like you are,” I spat back. My voice was cold now. Flat. “You can’t even say it, can you?”
She went quiet. And that silence said enough. I didn’t look at Bill. I didn’t want to know what was on his face.
I took a deep breath to regain my calm.
“You only entertain that kind of suspicion,” I said, my voice shaking with the effort to stay calm, “because you’re still blaming him for what happened in the graveyard.”
Mum blinked, stunned for a second.
“That’s not—”
“I was there,” I cut in, louder now. “Not you. Me. I saw what happened. I lived it. And I don’t blame him. I never did.”
Her lips trembled like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out.
“Snape—he suffered enough just being there. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone get tortured and not be able to do anything? To pretend to stand by and just… let it happen?” I swallowed, my throat tight. “I can’t even imagine it. But he did it. For us. For the Order.”
Bill stayed silent in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, eyes serious.
“He needs support from people who know the truth. Not suspicion. Not this…” I made a helpless gesture between us. “He’s a spy. You know what that means. It means he has to be cruel to keep his cover. It means he has to take part in their plans sometimes just to stay alive.”
Mum’s eyes welled with something—anger, sorrow, maybe both. But I pressed on.
“Just imagine being in his shoes for one moment,” I said quietly. “Always lying. Always pretending. Always surrounded by people who would kill him if they even suspected the truth. And then when he comes back here, where it should be safe, he still gets glared at like he’s the enemy.”
Mum looked away, biting her lip.
“I get that you’re scared,” I said. “I am, too. I don’t sleep, Mum. Not really. Not since that day. But when I train with Snape, when I learn something that could save me or Harry or anyone, I feel like maybe I’ll survive the next time. Maybe I’ll be able to do something other than scream and hope.”
I took a breath. A deeper one. My voice cracked when I added,
“Please don’t let your personal grievances stand in the way of me learning how to protect myself.”
She closed her eyes. Bill stepped in slowly, finally breaking his silence.
“Mum,” he said gently. “He’s right. This war’s already started, whether we’re ready or not. You can’t shield him from it—not entirely. But if Snape is helping him fight, helping him prepare… maybe that’s the best thing we can do for Ron right now. Support that.”
Mum let out a long breath through her nose. She sat down heavily at the table, rubbing her temples like she had the beginning of a terrible headache.
“I’m just scared,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose any of you.”
“You won’t,” I said. “Not if we’re prepared. Not if we trust the people who are trying to help.”
She didn’t look up, but she gave the slightest nod. A single, silent motion. I decided to take that as permission. Not approval, maybe. But acceptance. And for now, that would have to be enough.
Chapter 57: BOOK FIVE - PLAN FOR THE FUTURE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
PLAN FOR THE FUTURE
The next morning, I woke up in a creaky, dusty bedroom that smelled faintly of old perfume and mildew, and for a second, I forgot where I was. Then I heard Fred and George bickering in the hallway, and it all came back. Grimmauld Place. Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. And the strangest, most miserable house I’d ever set foot in.
It didn’t get any better downstairs.
We were barely past the second step when the screaming began—ear-piercing shrieks that rattled the walls and made me nearly fall backwards. I jumped, and Harry grabbed my arm as a heavy velvet curtain at the far end of the hall flew open of its own accord.
“MUDBLOODS! TRAITORS! FILTH! SHAME UPON MY HOUSE!”
A painted woman with wild black hair and sunken eyes screamed from her portrait like she’d been set on fire.
“SCUM OF THE EARTH! HALF-BREED LOVERS! DEFILERS!”
“Shut up, you mad old bat,” Sirius muttered, marching forward with a practised look of disgust.
But it took him and Mum together, wands drawn, to wrestle the curtains shut and smother the noise. Once the hallway was quiet again, I stared at the now-still curtain, half-expecting it to start vibrating like a kettle about to blow.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” I asked, heart still thudding.
“Everything, dear Ron, everything,” Sirius said dryly. “Charming, isn’t she?”
No one answered. It was hard to top that kind of family introduction.
We were shown around a bit after that—empty bedrooms, narrow staircases, haunted-looking wallpaper, and at least two doorknobs that bit. But it wasn’t until we passed a hallway near the dining room that I stopped short.
Mounted on the walls, in neat rows like hunting trophies, were the heads of house-elves.
Actual heads. Preserved. Stuffed. Staring.
I froze. For a second, I couldn’t move.
“They… They mounted them,” I whispered.
Ginny wrinkled her nose.
“Gross.”
“Not exactly the welcoming décor you’d expect,” Fred commented.
But I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t even blink properly. My eyes burned, and the next thing I knew, a stupid tear slid down my cheek.
“Oh no,” George said behind me, mock horror in his voice. “Is ickle Ronniekins crying over dead house-elves?”
“Shut up,” I said hoarsely, swiping my face. “You’re all heartless.”
“Heartless?” Fred repeated, grinning. “Mate, they’re dead. Probably died a hundred years ago. Let it go.”
I turned to glare at him.
“They were servants. They probably spent their whole lives in this hellhole and got their heads chopped off for the honour.”
Harry put a hand on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t laugh either.
Sirius, walking ahead of us, didn’t turn around.
“You’re not wrong, Ron,” he said over his shoulder. “But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. The elf heads were a mark of ‘noble service’ in this house. Another one of her charming traditions.”
We moved on, but I couldn’t unsee it. Not even later, when we gathered in the drawing room and Mum clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“We’ve finished the bedrooms and the kitchen,” she said. “Now, I need all of you to help with the drawing room. We’d like to use it for Christmas, and it’s still filthy. Everything in here needs cleaning or binning.”
There were groans and mutters of complaint, but I just picked up a scrub brush and got to work. I didn’t know why no one else saw it the way I did—maybe they just didn’t care. But scrubbing away layers of dirt and grime, erasing traces of a cruel past, one stain at a time… it helped.
Made me feel like we were doing something.
Fred caught me humming under my breath and whispered to George,
“He’s finally lost it.”
“He’s happy cleaning. Should we be worried?” George whispered back.
“Oi, you two,” I snapped, not looking up from the patch of grime I was elbow-deep in. “If you’re done gossiping, there’s a ghoul in this curtain that needs exorcising.”
They snorted but moved on. We all worked through the afternoon, coughing and sneezing through the layers of dust and dealing with whatever cursed objects we uncovered. By the second day, we’d made a proper dent in the place.
That was when we started going through the cabinets—big glass monstrosities filled with dark, magical clutter. Mum had a box for rubbish, and another one for anything potentially dangerous to be examined later.
I saw the twins discreetly pocket something. A silver snuffbox and another thing I didn’t get a good look at. I narrowed my eyes but didn’t say anything. They always had a use for weird junk.
Harry found a locket at the bottom of one cabinet, half-buried in old velvet.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding it up.
It was heavy. Thick gold chain. A curving S on the front. It gave me a weird feeling immediately.
Oh.
Oh, dear.
They all tried to open it. Ginny, George, Fred, Sirius. Then it was my turn.
I held it in my palm, and something tugged at me. A chill ran down my spine. I stared at it.
No. No, it couldn’t be.
Could it?
I forced myself to act normal. Frowned like it was just stuck.
“Nope,” I said. “Doesn’t want to open.”
Sirius glanced at it.
“Bin it. Can’t open it, and it looks cursed.”
I held onto it for a second longer, then glanced up.
“Wait,” I said slowly, turning the locket over in my fingers. “I sniff a mystery worth solving.”
There was a beat of silence.
Fred, from across the room, let out a dramatic groan.
“Oh no. He’s sniffing again.”
George dropped the old hexed book he’d been flipping through and pointed a finger at me.
“Mum told you to stop sniffing things, Ronald. You’re going to catch a curse in your nostrils.”
Ginny snorted.
“What sort of mystery does a locket scream to you anyway? The tragic tale of lost jewellery?”
Harry smirked but didn’t say anything—just arched a brow in my direction like he was waiting to see where I’d go with it.
I shrugged, keeping it casual.
“What does any locket scream? Secrets. Drama. Probably trauma. It’s whispering to me, Gin. Can’t you hear it? Solve meee—”
Sirius snorted, half a laugh escaping him.
“Alright, Mystery-Sniffer. If it starts whispering in Latin or breathing on its own, it’s going straight into the fire. Just don’t let it eat you. If it starts whispering to you or burns your fingers off, though, don’t come crying to me.”
“I’ll only come crying if it tries to eat me,” I promised, tucking the locket into my pocket. “And even then, I might tough it out.”
“Reckless,” George muttered, shaking his head.
“Predictable,” Fred added.
But no one stopped me. Which was precisely what I’d hoped for.
I made a mental note to ward my trunk properly tonight. Just in case.
We went back to tossing junk into the bin or, in some cases, at each other. The twins had turned it into some kind of competition to see who could land more cursed items into the sack without getting hexed. Harry and I were working our way through a low cabinet when Kreacher appeared in the doorway, muttering and grumbling, his eyes wild with grief and defiance.
Sirius stiffened immediately.
“Don’t start, Kreacher.”
The elf didn’t listen. He darted forward, clutching a cracked silver goblet to his chest, muttering feverishly about “mistress’s treasures” and “filthy traitors throwing away sacred Black heirlooms.” Sirius snatched the goblet from him and tossed it into the bin without a word.
Kreacher let out a shriek of pure anguish, then burst into great, heaving sobs, collapsing onto the carpet. No one moved at first. We were all used to him muttering and grumbling, but this was… different. Rawer. He was crying like he’d lost someone.
I wiped my hands on my trousers, watching him for a moment. Then I turned to Sirius.
“Why can’t he keep just one thing?” I asked. “Something small. A keepsake. I mean… I dunno. That might be nice.”
Sirius gave me a strange look, caught between exasperation and surprise.
“You want me to reward him for his obsessive attachment to a bloodline that hates people like you and Harry?”
“I don’t want you to reward him,” I said, shrugging. “I just think maybe he’s not hoarding. Maybe he’s grieving. Grief makes people weird.”
Kreacher hiccupped in the corner, clutching one of the chair legs as if it were a family heirloom. The others stared at me, and I realised they probably hadn’t thought about Kreacher as anything but a nuisance. Honestly, I hadn’t either—until just now.
Sirius didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he sighed and waved a hand dismissively.
“Fine. One thing. But if he tries to take something cursed or dangerous, I’m snapping his fingers off.”
Kreacher wailed louder, but now I wasn’t sure if it was from relief or heartbreak.
The next day, we were back at it. By lunchtime, the drawing room was finally clean—sparkling floors, dust-free cabinets, and not a cursed trinket in sight. All that remained was the massive family tapestry, stretched across the far wall like some proud relic of a darker age. Mum said it was the last thing to deal with before we could call the room ready for Christmas.
For now, we enjoyed a nice break. The sandwiches were greasy, the butter thick, and Sirius had conjured up a large jug of pumpkin juice to share. We were scattered across the old drawing room, the grim tapestry of the Black family spreading like some mouldy wound across one wall. Harry was standing beside Sirius, who was pointing out various names and grimacing with every other connection.
“That’s Bellatrix,” Sirius said, jabbing a finger at the stitched name, which glittered silver like it was proud of itself. “My dear cousin. Currently rotting in Azkaban, if the place still holds.”
“And Narcissa?” Harry asked. “That’s Malfoy’s mum, right?”
“Right again. She married Lucius. Brilliant match, that one. Malfoy might’ve had a pet peacock as a ring bearer, for all I know.”
The room fell into a sudden hush at the name. Sirius blinked, realising what he’d just said—and who he’d said it in front of. His eyes darted toward me, the easy sarcasm in his tone faltering. For a second, it looked like he was about to apologise, mouth opening, shoulders tensing like he was bracing for a blow.
I shook my head, slow but firm. No need to say anything. Not now. Not with everyone watching. Sirius gave me a look—part gratitude, part guilt—then turned back to Harry, voice quieter but steady again as he picked up the thread of the family tree.
While he resumed his more careful showing of the tree, I sat on the edge of a cabinet, chewing slowly. Something gnawed at me. I glanced at Kreacher’s usual corner—empty, but it felt like he could pop out of the shadows at any moment. I re-examined the names on the tapestry.
Tonks was there too, lower down. Her name half-burned, but not fully. She was in the Order, and Sirius said that Kreacher must surely hate her as much as he hates Sirius.
Then I glanced at Kreacher’s corner again. Something nagged at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly.
“I might be off base,” I said, interrupting without meaning to. “Sorry. Just—this might be stupid. But Kreacher…”
Everyone looked at me. I sat straighter, but I still felt ridiculous.
“…he clearly worships your mother,” I went on carefully, “and probably Bellatrix and Narcissa too. Not so much you or Tonks. So… could they—if they tried—could they manipulate him? Get him to talk? Not even on purpose. But what if someone asked the right thing the right way?” I looked at Sirius. “Is it safe to have him here? In the Headquarters, I mean? What if he tells someone something he shouldn’t?”
Sirius didn’t snap. He didn’t scoff either. He went quiet for a moment, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion at me, but in real, heavy thought.
Then he ran a hand down his face.
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” he admitted, sounding far older than usual. “Kreacher’s been in this house longer than I’ve been alive. He’s soaked in my mother’s filth and worships every brick she ever stepped on. He mutters about my blood all day long, but he’s never said anything about the Order. Not to my knowledge.”
He hesitated before continuing:
“Still. If Bellatrix or Narcissa tried… I don’t know. I don’t think Kreacher would even understand what treason is. Not if it’s for ‘the family.’ He’d probably think he was doing the right thing.”
“So what do we do?” I asked, my stomach tight.
Sirius sighed again and stood straighter.
“We’ve got protections. Dumbledore enchanted this house himself. Kreacher physically can’t speak about the Order unless ordered to. Still…”
He looked to the tapestry, then to the hallway.
“… Maybe it’s time I had another word with him. Carefully.”
Harry looked worried.
“You don’t think he’d go to the Malfoys, do you?”
“I don’t know what he’d do. That’s the problem,” Sirius said grimly. “But you’re right to ask, Ron. You’re absolutely right. We should’ve thought of this sooner.”
That surprised me.
“Well,” I muttered, “I guess being a nosy bloodhound’s finally paying off.”
That earned me a quiet laugh from Sirius. A real one.
“Keep sniffing,” he said. “You might just save us all one day.”
Privately, I thought that I may have just done that.
The tapestry wouldn’t come off.
We tried everything—scouring charms, slicing hexes, even Sirius yelling at it like that’d do anything. Nothing worked. The bloody thing was stuck to the wall like it had grown out of it.
“Right,” Sirius had finally said, shoving his wand back into his pocket. “Fine. It stays. We’ll just cover the rest of the room in something far less hideous.”
So, we dug out the boxes of Christmas decorations from the hallway cupboard and got to work.
The whole place changed in no time. Golden lights strung themselves across the dusty chandeliers, garlands twisted around the stair rails, and enchanted snow drifted gently near the ceiling. There were sparkly baubles and glittery wreaths and about three separate Father Christmases singing three separate carols. It was gaudy and a bit ridiculous and honestly perfect.
Sirius was beaming as he floated a stack of enchanted candles into the drawing room. He whistled carols, then started singing them, off-key and completely unbothered. You’d think he’d never had people over before.
Actually, I guess he hadn’t.
The mood caught on fast. Ginny charmed the baubles to orbit the tree before diving into a war with Fred and George over who could make the most absurd decoration. Mum kept saying “mind the carpet” even though it was older than the house itself, and Harry laughed more than I’d seen him do all term. It was loud, messy, and warm. The kind of day that made it hard to believe anything bad could reach us here.
We spotted a few members of the Order drifting in and out—Tonks with blue hair and an upside-down Santa hat, Lupin offering polite nods before slipping away, Mundungus grumbling about some bloke in Knockturn Alley. But none of them stayed. It was just us for the night.
Dinner on Christmas Eve was surprisingly quiet. Just the Weasleys, Harry, and Sirius. Dad cracked jokes about garden gnomes trying to unionise. Mum’s roast was the best it’s ever been—probably trying to impress Sirius. I’d made dessert—a raspberry crumble with custard—and the way everyone reached for seconds made me puff with pride.
Sirius even said,
“Merlin’s beard, this is better than anything we ever got at Grimmauld growing up.” He meant it, too. I could tell. It warmed me up from the inside out.
And then, it was Boxing Day.
Harry and I shared a room, so when I sat up, he was already blinking at his stocking like he couldn’t believe it was real. We took turns opening our presents, sitting cross-legged on our beds. He got a weird assortment—socks from Luna and a fanged wallet from Hagrid. Weird. But then, so were the people who gave those presents.
When I unwrapped Hermione’s gift and saw the homework planner, I grinned.
“Brilliant,” I said, flipping through the pages.
Harry gave me a look like I’d sprouted antlers.
“What?” I asked, clutching the planner. “This is useful!”
“You’re mad,” he said, deadpan.
“Might be,” I admitted, still smiling.
He shook his head and reached for the next package. It was from Sirius and Lupin, wrapped together in a charmed bit of parchment that glimmered when you tilted it. Inside were a stack of pristine books— Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, volumes one to three.
My brain short-circuited for a second.
Couple gift?
I shook my head, hard. None of my business. Just a shared gift. Probably made sense financially. Or something. Still… I decided to eye them more closely.
By the time we made our way down in our matching Weasley jumpers, Mum and Dad were already prepping breakfast, giggling like first years over the eggs. Percy and Bill were talking in that way grown-up brothers do, all serious and low-voiced.
The twins tumbled in next, arguing about who got the last mince pie, and Ginny followed with a yawn. It felt like home, in a way even Hogwarts didn’t.
Then Sirius and Lupin came in together, brushing snow off their shoulders and chuckling about something.
I stared a second too long. Hmmed. Then went back to piling toast on my plate.
After breakfast, we all settled in the drawing room. The decorations were dazzling. Mum had even magicked the walls to smell like pine and cinnamon.
Percy and Bill were at it again—low murmurs, heads tilted. I watched them, then grinned to myself.
“Oh no,” Ginny said, catching my face. “He’s going to do it.”
“Don’t—” Percy warned.
Too late. I threw myself between them on the sofa, one leg on each of their laps.
“What are we whispering about?” I asked in a loud whisper.
“You’re heavier than you look,” Bill muttered.
“I contain multitudes,” I replied cheerfully.
Percy huffed and glanced at Bill.
“We were talking about that press thing from a few days ago.”
I tilted my head.
“Still? Thought we shelved that for later.”
Bill shrugged.
“We are later.”
I leaned back and waited for their opinions, knowing full well I’d be asked to give mine next. Bill smoothed his shirt as if buying time.
“I think you should do it,” he said. “Eventually. Not right this second, maybe not even next month, but when the time is right? When you’re ready? Yeah. I think it’ll matter. People need to hear it. From you both.”
Percy nodded, but his frown lingered.
“I still worry. Not about what you’d say—it’s the Prophet I don’t trust. They’ll twist it if they can, Ron. If they think it’ll sell more copies to mock you or make Harry look unstable, they’ll do it in a heartbeat. I know how they work.”
“So what’s your position then?” I asked, curious.
Percy sighed.
“That I don’t know what’s worse—being silenced or being misquoted. But like Bill said, there might come a time when it makes sense to speak up.”
I didn’t answer right away. I stared at the fireplace instead, watching the flicker of the garland lights reflected in the polished wood of the mantelpiece. I thought about what it would mean to tell the truth, the whole truth, to strangers who wouldn’t care about the nightmares or the blood or the smell of graveyard dirt. I thought about the Prophet and the way they spun lies into front-page headlines.
Then I shrugged, slow and sure.
“I still think we should wait,” I said. “Not forever. But for now. Unless someone makes a really good case, or Dumbledore says otherwise… I think we hold.”
Bill studied me for a moment and nodded.
“Fair.”
Percy glanced between us and added,
“As long as it’s your choice and not someone else’s. That’s what matters.”
I didn’t answer that. Not out loud. But it was. My choice. And I meant to keep it that way.
I stretched my legs out in front of the sofa and nudged Bill’s shin lightly with my foot.
“Alright, alright, enough about the Prophet and doom and trauma. What are you two up to with the Order, then? If you’re allowed to say.”
Bill grinned a little, grateful for the shift.
“Not much cloak-and-dagger stuff, I’m afraid. I’m still doing goblin relations at Gringotts, but I’ve been keeping my ears open there. Some of the older goblins are nervous about the Ministry’s stance lately—Fudge tightening his grip has everyone on edge. There’s chatter.”
“Useful chatter?” I asked.
“Potentially,” Bill said with a shrug. “Gringotts is neutral, but they don’t like instability. If Voldemort’s return tips the balance too far, they’ll start making moves to protect their interests. Knowing which way they’ll lean matters.”
I hummed at that. Goblin politics were like playing chess on a board that kept rearranging itself.
“What about you, Percy?” I asked, looking at him. “Still stuck under Fudge’s thumb?”
Percy tensed slightly, but he didn’t dodge.
“Still pretending to be the eager little Weasley that buys every word they say.”
Bill scoffed.
“You’re a terrible actor.”
“I’m convincing enough,” Percy said, nose twitching in distaste. “Mostly I gather information—what departments are being pressured, what decrees are coming. I send updates to the Order, anything I think might help.”
I blinked.
“Wait—so the decree about private tutoring… did you know that was coming?”
Percy nodded, guilty.
“Not soon enough to stop it. But yeah. She’s pushing for more. There’s talk of restricting access to the Library for certain topics, especially anything involving ‘unauthorised defensive instruction.’ It’s getting ridiculous.”
I sat with that a moment, feeling the simmer of frustration in my gut again.
“So it’s only going to get worse.”
“Probably,” Bill said. “But at least we’re not blind.”
“No,” I agreed. “Not blind. Just… a bit outnumbered.”
Bill gave me a small smile.
“You’d be surprised how far a little light goes in a very dark place.”
Percy rolled his eyes.
“Must you always sound like you’re quoting Dumbledore?”
“Someone has to,” Bill replied with a grin.
I laughed, despite myself.
“Great. I’m stuck between the Ministry mole and the Dumbledore poet.”
“Could be worse,” Percy said, lifting his tea. “You could be stuck with Fred and George.”
That earned a laugh from all three of us.
Christmas lunch came in like a feast from the stories—roast turkey with all the trimmings, spiced pumpkin mash, enchanted candied chestnuts floating on their little clouds of cinnamon. The table had been extended to fit us all, and the place settings shimmered in warm gold and green. Mum had even enchanted the dishes to hum softly with carols, which faded when conversation got too loud.
At each setting, a magical Christmas cracker waited. Just like at Hogwarts.
My hand hovered over the one beside my plate, but I didn’t reach for it. I just stared at the red foil and little golden stars printed on it, my mood dipping lower the longer I looked. It should’ve felt festive. It should’ve made me smile.
But instead, all I could think was: I won’t get to pull one with him this year.
I didn’t realise how long I’d been staring until Harry leaned over and nudged my shoulder.
“You alright?”
I nodded quickly, but he followed my gaze and then—of course—smirked.
“You missing your annual tradition with Snape?”
My head snapped toward him, my ears heating.
“Shut up,” I muttered under my breath.
But it was too late.
Mum’s head whipped around from the other side of the table, eyes sharp and suspicious.
“What tradition with Snape?”
Harry flinched beside me. His fork hovered mid-air over his plate like he was debating whether to stab me with it or stab himself.
The room went still. Forks paused. Chewing slowed. All the good cheer evaporated into stunned silence and the scent of roasted parsnips.
Brilliant.
I shrugged, trying for casual.
“I just pull a cracker with him. Every Christmas. That’s all.”
Mum blinked.
“Since when?”
“First year,” I said, still forcing nonchalance. “Started during Christmas lunch. It… just became a thing.”
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and bright.
“You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“It’s a cracker,” I said, and forced a grin. “Not a lifelong vow.”
That didn’t seem to reassure her. Not even a little. I could feel her staring straight through my head like she was trying to spot something rotten behind my eyes.
Before the tension could twist any further, George cut in with a snort.
“He’s been doing it for ages, Mum.”
“Yeah, and Snape never hexed him for it. That’s the real Christmas miracle,” Fred added, tossing a sprout at my plate like it was a grenade.
Ginny rolled her eyes.
“It’s just crackers. Who cares?”
Dad cleared his throat softly.
“Interesting tradition. How did that start, Ron?”
I shrugged again, grateful for the shift in tone.
“Just… happened. He didn’t say no, and I didn’t explode. That was enough to keep it going.”
Sirius tilted his head.
“Really?” His tone was sceptical, but not mean. More curious than condemning.
Lupin gave a small smile.
“That’s oddly sweet.”
Mum’s gaze still hadn’t moved. It was like she was waiting for something — confirmation of all the worst things she’d imagined in the past few days. Something ugly. Something wrong.
But there was nothing to find.
Bill, who’d been watching quietly from across the table, met my eyes. His brows furrowed slightly, not in suspicion, just concern. I could tell he was asking the same silent question as Dad had: Are you alright? I nodded, barely, and he gave the smallest of nods back. Then he looked pointedly at Mum.
Mum breathed in sharply through her nose. I recognised that sound. The not now breath. The one she took when she wanted to yell but had just enough self-control not to. She turned back to her plate and stabbed a sausage so hard it squeaked.
Conversation slowly resumed, awkward at first, then smoother as Ginny and Fred reignited a joke about Lupin’s old scarf looking like a wet snake.
Harry leaned in toward me.
“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath.
“Don’t be,” I whispered back. “I’m not ashamed.”
And I wasn’t. Not even a little. But my hands still shook when I reached for my goblet.
Chapter 58: BOOK FIVE - OCCLUMENCY
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
OCCLUMENCY
I woke with a jolt, the echo of a scream still ringing in my ears. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. Everything was dark, the walls felt too close, too old. But then I heard the sound again—a strangled cry, full of panic and pain—and I knew exactly where I was.
Grimmauld Place.
I threw off my blanket and turned toward Harry’s bed across the room.
“Harry?” I said, pushing myself upright. “You alright?”
He didn’t answer. He was thrashing, tangled in his sheets, head tossing side to side. His mouth was open, but the sounds he made weren’t words—they were awful. Animal sounds. Pained.
“Harry!”
I crossed the room fast and grabbed his shoulders.
“Wake up—come on, wake up—Harry!”
He bolted upright like he’d been hit with lightning, gasping, his whole body shaking. His eyes found mine, but it took a second before they focused, like he wasn’t sure where he was. He looked terrified.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, reaching to grab his glasses from the side table and handing them over. He ignored them completely.
“I was him,” he whispered hoarsely. “Ron—It wasn’t a dream. Please, believe me. It wasn’t a dream. I— I was Voldemort.”
That made me freeze.
Harry pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like he was trying to erase the memory.
“I was him. I was him.”
I sat down heavily on the edge of his bed.
“I believe you, Harry. Tell me what happened.”
He took a shuddering breath.
“He was furious. He was punishing someone—Avery. Cruciatus. He was—he was so angry. He kept yelling, ‘First Podmore and now Bode!’”
“Bode?” I asked, my voice thin.
“I don’t know!” Harry’s voice cracked. “I don’t even know who these people are, but I knew them when I was—him. Voldemort was furious because Avery said Bode would be able to remove ‘it’. And now Bode’s useless. He said Malfoy had him under the Imperius, but Bode fought back.”
I felt cold. Sick from both hearing about Malfoy and the Imperius. But I ignored it. It wasn’t the right time for that.
“Ron, I didn’t make those names up. I swear.”
“I believe you,” I said instantly. “Harry, you couldn’t make that up even if you tried. This is real, Harry. These aren’t just dreams.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“It didn’t feel like a dream. It wasn’t like before, in the dream with Crouch Jr., I was inside him. I felt everything. I liked it while it was happening.”
“Hey,” I said, my voice low but firm. “That’s not you. That’s him. Whatever that connection is, it’s him bleeding into you, not the other way around.”
He nodded once, tightly.
“We need to tell Dumbledore,” I said. “Right now.”
Harry didn’t even argue.
I grabbed our wands and my dressing gown, and Harry fumbled for his slippers and followed me out. The house was quiet, creaking faintly in the dark. Somewhere down the hall, one of the old portraits muttered in its sleep. My skin crawled.
We padded through the quiet halls of Grimmauld Place, every creak in the floorboards sounding way too loud. The house was asleep, dark, the air cool against our skin. There was only one person I trusted to take this seriously who might be awake, or easier to wake up than Mum.
I stopped in front of Sirius’s door and knocked, firmly but not loud enough to wake the whole house. No answer. I knocked again.
“Sirius? It’s Ron.”
After a few seconds, the door opened a crack. Sirius looked bleary but alert, eyes narrowing when he saw our faces.
“What happened?” he asked, stepping back to let us in.
“It’s Harry,” I said. “He had a vision. Not a dream. Voldemort was torturing someone. Avery. And he mentioned Bode and Podmore—he said Lucius Malfoy tried to Imperius Bode to get him to retrieve something. But he fought it off.”
Sirius sobered instantly.
“Come in. Sit down. Tell me everything.”
Sirius stepped back, letting us inside his room. The space was dim, lit only by a flickering candle on the nightstand. He pulled on a jumper as we entered, expression sharp now.
Harry sat down on the edge of the armchair, hunched over with his hands still trembling slightly. I sat beside him on the floor, knees drawn up, just in case he needed something to anchor to.
“I was him,” Harry said again, voice hoarse. “I mean—I was Voldemort. It wasn’t a dream. It felt different from the other nightmare. Like I was inside him, watching and feeling everything he felt. He was… torturing Avery. With the Cruciatus.”
Sirius didn’t speak—he just nodded once, as if encouraging him to continue.
“He was screaming at Avery. He said, ‘First Podmore and now Bode!’ He was furious. He said Bode was supposed to be able to remove something, and now he’s useless. Then he said that Lucius had him under the Imperius Curse, but Bode fought back.”
“Podmore,” Sirius muttered, brows furrowing. “Sturgis Podmore? He’s a member of the Order. He’s in Azkaban now. It’s very recent.”
There was a silence while all of us let that sink in.
“And Bode,” Harry continued, “I think he works at the Ministry. I didn’t know who he was, but Voldemort did. It was like… I had his knowledge in my head. It was awful. He—he liked hurting him.”
Sirius rubbed a hand across his mouth.
“Alright. Alright. We’ll tell Dumbledore right now. Come on. Kitchen’s got the better Floo connection.”
We followed him out of the room and down the stairs, trying not to wake the entire house, though the floorboards creaked like they hated us. The kitchen was cold and dim, the fireplace reduced to glowing embers. Sirius flicked his wand and stirred it to life.
Then he tried everything. The fireplace. His Patronus. A strange two-way mirror. He tried calling for Fawkes, too, even though he wasn’t sure that would work outside of Hogwarts. None of it worked.
“Damn it,” Sirius hissed after the fifth attempt. “He must be somewhere I can’t reach him.”
I couldn’t stand sitting still anymore. My skin itched with nerves and helplessness. I got up and made for the kettle.
“I’ll make tea,” I muttered, not asking if they wanted any. Just doing something helped.
The kitchen filled with the sound of the kettle bubbling. I grabbed three mugs and filled them, pushing one into Harry’s hands as gently as I could.
He didn’t react much. His fingers wrapped around the mug like it was the only warm thing in the room, but his eyes were far away.
“You’re here,” I said quietly. “You’re not him. You’re not there.”
He blinked slowly and nodded once, but I didn’t think it reached him. Still, I sat close, just in case.
We waited in that low, tense silence, surrounded by steam, candlelight, and dread.
“I just… it felt so real,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t just watching. I wanted it. I enjoyed it.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “He did. You just felt what he felt. That doesn’t make it yours.”
Sirius turned from the fireplace, his expression pinched.
“We’ll wait a little longer. Try again at the top of the hour. One of them is bound to check in. If not… We’ll figure out something else.”
He came to sit on the other side of Harry, his mug of tea untouched. The three of us just sat there in silence for a long moment, the fire crackling softly, shadows dancing on the walls.
None of us said it, but it was clear: no one was going back to bed tonight.
The kitchen was dim and quiet except for the faint clatter of spoons and cups. None of us had gone back to bed—how could we, after that? Harry looked like he’d been hit by a Bludger, pale and withdrawn, eyes glazed over with something far away. I couldn’t sit still, so I stayed close to the kettle, boiling water again just because I didn’t know what else to do.
Sirius had tried to contact Dumbledore a few more times, his voice getting tighter with each attempt, but still no answer. He didn’t say it, but I could tell he was getting worried too. He sat across from Harry now, observing him carefully, trying to fill the silence with soft chatter about stupid things—Buckbeak’s latest tantrum, the ghoul upstairs knocking about—but nothing really landed.
Then we heard footsteps on the stairs.
Mum entered, yawning slightly, tying her dressing gown tighter around herself as she padded into the kitchen. She stopped the moment she saw us—Harry’s ghostly face, Sirius’s sharp-eyed alertness, my empty mug clutched tight in my hands.
“What on earth—? Why are you three awake already?”
Sirius stood up.
“Molly. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
He took her aside and spoke in a low voice. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw the way her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes darting to Harry. A moment later, she rushed over to him, crouching beside his chair and brushing his fringe away like she used to when we were kids.
“Oh, Harry, dear…” she murmured. “You should have woken me…”
Harry gave her a tired, polite smile.
“Sirius was already awake.”
“Well. You need breakfast. You all need breakfast,” she declared, wiping her eyes and pulling herself together like only Mum could. “Go on, Ron, help me with the eggs, would you?”
I was more than glad to be given something to do. I cracked eggs, set the table, made toast. The distraction was a blessing.
Before long, the others came in—Dad, Bill, and Percy, all dressed for work. They greeted us cheerfully, but it quickly turned into quiet nods and cautious glances when they saw Harry. None of them pried, but I could tell they were all wondering.
They ate quickly, murmuring to each other, and then left. As the door closed behind them, Sirius stood up again and went to the fireplace.
This time, the Floo whooshed green and steady, and there he was.
Dumbledore.
He stepped out of the flames like he’d only just been waiting for the right moment. He dusted soot off his deep blue robes and nodded calmly to everyone in the room.
“Good morning,” he said, like nothing was amiss. “Thank you for calling me, Sirius.”
Mum instantly offered him a plate of food.
“Do sit, Professor. Would you like some eggs? Toast? Tea?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you, Molly.” He sat, folding his hands over his lap and turned to Harry. “Sirius informed me there was an incident?”
Harry nodded, still pale, but more alert now. And he told him everything. Again.
How he’d woken screaming. How he’d felt Voldemort’s rage, like it was his own. How Avery had been tortured for failing him. How he’d spoken of Podmore and Bode and some ‘it’ that Bode was meant to retrieve—how Lucius Malfoy had placed Bode under the Imperius, but he’d fought back.
The whole room was silent as Harry finished. Even the kettle didn’t dare bubble too loudly.
Dumbledore listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable as ever. When Harry finished, the old man was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he said,
“Thank you, Harry. That was very important.”
He looked grave, his eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. He folded his hands on the table, a quiet moment stretching as he looked between Harry and the rest of us. Then, with a steady voice, he spoke.
“This confirms something I have feared for some time—that the connection between you and Voldemort runs deeper than mere coincidence, Harry.”
Harry shifted uneasily in his seat. Mum gently put her hand on his shoulder, her face taut with worry.
“It is not possession, nor is it influence in the way you might fear,” Dumbledore continued. “It is something closer to proximity. A connection forged that night in the graveyard, when his blood and yours mingled. You are not him, Harry. His emotions—his rage, his pain—may reach you, but they are not yours.”
Harry nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
“What can we do?” Sirius asked. His voice was calm, but tight. “To stop this?”
Dumbledore glanced at him.
“There are measures we can take. Preventative techniques. I had hoped we would not need to begin quite yet, but the urgency has grown. It will not be an easy discipline to learn. But with guidance and perseverance, it can help Harry protect his thoughts—and, more importantly, keep Voldemort from using the connection to his advantage.”
Mum looked horrified.
“You mean he could look through Harry’s mind? Find things?”
“Eventually, yes,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Or worse—he could send him visions, false ones, designed to mislead or manipulate.”
Harry went a bit paler.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Sirius said. “We should start right away.”
“We will. I’ll make arrangements for private instruction immediately.”
There was a silence, heavy with unspoken worry. Then I leaned forward, speaking before I could second-guess myself.
Harry needed more information. He deserved more than that.
“But what was it?” I asked. “The thing Voldemort wanted Bode to get—this ‘it’ he was so angry about. Do we know what it is? Is the Order protecting it? Or… if it’s dangerous—are we ready to destroy it?”
Dumbledore turned his gaze to me. His expression remained calm, though his blue eyes lost none of their focus.
“It cannot be destroyed,” he admitted. “And yes, the Order is guarding it.”
I leaned forward a little. I wondered if I could push him to reveal more.
“So whatever it is… It’s stored somewhere specific in the Ministry, since he keeps targeting ministry employees… And You-Know-Who thinks it’s worth sending many people after it. Even though doing so risks exposing his return.” I paused briefly before going further, keeping my tone light and thoughtful. “That doesn’t sound like just any object. It’s like he’s obsessed with it. Like he could change the tide of the war just by having it.”
There was a beat of silence.
Dumbledore’s gaze settled on me. Not sharp, but thoughtful. Measuring.
“You are quite right, Mr. Weasley,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “It is not just any object. And Voldemort does believe it could change the course of things. That is precisely why he wants it.”
Harry shifted beside me. He was watching Dumbledore just as closely, like he was trying to read what wasn’t being said.
Dumbledore continued,
“What he seeks is not a weapon in the traditional sense. It is not a cursed artefact, nor a powerful spell. It is… information.”
That was enough.
Harry’s eyes flicked to mine. I kept my expression as neutral as I could.
Dumbledore’s fingers tapped once on the table.
“And it is stored in a place within the Ministry that is, ironically, one of the most secure. Which is why Voldemort has not yet succeeded. But make no mistake—he will keep trying.”
“What kind of information?” Harry asked, low.
Dumbledore turned to him, kind but firm.
“When the time is right,” Dumbledore said again, “you will know. For now, it is enough that you are aware of its existence—and of Voldemort’s desire to obtain it.”
I saw Harry press his lips together, frustration flickering behind his eyes.
“Will…” Harry began in a low and hesitant voice. “Will you tell us when the time is right? I mean—how will we know?”
Dumbledore gave him a look that was equal parts weary and warm.
“Because I will tell you myself. That, I promise.”
I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse.
And for a moment, no one said anything. I glanced between Dumbledore and Mum, then asked before I could lose my nerve. I needed confirmation.
“Are Dad and Percy part of the Order members who are risking their lives to protect it?”
Dumbledore turned to me, his expression solemn.
“Yes,” he said simply. “They are among those who have accepted that responsibility.”
I nodded slowly, though a weight settled in my chest.
I thought of a snake. Of blood and gore. Of a near-death experience.
“I hope it’s worth it,” I said, quieter now.
There was a pause. Dumbledore studied me for a moment, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
“It is,” he said finally, with a calm certainty that left no room for doubt.
Mum’s hand, resting on the table, curled slightly. She looked between us and said,
“It has to be.” Her voice was quiet, but firm.
Dumbledore gave her a slight, respectful nod, then rose from the table.
“I believe that’s enough for now. You’ve all had a long night.” His gaze flicked to Harry, then to me. “I will send Professor Snape as soon as possible to begin your lessons.”
I felt Harry stiffen slightly beside me, but he didn’t argue. I didn’t either. If it meant protecting him—and maybe myself too—I’d take it.
Dumbledore turned toward the fireplace and stepped into the green flames without another word. He vanished in a swirl of emerald light.
Mum immediately flicked her wand at the kitchen door, a subtle charm I barely noticed. I blinked at her.
“What was that for?”
Before she could answer, the door burst open and Fred, George, and Ginny spilt into the room, complaining all at once.
“Finally!”
“We’re starving!”
“Why was the door sealed? And with an Imperturbable Charm, Mum?” Ginny asked, giving her the stink eye.
“It’s not your business,” Mum said briskly, standing to clear the table. “Now sit down and eat, all of you. And don’t get too comfortable—we’re doing homework today. All of us. Here in the kitchen.”
A chorus of groans followed, like synchronised misery.
“Muuum—”
“You’re a cruel woman!”
Mum didn’t even flinch.
“Yes, yes, and I want essays started in fifteen minutes.”
I leaned back, watching them all complain and flop into chairs like drama queens. I could almost pretend everything was normal.
Almost.
Two days later, we were halfway through some horribly dull translations when Mum’s voice echoed through the house:
“Harry! Ron! Come to the kitchen, now!”
Harry and I shared a look—equal parts dread and curiosity—then closed our books and made our way downstairs. As soon as we pushed open the kitchen door, I knew something was off. The air was thick with tension.
Mum stood near the stove, arms crossed tightly. Sirius leaned against the counter, looking wary. And seated at the table, perfectly composed in his black robes, was Snape.
Great.
Snape’s eyes flicked to us as we entered, but his face gave away nothing. No nod, no sneer—just unreadable calm. I swallowed down the automatic urge to smile stupidly and pasted on my most neutral expression. Casual. Totally casual.
“Professor,” I said, giving him the same polite nod Harry offered.
Snape inclined his head once, then turned to the room.
“I am here on the Headmaster’s orders,” he began, voice crisp, “to begin Mr. Potter’s instruction in Occlumency.”
Harry blinked.
“Occlu-what?”
“We’ll get to that during the lesson,” Snape said coolly. “Your first session will be theoretical. Mr. Weasley will be present for this one only.”
That got Mum’s full attention.
“Excuse me?” she said sharply, stepping away from the stove. “Why does Ron need to be involved in this?”
Sirius pushed off the counter, arms crossing. He didn’t speak, but he was watching Snape closely, and not kindly.
Snape didn’t flinch.
“Because Mr. Weasley has proven, over the last two years, to be a stabilising influence on Mr. Potter. Furthermore, he is familiar with several of the preparatory mental exercises I will be assigning.”
Mum frowned.
“Still, that’s a heavy responsibility to place on his shoulders—”
“It is a single theory session,” Snape said. “He will not be teaching Mr. Potter. He will, however, be able to help reinforce key concepts between lessons.”
Harry was frowning now, too, but it was hard to tell if it was at Snape or just the general weirdness of the situation. I glanced at Mum, trying to judge how close she was to full veto mode.
So I stepped in.
“I don’t mind sitting in,” I said, as mildly as I could. “Bit of theory won’t kill me. And if it helps next time someone tries the Imperius on me…”
I trailed off, letting the implication hang there. That I was being smart. Responsible. That this was about safety, not favouritism.
Mum’s face twitched. She didn’t like it. But after a long pause, she exhaled through her nose and turned away slightly.
“Fine. But only theory,” she said. “And if I hear either of you pushing Ron into anything more—”
“No one is pushing him,” Snape said, cutting her off coolly.
Sirius looked like he wanted to say something, but to my surprise, he didn’t. He only nodded once and looked at Harry.
Mum didn’t look happy. But she said nothing more.
“Come,” Snape said.
We followed him up to the drawing room. When we were all inside, Snape drew his wand and warded the door without a word. As soon as he finished laying the wards on the drawing room door, he glanced sideways at me and said, in a voice as casual as his ever got:
“‘Bit of theory won’t kill me,’” he echoed. “‘And if it helps next time someone tries the Imperius…’”
I blinked innocently. Or what could pass for it anyway.
“What about it?”
His mouth twitched—just barely.
“A well-timed appeal to maternal instincts. I’ve taught you better than that, Mr. Weasley.”
I grinned.
“Did it work?”
“Regrettably, yes. Now, sit.”
We sat dutifully. Snape pulled two thick books from his satchel and dropped them onto the table with a solid thump. Dust puffed up from the covers, and I saw Harry eye them like they were about to bite.
“This,” Snape said, “is Occlumency. The magical defence of the mind against external penetration. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one.”
Harry, for once, didn’t interrupt. I frowned.
“And what if the penetration is not external, but internal?”
Snape’s eyes shifted to me.
“Elaborate, Mr. Weasley.”
I hesitated. Was I about to tip my hand a little too much? Maybe. But I wanted to know if all of this would be for nothing.
“Well… what if the visions Harry has aren’t sent by someone on the outside? What if they come from… within himself?”
Snape’s mouth twitched into something almost like amusement.
“If you are implying latent Seer abilities, I assure you, it is highly unlikely. True Seers are exceedingly rare, and Potter has displayed none of the traditional indicators.”
“Right,” I muttered.
I wasn’t used to Snape not taking me seriously, but I could understand in this instant. He didn’t know about Horcruxes yet.
Snape turned back to Harry.
“It is far more likely that the visions are deliberate. The Dark Lord is known to manipulate and unnerve his enemies, wearing down their spirit through fear and confusion. He is a skilled Legilimens. Legilimency is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person’s mind.”
“Voldemort can read minds?” Harry blurted.
Snape’s expression hardened instantly.
“Do not use the Dark Lord’s name.”
Harry pressed his lips into a thin line.
“And no,” Snape continued. “He cannot simply ‘read’ minds like opening a book. Legilimency is not so crude. It allows a skilled practitioner to navigate a subject’s thoughts and memories, especially recent or emotionally charged ones. But it requires eye contact and, ideally, a weakened mental state.”
Harry stiffened.
“So… he can’t hear us now?”
“No,” Snape said flatly. “As I said, Legilimency requires visual connection. However… The connection between you and the Dark Lord bypasses traditional methods. It was likely forged the night the killing curse failed. A link born of violent magic, blood, and intent.”
I felt a chill and couldn’t help asking,
“If that connection can bypass eye contact… could it also bypass traditional Occlumency?”
Snape paused. That, more than anything, made me nervous. Was there even a slight chance that these Occlumency lessons wouldn’t be in vain?
Snape turned slightly away, eyes narrowed in thought.
“A fair question,” he said at last. “It is… possible. The connection is unique. There is no documented precedent. If the usual defences prove ineffective, we may need to adapt. But until we have tested the boundaries of what Occlumency can block, we must attempt it.”
He turned back sharply.
“And it must be done in secret. If the Dark Lord becomes aware of your efforts to close your mind to him, he may accelerate his efforts or alter his tactics.”
That was enough to shut both of us up.
Snape flicked his wand and conjured parchment diagrams. They floated midair—detailed outlines of the human mind, some marked with currents of magic, others with targeted pressure points.
“This is the theoretical foundation,” Snape said. “You will study how the mind processes thoughts and how external magic might seek to disturb or extract them. Legilimency acts as a probe, exploiting emotional weakness. Occlumency functions as a shield, reducing conscious thought to calm neutrality.”
Harry squinted at one of the diagrams.
Snape continued, pulling a sheet with bulleted text from the air.
“These are mental exercises. Some involve guided meditation, emotional compartmentalisation, and mental stillness. You will begin practising immediately.”
Then Snape’s eyes flicked to me.
“Mr. Weasley will assist you with several of them, especially the meditative drills. You will need a partner you trust, and he is already familiar with these techniques.”
Harry looked over sharply.
“Wait—why did you teach Ron these exercises? Did you teach Ron Occlumency during your tutoring?”
There was a pause.
Huh. Would he confess? I wondered.
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not in anger. He looked at Harry for a long moment, then turned his gaze to me. I felt my stomach twist, unsure what he’d say—what he’d want to say in front of both of us.
When he finally answered, his voice was calm and precise.
“No,” he said. “I have not taught Mr. Weasley Occlumency. That was not the purpose of our sessions. However…” He glanced at me again briefly. “…I did see the value in teaching him certain exercises. Mental discipline. Emotional control. Detachment. All prerequisites for Occlumency, should I ever deem him ready.”
I didn’t move. I just watched his face carefully.
He turned back to Harry.
“He needed them. He is… expressive. Too expressive. If he ever wishes to survive a real confrontation with a skilled Legilimens—or worse—he must learn to master himself.”
Harry blinked at me, clearly surprised.
Snape’s tone cooled further.
“And unlike you, Mr. Potter, he accepted that fact without complaint.”
That shut Harry up immediately.
And though Snape looked perfectly composed on the outside, I could tell—there was a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable admitting that he’d planned to teach me more. Not now, maybe not yet. But eventually.
And he didn’t know I already suspected it.
Not that I was going to say anything.
I just sat a little straighter, pride and nerves twisting up inside me.
And then Snape turned back to the diagrams, as if none of that had ever happened.
The rest of the lesson stayed solidly in theory—no mind-probing, no spells, just diagrams and dense passages from the two brick-like books Snape had brought in his satchel. He thumped them down between us like we were about to revise for N.E.W.T.s, not learn how to keep a Dark Lord out of Harry’s brain. Still, I didn’t complain. This was important.
Snape gave Harry a reading list that was longer than some Hogwarts syllabi and then looked him square in the eye.
“You would do well to study every chapter I’ve assigned,” he said silkily. “Next lesson will be practical. And Mr. Weasley will not be there to hold your hand.”
Harry bristled. I could see the grumble rising in his throat like steam in a kettle, but I cut in first.
“How are we supposed to organise lessons, then?” I asked, keeping my tone even. “You know… with Decree 26 and all.”
Snape gave me a thin smile.
“The same way we organise your lessons,” he said. “The Room of Requirement. If it continues to accommodate us, she will never find us.”
Harry blinked.
“Wait—you know about the Room?”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
“Of course I do.”
And then he swept from the drawing room, cloak billowing behind him like he had a wind charm stitched into the hem. I waited until the door clicked shut before I turned back toward Harry, who was still staring like someone had just told him Luna was Minister for Magic.
“You— told —Snape?” he said, horrified.
I shrugged.
“Yeah.”
“But—Ron! That’s supposed to be secret. Only people who need it are supposed to find it!”
I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair.
“Snape needed it. So I told him.”
“You just—just gave it away,” Harry said, throwing his hands up.
“Oh, come off it. I didn’t carve it into a bathroom stall. I told one person—my tutor—so we could keep training even with Umbridge sniffing around.” I gave him a look. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
Harry looked unconvinced, but also like he couldn’t come up with a good argument. He crossed his arms, frowning.
I just smiled slightly.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
He muttered something under his breath that might’ve been thanks. I decided to pretend that it was.
Chapter 59: BOOK FIVE - TURNING TIDES
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
TURNING TIDES
Harry and I stood pressed together under the Invisibility Cloak, loitering just outside the stretch of blank wall where the Room of Requirement would soon appear. The corridor was quiet, dimly lit by the flickering sconces along the stone walls, and my palms were clammy with nerves.
I heard the sound of approaching footsteps—measured, familiar. My heart kicked into a sprint.
Snape.
As soon as he passed the suit of armour, I stepped out from under the cloak, tugging it off Harry with me. Snape halted abruptly, brows snapping together when he caught sight of Harry.
His eyes darted from Harry to me.
“Mr. Potter. The last Occlumency session was yesterday. And this meeting was not intended for you.”
“I know,” Harry said quickly. “But this is important.”
“It can’t wait,” I added.
Snape gave a sharp inhale through his nose, clearly biting back whatever scathing remark he was about to make. With a swirl of his robes, he gestured to the wall.
“Very well. Inside. Both of you.”
The door appeared, and we slipped through. Snape entered last, sealing the door behind him with a flick of his wand and a set of wards. As soon as we were alone, I turned to face him.
“Your theory was wrong.”
Snape narrowed his eyes.
“You’ll need to be more specific, Mr. Weasley.”
“It’s the visions,” I said. “They don’t just happen when Harry’s asleep anymore.”
Snape tilted his head slightly.
“Explain.”
“Last night,” I said, “we were in the common room. Just working on Ancient Runes. Then suddenly he collapsed—just slumped forward—and started laughing.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably beside me, arms crossed, but didn’t speak.
“Not like normal laughing,” I added. “It was… mad. Wrong. I had to slap him to get him back.”
Snape’s expression darkened, and he addressed Harry:
“You were awake?”
Harry nodded.
“Wide awake.”
Snape’s frown deepened. He folded his arms, silent for several seconds. Then, as if realigning a mental list, he asked crisply,
“How long did the episode last?”
“Maybe a minute,” I said. “Not long. But long enough.”
Snape looked from Harry to me and back again, calculating. Then, abruptly, he turned to the nearest table and braced his hands on it, head bowed slightly as though considering the implications.
Finally, I asked,
“Could the repeated attacks on Harry’s mind during the lessons be making it worse? Like—tearing open something that’s already thin?”
Snape didn’t look up.
“That… is a possibility I have not discounted.” He straightened, his gaze sharp again. “The lessons are designed to build resistance—but too much pressure, too fast, can cause strain. I have been increasing the intensity. Perhaps too aggressively.”
Harry looked miserable.
“It’s not working. I’m not any better at shutting him out.”
“Occlumency is not easily mastered,” Snape said. “Particularly when the connection itself is… unnatural.”
He turned to both of us.
“This will need to be reevaluated. I will inform the Headmaster immediately. Together we will decide the best course of action.”
“There’s more,” I said.
Snape arched a brow.
“Naturally.”
“There were a lot of people in the common room when it happened,” I said. “Too many. They saw it.”
Snape stiffened.
“Who?”
I shook my head.
“I couldn’t tell you. It was before curfew, so it was nearly full.”
Snape’s eyes went between Harry and me.
“And what, precisely, did they witness?”
Harry exhaled shakily.
“They saw me collapse. Laugh. Like I’d gone mad. Then, when Ron brought me back, I said Voldemort was happy.”
“And this morning,” I added, “the Prophet broke the news. Ten Death Eaters escaped Azkaban. The smart ones will make the connection.”
Snape’s face was unreadable now—cold, calculating. But when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
“I will speak with the Headmaster tonight,” Snape said. “Until then, you are to say nothing. If anyone asks, it was stress. Overwork. A bad reaction to Pepperup. Understood?”
We both nodded.
“You did well to bring this to me,” he said. “Both of you.”
The atmosphere at Hogwarts had changed.
It wasn’t like someone flipped a switch—more like a slow, creeping fog, curling into the corridors and common rooms, shifting the way people talked, the way they looked at each other. By the end of the week, hardly anyone was pretending that everything was fine anymore.
I saw it in the way the older students whispered over copies of the Prophet at breakfast, hunched together like conspirators. In how the Hogsmeade “hoax”—the name people used for what Harry and I saw—wasn’t being dismissed quite so casually anymore.
Some third-year students I passed outside Charms were whispering in frantic tones.
“My sister works in the Department of Magical Games,” one said. “She said they’re all freaking out. Ten Death Eaters loose. That’s not just a coincidence.”
“But they haven’t said it’s You-Know-Who,” another replied, quieter.
“They haven’t said it’s not either,” the first one shot back.
In the Great Hall, I caught more than a few glances directed at our end of the Slytherin table. Not all of them were hostile. Some were curious. Some were just nervous. It was weird. Disorienting, even. It felt like the tide was shifting under our feet.
And then, there were the rumours about Harry.
That bit had spread fast—faster than I’d hoped. Enough people were in the common room that night to tell a dozen versions of what happened. Some said Harry had collapsed and was muttering in Latin. Others said he had shouted about You-Know-Who and started laughing like he’d gone mad.
None of them got it quite right, but all of them agreed on one thing: Harry had said He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was happy. And then the very next morning, the front page of the Prophet had screamed the words: “Ten Death Eaters Escape Azkaban!”
The school had connected the dots—maybe not clearly, but enough to set the whispers flying.
“He knows things,” a Hufflepuff muttered to another as they passed us in the corridor. “Maybe he’s—”
“I heard he’s a Seer,” her friend said, wide-eyed.
“He’s not,” I muttered under my breath. Harry, walking beside me, just rolled his eyes.
“Don’t,” he said tightly.
“I won’t,” I promised. “Snape said deny, so we deny.”
We ignored the looks. The whispered questions. Even when someone from Ravenclaw had the nerve to corner us near the Library stairs and ask Harry point-blank what it was like to “see through You-Know-Who’s eyes,” Harry just stared at him like he was a pile of dung and walked away.
By Friday, I overheard a group of Slytherins—Montague, Vaisey, and a few others—arguing about whether You-Know-Who was truly back. Vaisey sounded like he didn’t want to believe it, but the others were less sure.
“Look, you can call Potter a liar if you want,” Vaisey said with a shrug. “But I’m telling you, my uncle works at Azkaban. He’s been saying for months that the place was falling apart.”
The denial was cracking.
Not completely. But enough.
And for the first time all year, the weight of doubt wasn’t crushing us—it was lifting off. Just a bit.
No one said it out loud, not even to each other. But I knew Harry felt it too. We were still walking a tightrope, but at least now, we weren’t walking it alone.
My mind kept drifting to the new atmosphere in the Library as I sat hunched over my Charms essay, pretending to work. At our table, Hermione was the only one truly working—her quill scratched steadily across parchment. Ginny had long since abandoned her essay to doodle spirals in the margins, and Luna had a copy of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms open but upside down.
We were quiet for a while, until Ginny glanced up and said, not so casually,
“I think it’s the best moment to do it.”
“Do what?” I asked, suspicious about her tone.
She looked at me.
“The interview. People are whispering, Ron. They’re remembering Hogsmeade. The Prophet can’t keep a lid on everything. If you and Harry spoke now—really spoke—it could do a lot.”
Luna nodded serenely.
“The cracks are showing,” she said, like it was a perfectly normal thing to declare in a Library. “People are doubting. They’re waiting. They just don’t realise they’re waiting for the truth.”
Hermione frowned immediately.
“You two can’t pressure them like that.”
“We’re not—” Ginny started, but Hermione raised a hand.
“I know you want to help. But this is Harry and Ron we’re talking about. They’re our friends. It’s not fair to expect them just to relive all of that because the student body’s suddenly curious. Or forget that the wrong person hearing the truth could still put them in danger.”
That shut them up. Ginny looked down, frowning. Luna quietly flipped her book right-side up. Hermione went back to her essay, but her quill paused mid-stroke.
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms.
“I think Luna’s right,” I said quietly.
They all turned to look at me.
“There are cracks now that weren’t there before. I can feel it every time someone looks at us a little longer than they used to. It’s like they’re putting pieces together in their heads, but don’t know what the puzzle is supposed to be. If we wait too long, if Fudge tightens the leash again, those cracks will close right up.”
Luna smiled, a small, dreamy thing.
“People listen best when the world stops making sense. They’re looking for a story that fits the facts.”
Ginny leaned forward, her eyes bright.
“Exactly. If you and Harry gave them that story—your version, the truth—it could make a real difference.”
“I still think it’s dangerous,” Hermione said, not unkindly. “But… I understand why you’d consider it.”
“Obviously, I won’t do anything without Dumbledore’s advice and permission,” I said. “But it’s on the table now. It has to be. I’ll talk about it with Harry tomorrow after the match.”
“Absolutely not.”
Snape’s voice cracked like a whip in the still air of the Room of Requirement. I froze, fingers tightening around my wand. He hadn’t even let me finish the sentence. I hadn’t seen him this immediately furious in… months.
“You will not speak to the press,” he said, advancing a step toward me with his robes flaring behind him. “You will not mention your name or Potter’s in the same breath as a newspaper. Do you understand me?”
“I wasn’t—” I tried, but he cut me off again.
“I don’t care if it’s the Prophet or a bloody student pamphlet,” he hissed. “The moment you give an interview, you will have hung a target on both your backs, not to mention Dumbledore’s. The Ministry will retaliate. They’ll discredit you, twist your words, turn the tide back in their favour before you even finish your last sentence.”
His voice was rising now, full of tightly contained fury and—I realised with surprise—fear.
“You’ll give them the excuse they’re waiting for,” he spat. “The excuse to come after Hogwarts properly. You have no idea of the pressure already mounting against the Headmaster. And Potter—he’s already on borrowed time with the public. And you—” He shook his head. “You are too valuable to be made into a pawn for their game. I forbid it.”
I didn’t know when I’d started to feel so small, but by the time he finished, I was shrinking into myself, my ears hot, throat tight. He made it sound like I’d tried to sell state secrets, not just test an idea aloud.
When I finally spoke, my voice was quiet. Careful.
“You know I’d never go against your orders,” I said. “If you think it’s foolish, then it most likely is, sir.”
I looked down.
“Let’s forget about me asking.”
Snape didn’t respond right away. He stood very still, arms crossed, his face blank—but I could feel the tension in the air between us like a charged spell. I kept my eyes on the floor, feeling about three inches tall. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward.
Then, at last, he moved.
“Wands out,” he said sharply, turning away from me and stalking toward the centre of the room.
That was it. No sharp retort, no final jab. Just the clipped, familiar command of someone who was shelving the conversation, at least for now. I swallowed, straightened up, and followed.
The dummies sprang to life the moment Snape waved his wand, circling the room on unpredictable paths, flickering with sudden bursts of light that signalled danger zones I was meant to intercept.
My wand moved on reflex, casting shields and jinxes, but not fast enough. I hesitated. Second-guessed. My timing was off.
A dummy slipped past me and reached the glowing blue rune that represented a hostage. A high-pitched warning tone blared through the Room of Requirement.
Snape’s voice cut through it, sharp and cold.
“Enough.”
The magic stilled. The dummies froze mid-step. My stomach twisted. We never paused unless I was getting sloppy—or worse, careless.
I turned to him, breathing hard.
Snape stood with his arms crossed, dark eyes unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, in a quieter voice than I expected, he said,
“It was not your judgment I questioned, Weasley. Only the danger of the moment. You were not wrong to consider the timing.”
I blinked at him.
Was that his version of... reassurance?
He didn’t wait for a reply.
“But,” he added briskly, “you will keep your mind on the task at hand. You asked me to help you survive. I suggest you act like it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, straightening up.
There was no banter in my voice this time. Just steadiness. Resolve.
Snape nodded once, curtly. Then his wand flicked, and the dummies resumed their erratic movements—faster now, more aggressive.
The training had restarted. I gritted my teeth, locked my stance, and went in with both feet.
It had been a lovely, quiet morning. The kind where the sun filtered soft and gold through the tall windows of the Library, warming the wooden tables and making the silence feel peaceful instead of heavy. Harry, Hermione, and I had managed to get through a good bit of studying without interruption—Hermione was pleased, I was feeling accomplished, and Harry wasn’t entirely miserable. A success, all in all.
We were walking to lunch, still lazily debating something from our Ancient Runes homework, when a voice interrupted us just as we reached the Entrance Hall.
“Um—excuse me, Ron?”
I turned, half-expecting someone to ask about a prefect duty or a lost item. It happened a lot more often now that I had the badge. The girl was small and pale, possibly a fourth-year Hufflepuff. Her hair was plaited so tightly I could probably bounce a quaffle off it. She looked nervous.
“Yeah?” I asked, polite and curious. “What can I do for you?”
Behind her, a little cluster of Hufflepuff girls was hovering near a pillar, whispering and giggling behind their hands. I blinked at them, confused, then looked back at the girl, who was now blushing bright red. I felt a twist of awkwardness. Oh no. Was she being bullied? Was this some kind of dare?
She glanced at her shoes, then back up at me, and her voice came out in a rush.
“I—well, I just wanted to ask… the next Hogsmeade trip is on the fourteenth. And I wondered if you’d maybe go with me?”
My mind blanked.
Completely.
I heard Harry and Hermione stop talking behind me. My whole brain fizzled out. Surely I’d misheard.
I stared at her. She stared at me. Her face was a tomato.
“I—uh,” I said brilliantly. “I—I’m flattered, but—I can’t. Sorry.”
She nodded too fast, clearly embarrassed.
“Right—no, it’s fine, I just—sorry—I’ll go—”
And then she turned and nearly ran back to her friends, who clustered around her like she was a lost Puffskein. They started whispering again, but I couldn’t hear a word.
I stood there, stunned.
“Did that just happen?” I said, turning to Harry and Hermione. “Did I hallucinate that?”
Harry looked amused.
“Definitely happened.”
Hermione gave me a look of quiet exasperation.
“Come on, let’s eat.”
She started herding us toward the Gryffindor table. I followed, still off-kilter. We sat down, and I was still processing when Hermione shook her head and said,
“How can you be this surprised? She’s been following you around for weeks in the Library.”
I stared at her.
“What? Following me?”
Harry looked surprised, too.
“Really?”
Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh.
“So the only time you can tell someone’s stalking you is when Snape does it? Typical.”
I blushed so fast and hot I thought my ears would melt off.
“I—what the hell, Hermione?!”
Harry choked on a laugh. Hermione rolled her eyes.
“She’s not a threat,” she said. “Her name’s Elsie Haider. She’s harmless. She just has a massive crush on you, that’s all.”
I stared at the table, fiddling with my collar, where I could feel the faint shape of my scar under the fabric.
“How can you be so sure?”
Hermione gave me a flat look.
“Because she stares at you like you hung the moon, Ron. And sighs when you walk by.”
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. This was mortifying. Completely, utterly, painfully mortifying.
“Please kill me,” I muttered.
“No,” said Harry, grinning. “This is way too entertaining.”
I sat still, blinking like I’d been hit by a rogue Bludger. My brain was trying to piece together what had just happened in the Entrance Hall, but it kept short-circuiting around the moment she’d said the words.
“Do you think I was too harsh?” I asked Hermione quietly. “I mean—I didn’t mean to hurt her. What if I just completely shattered her self-esteem?”
Hermione gave me a patient look, the kind she usually reserves for when I’m being particularly dense.
“You were perfectly polite, Ron. You didn’t lead her on or mock her. That’s all anyone can ask for. She’ll be alright.”
Harry, across the table, was biting his lower lip like it might keep the snort in. It didn’t.
I glared at him.
“Don’t you dare—”
He let out a muffled laugh anyway. His whole face crumpled into that horrible little gremlin grin he gets when he’s trying to hold it in and failing miserably.
I turned even redder. I could feel the heat in my neck.
Then, just as I gulped water to cool myself down, Ginny plopped onto the bench beside me like she’d just been waiting for the moment to strike.
“So,” she said, casually slinging her arm onto the table, “I heard that poor girl finally confessed. What’s the gossip?”
I choked. The water went completely the wrong way, and I coughed into my elbow, trying not to die.
Harry finally burst into laughter, not even pretending to hold back now. Absolute traitor.
“You knew?!” I croaked, voice half-gargling.
Ginny shrugged, totally unfazed.
“Takes a blind person not to notice. Even Luna noticed—and she’s not exactly famous for picking up on this kind of stuff. Honestly, Ron. Only you were completely blind to it.”
I dropped my head into my folded arms with a groan. I wanted to sink through the floor.
Ginny snickered and gave my ponytail a playful tug. Hermione tried to keep her composure, but I could see the corners of her mouth twitching before she snorted softly.
“Traitors,” I muttered into the crook of my elbow. “Every last one of you.”
Harry laughed harder. Ginny looked smug. Hermione even patted my shoulder like I was some long-suffering victim of fate.
And maybe I was.
I didn’t go to Hogsmeade.
Didn’t feel ready to leave the castle yet, and I didn’t want to explain why. Harry didn’t go either—whether that was because he felt the same or just didn’t want to leave me alone, I wasn’t sure. Hermione stayed too. No fuss, no questions, just the three of us wrapped up in scarves and coats, walking the snowy castle grounds while most of the school was off on romantic nonsense or pretending not to be disappointed by their lack of it.
It was cold enough to numb my nose and ears, but we kept moving. At one point, Hermione glanced sideways at Harry and asked,
“How are your Occlumency lessons going?”
Harry sighed—proper long and loud.
“Hard,” he said finally. “Snape’s a bloody hard-ass. I’m trying, but nothing works. I haven’t blocked him even once. It’s like… he tears through everything, like butter. And I hate it. I hate that he can see everything. All of it.”
He looked furious, but more than that, exhausted. And humiliated, I think, though he didn’t say it.
Hermione frowned, her breath fogging up in front of her.
“Are you still doing the mental exercises?”
“Yes,” Harry snapped. “I’m doing everything, alright? It’s not my fault. It’s just not working.”
Hermione pulled back, stung. She didn’t say anything else. Neither did I, for a few steps.
I looked at Harry properly, at the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He was being torn apart from the inside, and I had no idea how to fix it.
“Snape said it takes years to master,” I said softly. “You just need more time.”
Harry shook his head.
“I don’t have time,” he said. “Voldemort’s in my head constantly. The things I see…” He trailed off. Didn’t finish.
I wanted to do something. Say something that would help. But I couldn’t carry this for him. All I could do was walk beside him.
So that’s what I did.
The bell rang, and the classroom emptied like it always did—noisy, fast, full of students happy to escape. I slung my bag over my shoulder, ready to go to lunch with Harry and Hermione, but just as I reached the door, a voice chirped behind me.
“Mr. Weasley, if you don’t mind staying back for just a moment?”
I turned around slowly, already tensing. Umbridge’s voice was as sweet as poison, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
I glanced at Harry, who had stopped mid-step. He looked as worried as I felt. I gave him a quick nod to say it’s fine—I’ll handle it—and turned back toward her.
“Yes, Professor?”
She clapped her hands once, the sound too cheerful to be anything but fake.
“Lovely. Just a short chat, nothing to worry about. Come along to my office, dear.”
She turned without waiting, expecting me to follow. I did, heart thudding hard in my chest. Something was off. She hadn’t given me detention, hadn’t accused me of anything. Just a “chat.” That’s when you should be most worried.
Her office was just like I imagined it: bright pink, hideously floral, and stuffed with decorative plates of simpering kittens. I stepped inside, and the door closed behind me with a soft click that made my stomach twist.
“Have a seat, dear,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. “Would you like some tea?”
She poured it before I answered, the liquid steaming gently in the cup. The scent of something sweet and flowery filled the room. I observed her hands. Didn’t see her drop anything in. But I still didn’t trust it.
“Thank you,” I said politely, sitting and wrapping my hands around the cup but not drinking.
I gave it a fake sip and set it back down, careful to make it look like I’d had some. She was watching. Of course she was.
“So,” she began, settling down across from me with that ever-present sugary smile. “You’ve been doing very well this year, haven’t you, Mr. Weasley? Prefect duties, good marks… exemplary behaviour.”
I blinked.
“Er—thank you, Professor.”
She nodded, as if pleased with herself.
“I always take special notice of students who set an example for the others. You’re becoming quite a young man. The kind others look up to. That must be a lot of responsibility.”
I gave a cautious smile.
“It is, ma’am. I try to do my best.”
She leaned forward slightly.
“I imagine you take your studies seriously, then?”
“I do,” I said simply. It was true. Mostly.
Her eyes narrowed, but her smile stayed.
“Tell me, which subjects are you most focused on these days?”
There it was. The first feeler.
I shrugged, keeping my tone casual.
“The usual ones. Defence, Potions, Transfiguration. Trying to keep my grades high enough for NEWTs.”
“Oh yes, Potions,” she echoed sweetly. “You’ve always seemed to have a good relationship with Professor Snape, haven’t you?”
My spine stiffened. I forced myself not to react.
“He’s my Head of House,” I said. “We’ve spoken a few times.”
Hum. Understatement of the year.
“That’s what I thought.” She took a sip of her tea. “Have you ever received extra instruction from him? You know… to help you with your work?”
I kept my face blank.
“Not really. I attend class like everyone else.”
Her smile thinned a fraction.
“No tutoring? Not even last year?”
I tilted my head a bit, as if thinking.
“He gave me a few tips once in a while. That’s about it.”
“Mmm. I see.” She tried to look like she wasn’t digging. “No regular meetings? No private sessions?”
“No, Professor.” I met her eyes dead on. She wasn’t a Legilimens—I’d have known by now if she was. I held her gaze steadily. “I wouldn’t be able to do that without permission, would I?”
“Very true,” she said with a little giggle. “Very true. Of course, we’re all following Decree 26 now, aren’t we?”
“Absolutely.”
We stared at each other for a moment. She was trying to read me. Trying to decide if I was hiding something. I stayed perfectly still, perfectly polite, not giving her a single twitch to latch onto.
She sighed and leaned back.
“Well, I’m so glad we had this little chat, Mr. Weasley. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Of course,” I said, already getting up.
“Do come by again if you ever want to talk,” she said as I reached the door. “I’m always here to listen.”
I gave a polite nod, then left her office with my heart pounding. Only when I was halfway down the corridor did I let myself breathe properly again.
That had been too close.
Chapter 60: BOOK FIVE - DISSOCIATION
Notes:
TW: Dissociation
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
DISSOCIATION
I woke up feeling… good. For once.
Not the sort of half-good where you hope the day won’t punch you in the face by lunch. Not the kind where you lie to yourself and call it a good day just because nothing’s exploded yet.
No, I woke up and felt grounded. Sixteen. A number like a proper stake in the ground. No longer a child, yet not quite an adult. But I was here.
I said it to myself—quietly, a whisper against the inside of my mind. My mantra.
“My magic. My voice. My place. My humour. My cunning.”
I was Ronald Billius Weasley. Son of Mum and Dad. No one else. Not a shadow. Not a twin. Not a follower. Me.
My body was scarred, sturdy. It’d held up under injuries meant to maim. My mind had been broken into, and I’d rebuilt the walls brick by bloody brick.
I yanked the bed curtains open like a man who knew he could face the day, and I sat up with energy curled tight in my muscles like a spring. It was a good day. It was my birthday.
Harry was already crouched by his trunk, digging through it. He straightened when he saw me and gave me that soft smile he doesn’t show to many people.
“Happy birthday, Ron,” he said, holding out a package wrapped in crumpled green paper.
“Cheers,” I said, already feeling a little suspicious. Harry was looking far too smug for someone handing over a birthday gift. I squinted at him as I took it and sat down to unwrap it.
It felt like two books. The first one I opened made me grin like mad. A brand-new dream journal. Thick, clean parchment. Sturdy cover. Mine was nearly out of pages, and I hadn’t got around to nicking a new one.
“Thanks, mate. It’s perfect.”
However, I then looked at the second one.
And promptly wished I could die.
“What the fuck, Harry?!”
He was already dressing, pretending to be innocent while barely hiding his smirk. I stared down at the ridiculous cover of the second book: a shockingly pink and gold romance novel with a title that made my ears burn— My Teacher’s Naughty Little Secret —complete with a dramatically windswept figure in robes clutching his wand in a very suggestive way.
“Oh my god,” I muttered, throwing it into my trunk and slamming the lid shut. “You’re the worst.”
Blaise, who was sleepily pulling a jumper over his head nearby, yawned.
“Happy birthday. What’d Potter get you?”
“None of your business!” I snapped, going bright red. I grabbed the nearest sock and swatted Harry with it as I stormed toward the bathroom.
His laughter followed me down the corridor.
When we were both dressed and vaguely presentable, we made our way to the Great Hall for breakfast. I couldn’t stop fiddling with my collar, painfully aware that the world now contained that book, and it was currently buried in my trunk where any of my dormmates could stumble on it.
I leaned closer to Harry as we walked.
“Where in Merlin’s name did you even find that thing?”
He just shrugged with an infuriating grin.
“Saw it. Knew it was perfect.”
I elbowed him in the ribs.
We slid into seats at the Gryffindor table, where my siblings were already gathered. Everyone chorused “Happy birthday!” like it was rehearsed. I smiled—really smiled. I got a new quill from Ginny, a laughing charmed card from the twins (that exploded with confetti), and from Hermione, a book on magical creatures in the Alps that I’d mentioned months ago without realising she’d remembered.
It was warm. It was good. It was a proper birthday morning.
And then, first period rolled around—and as a little gift from the gods, it was Potions. For most people, a horror. For me? A treat. Mostly.
Except today, everything was tinged with that ridiculous romance novel and the title burned in the back of my head whenever I looked at Snape.
Which was a problem, because Potions meant looking at Snape a lot.
We were reviewing the properties and brewing method for Skele-Gro, and my brain was absolutely no help at all. I took notes, nodded along, and kept glancing up every few seconds, only to blush like an idiot. I felt like someone who’d been dared to wear a badge reading I fancy my professor.
Still… I liked those days. The ones where I felt full and steady. Where I could look at Snape and feel something strange and steady instead of terrified.
Of course, that bliss lasted exactly until second period.
Because next was Defence Against the Dark Arts. And that meant Umbridge.
And nothing spoiled a birthday like Dolores bloody Umbridge.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was always like stepping into a swamp—slow, suffocating, and filled with hidden things that could bite. But I was in too good a mood for her to ruin it early. I sat down, back straight, hands folded on the desk like a bloody model student.
Umbridge minced in with her usual sickly-sweet expression, shuffling her stack of essays like they were made of gold. I barely looked up. I was just waiting for mine. I’d worked hard on it—four feet, tight handwriting, cross-referenced, cited, even used a bloody colour-coded highlighting charm Hermione taught me.
I was already picturing the neat little O she’d be forced to give me, even if it killed her.
One by one, she handed back the essays with her high-pitched “Well done, Miss Brown,” and “Much improved, Mr. Crabbe,” fluttering through the room like poisoned lace. I didn’t look up. I just kept waiting for her to stop in front of me.
She never did.
My brow furrowed as I heard her step back to the front of the class, the stack of parchment now gone from her arms. I looked down at my empty desk.
No essay.
I frowned and raised my hand.
“Excuse me, Professor?”
Her toad-like face turned toward me with her usual syrupy smile.
“Yes, Mr. Weasley?”
“I haven’t received my essay back,” I said evenly.
Her eyes sparkled, but it wasn’t a nice sparkle.
“Then that must mean you didn’t turn it in.”
My stomach dropped.
“I—no, I did. I handed it in last Friday.”
She tilted her head as if I’d just said something terribly confusing.
“I don’t believe so, dear. I have no record of an essay from you. Perhaps you imagined it?”
I clenched my jaw.
“No. I definitely wrote it. I turned it in on time.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she said, tutting softly. “Mr. Weasley, it’s very naughty to lie. Especially about schoolwork.”
I opened my mouth, about to protest again—but something in her look stopped me cold. There was a glitter in her eyes that had nothing to do with confusion or even annoyance. It was satisfaction. Cold and deliberate.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
And I knew exactly why.
Retaliation. Last week’s little tea chat. She hadn’t gotten what she wanted, so now I was the problem child.
“Since no essay was submitted, you will serve detention,” she said, smiling widely. “Four evenings. One for each missing inch. We’ll say… seven o’clock. You may report directly to my office.”
I clenched everything I had—my fists, my teeth, even my toes. My tongue stayed right behind my teeth, because if I let one word out now, it’d be something I couldn’t take back. Something that would cost me more than four evenings’ worth of time.
It was so transparent. Such a big, fat, obvious lie. And there wasn’t a bloody thing I could do.
I gave a tight nod and said,
“Yes, Professor.”
My voice was perfectly flat.
And the injustice of it—all of it—burned in my chest like fire.
I couldn’t sit still through the rest of the lesson. My legs were twitching under the desk, fingers clenched hard enough around my quill that it might snap in two. I didn’t even hear the end-of-class dismissal properly—just bolted the second she finished her last sickly word. The second we were out the door, I was storming down the corridor, barely aware of where I was going. Probably the Great Hall. Or just… somewhere I could fume without committing murder.
“Ron, please—calm down,” Hermione said, trotting to keep pace with me. “If you give her any more reasons to punish you—”
“I know,” I snapped. “I’ll be a good little bitch for the rest of the day and during her fucking detentions.”
Hermione faltered beside me, taken aback by my language. Harry raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.
“Merlin,” he said, “you being angry is always a bit of a shock. It’s rare. Feels like seeing a volcano where there used to be a hill.”
I barked a bitter laugh.
“Yeah? Then enjoy the show while it lasts.”
Hermione peeled off at the Great Hall to go to her table, while Harry and I went to ours. I dropped into my seat like I could crush the bench under me, grabbed a roll, and ripped it in half like it had insulted my mother.
“Tut tut,” Pansy Parkinson sang in that annoying, syrupy tone of hers. “What kind of prefect gets detention? That’s so very disappointing, Weasley.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I said without looking at her.
She gasped like I’d slapped her.
“Disgusting brute,” she muttered, going back to her food with her nose in the air.
I glanced around and locked eyes with Malfoy. My glare was a silent dare. Go on. Make a comment. Just one.
But he didn’t. He just looked away and stabbed a bit of roast potato with exaggerated calm.
I went back to violently mutilating the food on my plate, appetite completely gone.
“You need to calm down before the double DADA period,” Blaise said mildly. “If you act like this in front of her, you’ll only give her more ammunition.”
“Thanks,” I said flatly. “No need to repeat the same shit over and over. I get it.”
Blaise blinked, and for once, he actually looked surprised. Not offended, just surprised.
Which was when I realised I was being a prick, even to the people trying to help. I exhaled hard and pushed my plate aside. This wasn’t helping. I wasn’t helping.
I closed my eyes, placed my palm flat against my stomach like Snape taught me, and took a long, deep breath. In. Out. Slow and measured.
Think about something else. Something light. My siblings crowding me with hugs at breakfast. That ridiculous pink-and-gold cover on the novel Harry gave me. The utterly absurd title.
I groaned softly and felt my face heat up again. Mortifying.
But also grounding.
I focused on that warmth instead of the fury. On being here. On breathing. On choosing to control this.
When I opened my eyes again, the haze of red was gone. Mostly.
In my head, I gave myself a sharp nod. I will not let that toad win. I will not give her one inch. I will be cool as a bloody cucumber.
“Channel my inner Snape,” I muttered under my breath, steady.
Harry choked on his water, coughing and laughing at the same time.
Blaise raised an eyebrow.
“I’d pay to see that.”
Even Theo cracked a small smile.
I rolled my shoulders back and finished my drink in one clean motion.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said.
We made our way to the Defence classroom, and I walked in with my back straight, jaw loose, and eyes perfectly blank. I sat down, hands folded, and waited.
I would give her nothing.
The rest of the period, I barely heard a word that left her mouth.
I just copied.
Whole paragraphs, word for word, my quill dragging across the parchment in some slow, monotonous rhythm. Everything she said was either lifted from the textbook or so devoid of substance that I could barely even process it. Exceptional teaching skills. At first, I kept up a steady stream of snark in my head, mentally awarding her points for every recycled sentence and ridiculous turn of phrase.
But eventually, even the sarcasm dulled.
I don’t know if it was the repetition or just some instinct to protect myself from rage, but I fell into this strange… headspace. Not exactly relaxed, but not bristling either. Somewhere between robotic and meditative. I focused on the sound of my quill, on the way my wrist moved, on the weight of the ink drying on the parchment. I could almost pretend I wasn’t even there.
That in-between state carried me through the rest of class. Through the break. Even halfway through dinner.
But then the spell broke. Midway through slicing a roast carrot, something hit me like a Bludger to the chest.
Her detentions. In the book.
The blood quill.
I froze, hand hovering over my plate. My stomach twisted so hard I thought I might throw up.
Was she going to use it?
Would she do that just because I didn’t spill secrets during that awful little chat in her office? Was it about control? Punishment? Some twisted test to see if I’d crack?
The idea of it—of carving words into my skin—made my fingers curl against my trousers under the table. I’d already earned one ugly scar this year. One invasion too many. I wasn’t sure I could take another without breaking down.
I needed something solid. I glanced toward the head table.
Snape.
There he was. Dark robes, still and sharp like always. His gaze was fixed on something in front of him, probably grading in his head or silently judging the quality of the potatoes.
But seeing him was enough.
Just the sight of him grounded me. He was here. Strong. Solid. He didn’t flinch from power or cruelty, didn’t crumble under pressure. If she tried something… if she went too far…
Well, I didn’t know if he could protect me from her. Legally, politically… maybe not. But he’d be there. If I broke, he’d pick up the pieces. That thought steadied me.
I let out a breath and looked away, back to my plate.
And that’s when I noticed it—Umbridge. Watching me.
Her mouth was pinched in that sickly sweet way she had, but her eyes… they were sharp. Calculating. I froze for a second before turning back to my food. My appetite had vanished again.
I finished what I could and pushed my plate away.
“See you later,” I muttered as I stood.
Harry looked up, frowning slightly.
“Good luck, mate. Don’t forget: channel your inner Snape.”
I didn’t answer. I just gave him a slight nod, a vague smile, and walked out of the Hall with my fists clenched in my pockets.
I walked like I was heading to my execution.
My legs felt stiff, too light. My arms hung heavy. My heart kept doing this wild thud-thud-thud, too fast, too loud, but none of it showed on my face. Not yet.
I waited outside her office for ten minutes, maybe more—long enough for my thoughts to swirl into something sharp and wild inside my head. I should run. I should fight. But I didn’t. I stood there, staring at the carved frame of her door, fists jammed deep in my pockets.
Finally, she arrived, her sickening smile already plastered across her face.
“Mr. Weasley,” she chirped, as though we were meeting for a nice little chat.
She opened the door. I followed her in.
The lace-covered table might’ve made me snort on another day—so dainty, so ridiculous, crammed between her wall of ornamental plates and that hideous pink wallpaper—but today I just sat down without a word.
There was a piece of blank parchment in front of me.
No quill.
I looked around once, quickly.
No ink bottle.
My stomach clenched, cold and hard. My skin prickled. Every part of me screamed at once. Run. Fight. Do something.
But I didn’t. Because what was the point?
If I ran, she’d punish me. If I talked back, she’d punish me. If I fought, she’d make it worse. The only way through was through.
So I stayed still.
She took her seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“I do hope I’m not keeping you from any pressing responsibilities,” she said sweetly.
“No, ma’am,” I answered. My voice sounded fine. Normal. “My next prefect patrol is Tuesday evening.”
Her smile twitched a little wider.
“How very responsible.”
She stood, turned to her desk, and retrieved something from the top drawer.
A long, thin black quill with a wickedly sharp point.
She placed it gently on the table between us.
I stared at it.
My hand didn’t move.
I knew. I knew what it was.
And suddenly I had my answer, the one I’d feared all through dinner.
Would she use it? Would she do that to me, just to punish me for not giving her what she wanted?
Yes.
Yes, she would.
I reached for the quill with a hand that wasn’t mine. My fingers trembled, just slightly. She saw it. I know she saw it.
“Tonight,” she said in that soft, syrupy voice, “you will write, ‘I must follow the rules.’”
I didn’t ask how many times.
She didn’t wait for me to.
“You’ll write it,” she said, “for as long as it takes for the message to sink in. Off you go.”
No ink. No instructions. No pretence.
I looked down at the parchment. The sharp point of the quill hovered in my limp fingers. I couldn’t move.
Because every part of me was screaming no.
My body knew better. My instincts refused. I wasn’t meant to hurt myself. No one was.
“Write,” she said again, voice clipped now. “Or I’ll extend your detention to make up for the time you waste.”
My brain, through the fog of fear and nausea, kicked into gear. Obey. Survive.
So I pressed the quill to the parchment and wrote:
I must follow the rules.
Pain lanced through my hand like fire.
I gasped through clenched teeth, but I didn’t stop.
The words carved themselves into the back of my hand. The parchment soaked in nothing, and yet red ink bloomed across it—my blood. My skin.
And as I wrote, the words faded from the paper… and left behind a burning sting in my flesh.
Over and over.
I must follow the rules.
Again.
And again.
The pain was bad, but worse than that was what it did to me inside.
I was hurting myself. Because I’d been told to. Because I’d obeyed.
I hated it.
I hated her.
But in that moment, I hated myself, too.
I closed my eyes. I went somewhere else.
Not physically, but… in my head. I went to the place Snape had taught me to build. A quiet room. A corner of my own mind. Mine. Not hers.
I remembered how he’d taught me to recognise my thoughts from someone else’s. The way he’d sent his pressure so gently, so carefully. Feather-light. Letting me tell the difference. Letting me learn to fight back.
This pain was different. This wasn’t careful. This was cruel.
I curled up deeper in my mind and held onto that difference.
Outside, it got darker. The parchment in front of me was filled with red words—some smeared where my hand shook or where silent tears had hit the page.
I didn’t care. I just wanted it to be over.
Finally, finally, she spoke.
“Come here.”
I stood slowly. My legs were unsteady. My body felt wrong. Like it belonged to someone else.
Not Ron Weasley. Not anyone I recognised.
She held out her hand.
I gave her mine.
She inspected the damage and clucked her tongue in disapproval.
“Not quite deep enough. The message hasn’t sunk in yet. We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t move until she gave a small wave of dismissal.
“You may go.”
So I left.
Not even the door made a sound when it closed behind me.
Because I wasn’t there.
Not really.
I was curled up in my bed, under my covers, with a pink and gold corny novel and Crookshanks purring on my chest.
That’s where I was.
That’s where I’d rather be.
I barely remembered walking back to the dungeons.
The halls blurred around me—stone, torchlight, faint echoes of footsteps. My limbs moved like they belonged to someone else. Maybe they did. It didn’t feel like me, walking that path. Not really.
I passed through the common room without a word. If anyone saw me, I didn’t notice. I couldn’t even tell if it was quiet or loud, warm or cold. I just moved, heavy and hollow at once, toward the dormitory.
I got in, undressed, and went to the showers. I cranked the water hotter than usual, trying to chase off the deep, shaking cold in my bones. My skin turned red, but I kept standing there, letting the water scald my shoulders, drip down my arms and my back. It didn’t help. I was still shaking.
After a while, I dried off and changed into my pyjamas. Mechanical movements. Arms through sleeves. Pants pulled up. I brushed my teeth like I’d done it a thousand times before, except now I watched myself in the mirror, and I didn’t know who I was looking at.
The boy in the mirror had sickly pale skin. A dark red scar curled along his throat. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. Dead.
I stared. Then I turned away.
I climbed into bed and stared blankly up at the canopy above me, the soft, glowing stars that I’d stuck there in first year barely visible in the darkness. I didn’t need to do my mental exercises tonight. My mind was already empty. Not calm, just… hollow. Like the rest of me.
I lay still, not even blinking, waiting for sleep or something like it to come. I wasn’t here. Not really.
Whoever I was—whatever I was—I didn’t feel like Ron Weasley anymore.
That night, I dreamed.
I was back in a graveyard—wrong, twisted. Cold stone beneath me, thorns instead of tombstones. I was on my back. My hand burned. My throat seared.
Umbridge laughed, sweet and sick. “You must follow the rules,” she sang, waving that bloody quill.
Lucius stepped out next, smug and polished, cane in hand.
Then Snape appeared—silent, arms crossed, face blank. No sneer. No warmth. Just stone.
I tried to speak, to beg, to scream. Only a choked gurgle came out.
They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.
The pain pulsed—hand, throat, chest. I waited. I bled. I broke. Dying slowly enough to feel every second.
Still, they stared.
I woke up alone.
The dormitory was still and sunlit, and the bed curtains around me felt like curtains in a hospital room, or a morgue. I sat up slowly. The others were gone—Harry, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle were off doing their Saturday morning training session. Blaise and Theo weren’t in their beds either, which meant it was at least mid-morning.
The silence felt heavy. Everyone had somewhere to be, something to do, and I was here. Alone. I knew it was stupid to expect anyone to have checked on me. It wasn’t like I told them anything. It wasn’t like they could know. Still, some part of me ached, irrational and raw, because no one did.
I lay back down and stared up at the dim stars painted on the canopy of my bed. They didn’t glow in the morning light. I debated staying there all day. It was Saturday. I could skip training. What was the point of trying to conjure a Patronus if I couldn’t muster a single bloody happy thought?
No. Not today. I closed my eyes and let the fog pull me under again.
The next thing I knew, someone was shaking me.
I blinked up at Harry’s face—wind-tossed hair, sweaty brow, still in his Quidditch robes.
“Your study session with Hermione and Luna was cancelled?” he asked, frowning.
I blinked again, my voice croaky.
“No. Not that I know of.”
Harry tilted his head, brow furrowing.
“You sick?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
He squinted at me, clearly not buying it.
“Want me to take you to the hospital wing?”
I thought about it. The phantom pain in my hand wasn’t something Pomfrey could fix. No real reason to go.
“I’m alright,” I muttered.
“You sure?” he asked.
No.
“Yeah.”
He looked unconvinced but didn’t press.
“Get dressed or we’ll miss lunch.”
I moved like a puppet as I changed into clean robes. Everything was muffled, distant. My limbs were slow, my chest hollow. I followed Harry down to the Great Hall, footsteps automatic.
Our lot was waiting: Hermione, Ginny, the twins, Luna. All chatting around the middle of the Gryffindor table. I tried to smile and failed.
Hermione looked up, relief and confusion on her face.
“Where were you, Ron? You missed the study session.”
“Sorry,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was sleeping.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes at me like a Kneazle sniffing out a lie.
“You look… off.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Still nothing. In the end, I shrugged and sat down, piling food onto my plate that I didn’t want.
“Do you need the hospital wing?” Hermione asked, concern rising in her voice.
“No.” I stabbed a bit of potato. “I’m fine.”
At that, Harry’s head turned sharply to look at me. I could feel his eyes drilling into me.
“How was detention?” he asked quietly.
I kept my eyes on my plate, chewing and swallowing like my life depended on it.
“Only three more days,” I muttered.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I licked my lips. Shrugged again.
The table went quiet. I could feel everyone watching me, waiting.
Should I tell them?
Should I just wait and tell Snape?
Should I just keep going like nothing happened?
I didn’t know. I couldn’t decide. I just went through the motions, hoping no one would ask me to make a choice.
“Blimey, Ron, you look like you’ve just come back from a duel with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Did you finally find out what Umbridge keeps in that locked drawer of hers?”
George chuckled.
“Yeah, what is it then? Shrunken heads? Preserved kittens? Bottled souls?”
Usually, I would’ve snorted, maybe even added something. But this time, I just looked at them. And the joke died in Fred’s throat like a swatted fly.
They exchanged a glance and didn’t push it.
Hermione leaned in a little, worry drawn all over her face.
“Ron… are you sure you’re alright?” she asked gently. “If something’s wrong, we can—”
“I’m fine,” I said, too quickly. Too flatly.
Ginny frowned from across the table.
“Ron,” she said, her voice soft and pressing. “You’re not. Come on. Just tell us what happened.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Shrugged.
My hand twitched on the bench beside me—tight, aching. I flexed my fingers, but the phantom sting stayed, like the quill was still there, carving those bloody words over and over. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard.
Why couldn’t they just take the hint and leave me alone?
Then Harry spoke.
“Do you need Snape?” he asked quietly.
My eyes flicked to him. I didn’t know how to answer. Maybe. Probably. But I didn’t think he could do anything. Not really. Not this time.
So I told the truth, or something like it.
“He can’t do anything for me,” I said, voice low, nearly flat.
That shut everyone up. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, I realised quickly. Because if I wasn’t going to Snape, then something was wrong. And they knew it.
Harry leaned closer, his voice serious now.
“We’re going to him after lunch. Whether you like it or not.”
I wanted to argue. I really did. But just thinking about it felt exhausting. So I didn’t say anything.
Hermione said she was coming too.
And that was that.
We rushed through the rest of lunch, the others not even pretending to carry on a normal conversation anymore. They kept sneaking glances at me like I was some fragile thing about to fall apart. I hated it. But I didn’t have the strength to fight it either.
By the time we made it to the dungeons, I felt raw again.
I stood stiffly outside Snape’s office, every instinct in me screaming that this was a mistake. That I was making a fool of myself. That all of this—the silence, the staring, the muttering about how I seemed off—it was all ridiculous. It was detention. Just detention.
“I’m telling you,” I muttered, “it’s stupid. We shouldn’t bother Snape with this.”
But Hermione was already knocking, sharp and purposeful. I flinched at the sound.
“Enter,” came Snape’s voice from inside.
The door creaked open. I could’ve turned back. I should’ve.
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly, “so stupid. He’s got better things to do—”
“Come on, Ron,” Harry tried to grab my arm.
“No,” I said, digging my heels in.
That’s when Snape appeared in the doorway, his black eyes sweeping over us, sharp as ever.
“What,” he said icily, “is this about?”
And then Harry said it.
“Sir, how do you check someone for the Imperius?”
Everything stopped.
My heart went cold. I stared at him, wide-eyed, as if he’d just accused me of being Voldemort himself.
“I’m not under the Imperius,” I said, horrified.
Snape’s eyes didn’t leave mine.
“All of you, inside. Now.”
We filed in. The door shut behind us with a click, followed by the unmistakable sound of multiple wards sliding into place.
Snape turned, arms crossed.
“Explain.”
I kept my mouth shut, jaw clenched.
“Ron’s been… off,” Harry began. “Since his detention with Umbridge. He barely spoke during lunch. And when he did, it wasn’t… him.”
Snape’s gaze was still fixed on me, but I looked away.
Hermione spoke gently,
“He won’t tell us what happened, but something’s not right. He’s… gone quiet, withdrawn, like he’s not even here.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered. “I’m not under a curse.”
“No one said you were cursed,” Snape replied, his voice quieter now, too quiet. “But I did say: explain.”
I didn’t.
Because I couldn’t.
Because if I started talking, I didn’t know what might come out. Or if I’d stop.
So I said nothing. I just kept staring at the stone floor like it might swallow me whole.
Snape waited. And when I still didn’t speak, he finally said,
“Then I will ask the question another way. What did she do to you?”
My right hand moved before I could stop it, covering my left like I could hide something invisible from someone like him.
Snape’s eyes dropped, just for a second. He saw. I knew he saw.
Shit.
I looked away, jaw tight.
“Nothing,” I muttered. “Just—just detention.”
No one said anything. Not Hermione, not Harry. The silence pressed against my back like a wall.
Snape didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to.
“Mr. Weasley,” he said, quiet and razor-sharp, “do not insult my intelligence.”
I swallowed. My fingers curled harder around my hand, like I could press the memory out of it. Like I could make it not true.
He didn’t move closer, but I felt him like a stormfront.
“You’re concealing your hand,” he continued. “Is that where she marked you?”
My breath hitched. I hated that. Hated that he used the word marked. Like I’d been branded.
“It’s healed,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Snape’s face didn’t change, but something in the room did. Like all the air shifted.
Hermione whispered,
“Ron…”
I couldn’t look at her.
Harry said nothing, but I could feel his eyes boring into me, like he was trying to piece it all together.
“I wrote lines,” I said finally. The words came out like I was coughing up stones. “No ink. Just that bloody quill.”
There. It was out. I couldn’t take it back.
I still didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see their faces. Didn’t want to see pity, or fury, or worst of all, regret. Like I was something breakable.
Snape didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, very softly, he asked,
“What was the sentence?”
My stomach turned.
“I must follow the rules,” I answered.
Snape’s voice dropped lower still.
“And how many times?”
I shook my head.
“She didn’t say. Just... until it ‘sinks in.’”
He exhaled, sharp and controlled.
“How many nights?”
“Three more.”
I swallowed again, hard, and after a beat, I said quietly,
“I’m sorry.”
There was a brief pause. One breath. Two.
Then he said,
“You are not the one who ought to be apologising.”
That hit like a stone to the ribs. Not because it was cruel, but because it was too kind. I nodded, but I didn’t trust myself to speak.
Hermione’s voice came next, sharper than I expected.
“We can’t let her keep doing this,” she said, her fists clenched at her sides. “It’s illegal. It has to be.”
“She can’t just torture students and expect us to keep quiet,” Harry added, jaw tight. “There has to be something we can do—there has to be a way to stop her.”
Snape’s face was stone for a moment longer. Then he turned to face both of them fully.
“I am well aware of what she is doing,” he said, voice low and tight, “and I am not blind to its illegality, nor its cruelty.”
“But then—” Hermione started.
Snape held up a hand.
“Listen carefully. You are not to retaliate. Not publicly. Not with force. That is exactly what she wants—to provoke rebellion, to create excuses for harsher control. She thrives on it.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Snape cut him off with a glare.
“You will tell no one else about this,” he said. “Not even the rest of your little group. Is that understood?”
There was a long, heavy pause.
“Understood,” I said first, by reflex.
Hermione hesitated, then nodded too.
Harry nodded last, slow and reluctant.
Snape’s gaze returned to me.
“I cannot promise she will be removed overnight,” Snape said, his voice a dangerous whisper, “but I can assure you—I will not let this go unanswered.”
Chapter 61: BOOK FIVE - SNAPE'S PROMISE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
SNAPE’S PROMISE
I was right. Snape couldn’t stop it.
He tried—Merlin, did he try. First he claimed he needed me for advanced potionwork remediation, his voice all silk and scorn like usual, but laced with something sharper underneath. Umbridge just smiled that poisonous little smile and called it a “transparent attempt to shield a known troublemaker from proper consequences.” Then she added another week of detention, as if she were giving me a gift.
By the end of the fourth day, the words didn’t fade anymore. “ I must follow the rules ”—scored over and over into the back of my hand until the skin wouldn’t spring back to normal. Snape took one look at it and marched me straight to the hospital wing without a word.
Pomfrey tutted over it. Cast every spell she could think of. Slathered it in ointments that smelled like honey and dragon bile. But it stayed. Not as raw, not as red—but there. Pale and angry, like it belonged under a branding iron.
I knew, then, that it would never go away. Not really. Just like Lucius’ mark.
Snape looked angrier with each passing day. It was like every inch of fury I couldn’t afford to feel, he felt for me. He tried again—told Umbridge I needed remedial tutoring now, that I was falling behind. She refused, of course. Then she laughed about it in front of the whole class.
“Oh, but Mr. Weasley, didn’t you tell me yourself just last week how you were so very advanced in Potions? Or did I misunderstand?”
Pansy nearly fell off her chair from laughing. Crabbe and Goyle brayed along like trolls. Malfoy didn’t say anything—just watched me with a narrow look. I wanted to punch someone. I didn’t. I sat there and let my palm burn against the desk.
Day six, another decree.
Educational Decree Number Twenty-Seven: Teachers may not interfere with Ministry-sanctioned detentions.
Hermione spent every spare minute researching blood quills. Whispered about “torture tools” and “ethical violations” and quoted long paragraphs of Magical Law from books that looked older than the castle. I didn’t ask her to. She just did.
I had no idea what Dumbledore was doing. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. It didn’t matter. He’d been removed from the Wizengamot now, and the press was calling him senile again. Half the school didn’t even know if he still had power anymore. Furthermore, he was rarely present at Hogwarts since school began in September.
I wasn’t waiting on Dumbledore.
I just counted the days. And pressed my hand flat against cool stone walls when it started to sting again.
Today, it was my eighth day of detention, and the words still hadn’t faded.
Even after all the ointments, the charms, Pomfrey’s most potent healing spell and Snape’s specially brewed salve, the words were still there. Pale, silvery pink now, but stubborn as stone.
I must follow the rules.
Yeah. Right.
I was summoned to Snape’s office right after lunch. I didn’t hope for much. Maybe he’d found some way to get me out of tonight’s round with Umbridge. But after the last seven failed attempts, I wasn’t holding my breath.
Still, I went. Sat down in front of his desk like always, hands folded in my lap. Didn’t squirm. Didn’t fidget. Just… waited.
Snape looked tired. Not physically—he never let himself get that way. But there was something tight around his eyes. He didn’t sit behind the desk today. He leaned against it instead, arms crossed.
“We’re building a formal complaint,” he said. “Dumbledore and I.”
My throat felt tight.
“Formal?”
“With the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he clarified. “We’ve begun gathering documentation, testimonies. Proof.”
“How long will it take?” I asked.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Not much longer now. But we’ll need something stronger than secondhand stories and medical notes.”
I nodded once, trying to brace myself.
“I’d like your consent,” he said carefully, “to extract a memory. A single detention. One that clearly shows the use of the blood quill.”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“Alright.”
Snape studied me for a moment.
“You understand what this means?”
“Yes.” I uncurled my fingers from my injured hand.
Snape didn’t say anything for a beat. Then he turned, opened a drawer, and placed a shallow silver bowl between us on the desk. The surface of the Pensieve shimmered faintly, swirling silver like mist in moonlight.
He looked at me, steady and impassible.
“We’ll do it carefully. You’ll need to call up the memory—one moment in particular. A single detention. Preferably one where the blood quill’s effects are most apparent.”
I gave a stiff nod.
“You must hold it in your mind clearly,” he continued, his voice calm but precise. “Let it rise. Let yourself relive just enough of it to mark the sequence. Then… don’t fight me.”
“I won’t.”
“You’ve never had a memory extracted before,” he said. “It can be disorienting if you resist. But it won’t hurt.”
He paused.
“Okay,” I murmured.
I stared down at the Pensieve, heart thudding. My mind reached back automatically, drawn like a thread pulled tight. The fifth night. The worst one. My hand had split earlier than usual. I’d gotten blood on the parchment. She hadn’t cared.
I could still feel the lace under my wrist, soft like a lie. I could still feel the weight of that silence, her cheerful humming under the scratch of the quill.
“That one,” I said, my voice hoarse.
Snape raised his wand slowly.
“Hold on to it. Steady your mind. Focus on the beginning, middle, and end.”
I closed my eyes. Nodded. Let it settle.
Then he tapped my temple.
A cool tug, like a ribbon being drawn through my head. I kept still. Didn’t fight. And then—it was gone. I opened my eyes as he caught the silvery strand on the tip of his wand and gently lowered it into the Pensieve.
It hit the surface with a ripple and began to swirl. I watched it pool at the bottom, a storm of light and shadow.
“Come,” Snape said. “You should see it.”
I didn’t fight him either then. I just stood beside him and looked down.
There I was—sitting at that lacy little table in her office, back too straight, hand trembling slightly as I took the quill. I watched myself start to write.
I must follow the rules.
Again.
Again.
Blood bloomed across my hand, trickling down into the sleeve of my jumper. I kept writing. My jaw was clenched, my eyes too wide. And Umbridge? She just smiled. Sat with a cup of tea and a stack of Ministry pamphlets while I bled on her lace.
Something inside me cracked open.
I didn’t expect it. But there it was.
Anger.
Fury, actually. Rage, hotter than dragonfire and darker than tar. It crashed through me like a dam breaking—everything I’d swallowed down for days came roaring up at once. My ears buzzed. My fists clenched. My vision blurred.
I wanted to destroy something. Everything. Break the desk. Shatter the Pensieve. Obliterate that awful pink office from existence.
Because Lucius had hurt me for a reason. For bloodlines. Power. War. It was vile—but it was calculated. Umbridge? She just wanted to prove she could. That the law couldn’t touch her. That people like me couldn’t touch her.
I hated her. I hated her.
I didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. But the rage was pounding through every vein like fire.
Snape stepped back from the bowl and studied me quietly. His voice, when it came, was low.
“Better,” he said.
I blinked at him, teeth almost bared like a dog.
“What?”
“You’re feeling something.” He gestured to the Pensieve. “That is not apathy. That is not dissociation. That is not surrender.”
I looked away. My hand still stung.
“But it’s also not useful yet,” he added calmly. “Hatred—when undirected—will rot you from the inside out.”
I swallowed, my throat dry.
“So what, I should just forgive her?”
His mouth curled into something bitter.
“Absolutely not.”
He walked slowly around the desk, like a general surveying a battlefield.
“I want you angry, Ronald. But I want you to wield it. Not drown in it.”
I sat down hard. My legs didn’t feel like they’d hold me.
Snape paused beside me.
“We will win this. Do you understand me? But we will do it with precision. Not with fire.”
I nodded. Once. Then again.
I could do that. Maybe. I’d try. For him.
I breathed in, shallow and quiet, as the image in the Pensieve shimmered again.
I must follow the rules.
I must, yes.
But not hers.
“Teach me how to wield it, sir.”
Double Defence was the first class after Snape’s office. I sat through it, simmering. No fog in my head now—just a slow, steady burn behind my ribs. My face must’ve looked like stone, because even the usual whispers didn’t seem aimed at me today. I wasn’t blank anymore. I had a sneer I couldn’t quite get rid of, not the sharp kind like Malfoy’s, but a bitter twist of my mouth I didn’t bother hiding.
Umbridge stood at the front, droning on with that sugar-and-arsenic voice of hers. I didn’t even hear half of it—I was too busy imagining what she’d look like with blood running down her arms. Not that I’d ever do anything. Snape said no fire. So fire there would not be. I wrote the drivel she spouted, every word of it, as though it mattered. But each letter felt like a blade I was sharpening, slow and patient.
She assigned an essay for next week, then added with that poisonous little smirk,
“Do be sure not to forget it this time, Mr. Weasley.”
I inhaled. Deep and slow. I didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. I just stared at her, let the contempt settle in my bones like lead. She wanted a reaction, and I didn’t give it. I didn’t twitch. I counted that as a victory.
At dinner, I ate for two. I was starving and couldn’t remember if I’d had breakfast at all. When Pansy leaned over and chirped something snide about not forgetting my homework again, I didn’t even flinch. I turned to her, cold as ice, and said, “Go fuck yourself.”
Her mouth fell open like a trout’s. I didn’t wait for a response. I kept eating. Didn’t even taste the food—I just needed to chew and swallow and move forward.
By the time I walked to detention, I wasn’t dragging my feet anymore. I went with purpose. Let her try to knock me down again—I’d get back up. Every time.
Of course, she made me wait. Power-play. I stood outside her office for ten minutes, staring at her closed door. When she finally opened the door, it was like walking into a crime scene in slow motion. Nothing had changed. Same lace, same tea set, same smile. But I had changed.
She was a vile, fat little toad with too much power and no soul to speak of. Just you wait, I thought. Just you wait.
She gave me the quill.
I wrote.
It hurt. Of course it hurt. I wanted to scream, but instead I bit down on it and pictured her feeling it instead. I imagined her soft, smug little hand cut open with each line. She didn’t flinch. She never did. But that was fine. I didn’t need her to suffer now.
I shaped the pain. I made it into hate. And then I carved that hate into something better—something useful. Focus. Control. I was Slytherin. I would prevail. I would overcome.
When it was over, I stood up.
She didn’t dismiss me. She only smiled and said we’d see each other tomorrow. I didn’t reply.
When I left, my hand was still bleeding. But I didn’t feel broken. Or weak. Or small.
I felt like a blade being tempered.
And soon, she’d see what that meant.
Two days after Snape took my memory for the complaint, an owl brought me a summons in the middle of breakfast. No names, no explanations—just a school seal and a short instruction:
You are to report to the Headmaster’s office at once. Do not discuss this letter in public.
My fork stilled halfway to my mouth. I folded the parchment tight, shoved it in my robe pocket, and left the Great Hall without a word. Harry saw me go but didn’t follow. Smart. It was that kind of summons.
My legs felt strangely light on the stairs to the Head’s office. Like they’d stop obeying me any second. When I reached the stone gargoyle, it opened without a password. That never happened.
Dumbledore was waiting just beyond the spiral staircase. He didn’t say anything, just gave me a nod to follow.
Then I saw them.
Mum and Dad stood near the fire. Mum had her arms folded so tightly over her chest that it looked like she was holding herself together. Dad’s jaw was set in a way I’d only seen once before—after the graveyard.
For a second, I thought I might throw up. Then Mum was rushing toward me, and I barely had time to blink before I was folded into her arms.
“My boy,” she whispered against my shoulder. “Oh, my sweet boy.”
I didn’t know what to say. What could I possibly say?
Dad came over next. He didn’t hug me—just put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. But his eyes said everything. He looked like he wanted to murder someone with a teaspoon.
We all sat around the Headmaster’s desk. Dumbledore waited until the silence settled like dust before he finally spoke.
“Ron,” he said, “I’ve briefed your parents about the situation. I felt it necessary that they hear this firsthand. We’ve filed the complaint officially. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has it in hand, and the Board of Governors will be convening a hearing within the week.”
Mum’s hands were gripping her skirt now, white-knuckled.
“And there’s nothing to be done until then?” she asked, voice thin.
“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore said, gently. “Due process must run its course. I assure you, Dolores Umbridge’s misconduct is being taken seriously by several parties in the Ministry.”
“Then why is he still going to those detentions?” Dad asked, voice tight. “Why not pull him out?”
“Because,” Dumbledore said heavily, “should we break a Ministry decree prematurely, it would not only risk Ron’s safety—it would give Umbridge grounds to escalate. Possibly legally. We would lose the high ground.”
I saw Mum’s eyes flick to me, like she was searching for wounds she hadn’t noticed. Her fingers brushed my hand—my left hand—and when she saw the marks that hadn’t faded, she gasped, covering her mouth.
“I’m fine,” I muttered. “It’s almost over.”
She looked like she might cry.
“You are not fine.”
I couldn’t meet her eyes.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Dumbledore said softly. “But I ask for your patience—for Ron’s sake. If we proceed carefully, we can ensure Dolores Umbridge is held accountable. If we are rash, we may only make things worse.”
Mum took a shuddering breath.
“And what about him?” She nodded at me. “He still has two more nights of… of that?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said, voice grim. “But he will not go through them unsupported.”
Snape’s absence from the room said enough—he was probably off securing that support already.
Dad rose from his chair, walked over to me, and placed both hands on my shoulders.
“We are proud of you,” he said. “Beyond proud. But if it gets to be too much—anything—promise us you’ll tell someone.”
“I promise,” I said, voice hoarse.
Mum rose too, cupping my face.
“I wish I could take it for you. All of it.”
I just nodded. I couldn’t talk anymore. My throat burned.
The meeting didn’t last much longer. They weren’t allowed to stay, and I wasn’t allowed to leave with them. So I stood in the doorway as they walked away. Mum turned once, eyes wet, and gave me a wave.
I waved back.
As the door clicked shut behind them, I stayed standing there, staring at the grain in the wood like it might open again.
And then—unbidden and sharp—a thought came.
Now they know.
Now they know what it’s like to be Snape. To watch it happen. To have their hands tied. To be furious and helpless and unable to stop someone from hurting me.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t kind. But it came anyway, fast and bitter.
I clenched my jaw and looked down at my still-marked hand, flexing the fingers just to feel something. The thought made me feel worse, not better. Because I knew it wasn’t Mum or Dad I was angry at.
It wasn’t even me I was angry at. Not really.
It was everything. This place. This war we weren’t calling a war yet. The Ministry. Her.
I let out a breath through my nose, long and quiet.
That’s not fair, I told myself again, slower this time. That wasn’t you thinking. That was your anger, kicking out at the nearest target.
And maybe it was.
Didn’t make it less ugly.
The pain had crested, broken, and come again like a wave grinding bone into salt. My fingers cramped, wrist aching with every letter as blood pooled on the parchment and smeared across the cheap, tarnished lace of her desk.
I must follow the rules.
Over and over. Carved from flesh.
I couldn’t feel my hand anymore. Only fire. Raw and furious. The smell of blood and iron sat heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. My head spun with it.
And in the middle of that haze, I had a thought.
Is she going to give me more?
I didn’t know. She didn’t know about the complaint yet—about Dumbledore, about the Board, about the fucking mountain of evidence stacking up behind her back. So she still felt like a queen in her ugly little castle. She still thought she was untouchable.
Would she take it further?
Another week? Another month? Just to prove she could?
My quill slipped. A fat bead of blood rolled down my finger and dripped onto her tablecloth. Deep red. Perfectly round. It bloomed on the fabric like a curse.
“Let’s see if you’ve got the message yet, shall we?”
I stood up and went to her. Then her hand reached out and took mine.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. I just watched her—watched her with a cold, clean sort of detachment as she turned my hand over and examined the ruined mess of it.
Her stubby fingers pinched my wrist, tilting it to the light like I was some specimen in a jar. I let her. And I looked down at her.
All the fury was gone now. Burned out. What was left was contempt—quiet and sharp and freezing cold.
She looked so small from up here. So ridiculous. A little toad in pink wool, trying to be a god.
I waited for the verdict.
She pursed her lips and made a little hum.
“Well,” she said sweetly, as if this were a tea party and not a fucking crime scene, “I think I’ve made my point, Mr Weasley. You may go.”
And that—that was an order I sure wanted to follow.
So I fucking went.
On Wednesday, McGonagall kept me behind after Transfiguration. Her mouth was tight when she told me to head to the Headmaster’s office before dinner and not to tell anyone. If someone asked, I was to say we were discussing my last essay. She gave me the password and sent me off without another word.
The gargoyle leapt aside the moment I spoke the password. I rode the spiral staircase up, trying not to think too hard, but my gut was already twisting by the time I knocked on the polished door.
“Come in,” Dumbledore’s voice said.
He and Snape were both inside. And the moment I stepped in, I knew—something was off. The air felt heavy. Tense. They didn’t look up right away.
“Sit down, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said gently. His eyes were sombre behind those half-moon glasses.
I sat. My palms were damp, but I pressed them to my trousers under the desk.
“I’ve received a response from the Board of Governors,” Dumbledore said. “They’ve agreed to a hearing, based on the material submitted in our complaint.”
A beat passed.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I said. “They’ll listen?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “They will be coming tomorrow to take your testimony and review the evidence we’ve gathered.”
I nodded. My heart thudded in my chest, but it felt manageable.
“Alright.”
“You’ll be excused from your classes for the day,” he continued. “The hearing will take place in the staff room at ten o’clock sharp. Your parents will be here, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Snape as well.”
It still didn’t explain the look on their faces. I glanced between the two of them. Snape’s jaw was clenched tight. Dumbledore was watching me too closely.
“What?” I asked. “What’s the bad news?”
Snape spoke then. His voice was low, clipped.
“Since the accusation is considered grave… the entire board will be present.”
I frowned.
“Okay?”
“Including,” Snape said darkly, “Lucius Malfoy.”
I went still. The name hit like a curse word.
For a second, I couldn’t move. I just sat there, heart racing, mouth dry.
Lucius Malfoy. Watching me talk about the scar his friend gave me with that quill. Watching me try to be brave. Watching me try not to flinch.
Of course. Of course, he’d be there.
My throat was tight. But I nodded once.
“Alright,” I said. “Fine.”
Snape’s gaze didn’t leave me. I didn’t want to look back. I didn’t want him to see that part of me was already fraying at the edges.
But I would be ready.
I had to be.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but firm.
“Mr. Weasley, I understand the concern this news brings. But I want to be absolutely clear—Lucius Malfoy will not be allowed to threaten or intimidate you in any way. There will be too many witnesses. He cannot lay a finger on you.”
Snape gave a curt nod beside him.
“If he so much as breathes wrong, I’ll intervene. You will not be alone for a moment.”
I stared at them both. They meant it, I could tell. I could see the steel behind Dumbledore’s calm words, and the anger just beneath the surface of Snape’s stillness. They wanted me to feel reassured.
But all I could think was: I was supposed to be safe at Hogwarts, too.
And look where that got me.
I didn’t say it out loud. What would be the point? They already knew, didn’t they? Instead, I gave a small nod and looked away.
“Right,” I said. “Understood.”
I didn’t feel reassured. But I could pretend to be. That was something I was good at.
That night, I dreamed about Lucius Malfoy.
I lay there, bleeding out, hoping that someone would come and save me.
Nobody came.
The day of the hearing, I ate as if I were about to run a bloody marathon.
Didn’t taste a single bite. Didn’t even chew half of them. I just swallowed and shoved the next piece in, like keeping my hands and mouth busy would keep the panic at bay.
Harry sat to my right, quiet. Watching me. I could feel it. He didn’t ask, though. He didn’t know—not about the hearing, not about the Board of Governors coming today. I hadn’t told anyone. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t trust Umbridge not to have ears in every corner, even the dormitory. Safer this way.
But it didn’t mean I was going in alone. Mum and Dad would be there. Snape, too. And Pomfrey. Dumbledore. I had support. Real support. And I knew I’d need it.
When I pushed my empty plate away, Harry stood up and said,
“We should go to Herbology before we’re late.”
“I’m excused,” I said quickly. “Just—don’t tell anyone, alright? If someone asks, say I’m sick.”
His brow furrowed.
“You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m safe. And… depending how it goes, maybe I can tell you tonight.”
He gave me a searching look, then nodded.
“You better.”
Then he left, following the others out, and I was left in the half-empty Hall. Only a few stragglers on their break remained, their chatter a low buzz in the background. I turned to the head table.
Snape was waiting for me.
He didn’t say anything as I joined him. Just gave me a single, subtle nod, then turned and led the way to the staff room.
The moment I stepped inside, I saw Pomfrey already there, her expression tight but warm. She gave me a thin smile that was more comforting than anything else could’ve been just then. I nodded back, not trusting my voice yet.
Then I saw the chairs.
The setup hit me like a fist to the stomach. Tribunal-style. A lone chair, dead centre, facing a huge semi-circle of long tables. Behind my chair were two more, probably for Mum and Dad. The Board wouldn’t be arriving for a little while, but I could already feel the weight of their judgment. I reminded myself: I wouldn’t be alone.
Pomfrey moved quietly, setting a little table next to the chair I’d be sitting in. She placed a glass on it and a full pitcher of water. Just that small gesture made something in my chest loosen.
Snape turned to me once we were alone.
“They will attempt to intimidate you, even without meaning to. You are not required to answer instantly. Breathe before you speak.”
I nodded.
“Do not raise your voice. Do not interrupt. If you are uncertain of something, say so. If you need a moment, take one. Do not let them rush you.”
I nodded again, more firmly this time.
He looked at me for a moment longer, then said quietly,
“Be a Slytherin, Mr. Weasley. As I know you can be.”
My shoulders straightened.
“Yes, sir.”
With Pomfrey’s quiet comfort on one side and Snape’s steel on the other, I felt as ready as I could be.
Then the door opened and in came Dumbledore, with Mum and Dad right behind him. Mum pulled me into a hug before she even fully crossed the threshold, and Dad rested a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Whatever happens, we’re here,” Mum whispered. “You’ve got us.”
Dumbledore explained the seating: I’d be at the front, my parents directly behind me, Snape off to the side as a witness, Pomfrey with him. Dumbledore himself would stand near the Board, to moderate.
He left to wait for their arrival outside the staff room.
Mum fussed, fixing my collar like I was five again. It helped, somehow. It gave me something simple to focus on.
Then I glanced between them and felt a cold thread of doubt slither in.
“Do you… Do you know Lucius Malfoy will be there?”
Dad’s expression didn’t change much, but his whole body coiled tight. Murderously quiet. Mum pressed her lips together and nodded once.
“Please,” I said quickly. “Don’t make a scene. I need you two to be the steady ones today. I need an example to follow.”
Mum swallowed hard, then gave me a nod.
“We’re here for you, not politics. Just family. That’s all.”
Dad gave a grunt that was maybe an agreement.
I sat down in the waiting chair. I could hear footsteps outside the staff room.
It was time.
Chapter 62: BOOK FIVE - THE HEARING
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
THE HEARING
The door opened. Dumbledore stepped in first, followed by the governors.
I didn’t look at their faces. Didn’t want to. Just kept my eyes forward, like I could pretend I wasn’t even there if I tried hard enough.
Robes swished past me, footsteps muffled on the carpet. I could see the hem of each set as they rounded into the half-circle ahead. Burgundy, navy, charcoal. Ministry neutrals.
Then I saw it.
A cane. Black lacquered wood, with a silver snake as a handle. Polished so clean it glinted in the torchlight.
I didn’t need to look up.
I knew exactly whose it was.
I sat down in the single chair at the centre of the room, and behind me, I felt the warm presence of Mum and Dad taking their seats. I didn’t have to turn to know they were there—I could feel them. Just like I could feel Snape and Pomfrey to my right, side by side, silent and steady. And Dumbledore sat to my left, just apart enough from the rest to make a point.
The chairwoman reached into her briefcase, pulled out a DictaQuill, and tapped it once. It sprang to life, quivering over a thick sheaf of parchment. She cleared her throat.
“This hearing of the Hogwarts Board of Governors is hereby in session. We are gathered to examine a formal complaint filed by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, with the support of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Weasley, regarding the conduct of a Ministry-appointed instructor, Dolores Umbridge. The complaint includes testimony, physical evidence, medical records, and memory extractions.”
She began introducing the governors. One by one, names, credentials, official-sounding titles.
I tuned it out.
I was too busy trying not to stare at the black cane tipped in silver, tapping slowly on the floor just right of centre in the semicircle.
When Dumbledore stood to speak, I listened again.
He confirmed that the complaint had been formally submitted to the Board on Saturday morning, accompanied by a dossier of documentation, two medical testimonies, and one Pensieve memory. Snape was named as the one who collected the memory, Pomfrey as the one who treated the injury.
Then the chairwoman picked up again and turned toward me.
“Before proceeding to view the Pensieve evidence, we must have the explicit consent of the injured party.”
Mum and Dad leaned forward, each putting a hand on the back of my chair.
“Are you alright with this, love?” Mum asked softly.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
But before anything else could happen, I heard the measured, silken voice of Lucius Malfoy. I tensed, my guts going cold.
“The Board, of course, recognises the delicate nature of memory magic… and how, even with good intentions, it can be misrepresented—particularly when transferred secondhand. I trust the Board will take due care before drawing conclusions.”
He didn’t smirk. That was the trick of it. He looked perfectly composed, vaguely concerned for justice, as though he hadn’t just called me a liar to my face.
There was some murmuring along the semicircle. The chairwoman raised her hand.
“In light of this concern, and to guarantee clarity of process, I propose a new memory be collected directly from Mr. Weasley, if he agrees.”
Mum and Dad both leaned in again.
“Ron,” Dad said carefully, “you don’t have to do this. You’ve done enough.”
But I shook my head. I wasn’t going to let Lucius twist this around me.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “If Professor Snape extracts it.”
Another murmur. Lucius opened his mouth again, but before he could object, one of the older governors spoke up—an old woman with stern grey eyes and no patience.
“We prioritise the comfort and cooperation of the injured party. If he consents and names an extractor, that is his right.”
Lucius fell quiet.
A moment later, another member stood and took a Pensieve out of his briefcase. He placed it gently on the table in front of me.
Snape stepped closer and crouched beside me.
“When you are ready, think of the moment you wish to share. Hold it as clearly as you can in your mind.”
I nodded.
At first, I wanted to pick the final night—the one where she said those awful words like it was nothing. But my face in that memory was twisted with rage, and I didn’t want anyone in this room to take that and turn it into doubt.
So I picked the one from before. The seventh night. Miserable. Bloody. Hollowed out. The night the cuts wouldn’t fade anymore, and I still sat there and obeyed like a dog.
“I’m ready.”
Snape drew the memory from my temple with his wand, the silver thread shimmering in the air before he guided it into the bowl.
Then the governor added the original memory Dumbledore had submitted with the complaint—preserved in a vial—and poured it in beside mine.
He tapped the rim with his wand. The Pensieve shimmered, expanding threefold. Then he guided it back to the table in front of the Board.
They viewed in groups of four. The others sat, quiet as ghosts.
Twelve members. Three viewings. One silent room.
Then Dumbledore, Snape, and Pomfrey. They stepped forward when asked and returned without a word.
Finally, it was Mum and Dad’s turn.
“I don’t need to see it,” I told them when they looked at me. “I was there.”
Mum touched my arm as she passed, eyes already glassy.
They took their turn. I sat alone in my chair.
When they came back, I heard her before I saw her—Mum. Sniffling softly behind me, trying to muffle it in the sleeve of her jumper.
I sat still. Took a breath. Then another. I wouldn’t cry. Not today. I wouldn’t give them that.
Not with Lucius Malfoy’s snake cane still tapping against the floor.
The chairwoman adjusted the DictaQuill with precise fingers, then looked up at me.
“Mr. Weasley,” she said. “We now ask you to provide a full and truthful account of the events leading to this complaint. Begin with the circumstances surrounding your detentions.”
I sat straighter. My spine ached from the tension. I took a breath through my nose and made my voice calm.
“I was given detention after Professor Umbridge accused me of not turning in an essay. I did write the essay. I turned it in with the others. But she said she didn’t receive it, and claimed I was lying. She gave me four nights of detention.”
The chairwoman nodded.
“Please continue.”
“She made me write lines,” I said, my jaw tightening. “Not with a regular quill. With a blood quill.”
“And what was the sentence you were ordered to write?”
“I must follow the rules.”
“How many times?”
“She never said. She told me I would write until the message sank in.”
A pause. The quill scribbled across the parchment without pause.
“And what were the physical effects of this punishment?”
“It carved the words into the back of my hand.” I flexed my fingers, not looking at them. “The skin opened. It bled. A lot. Each night.”
“Did you seek medical assistance?”
“Yes,” I said. “Professor Snape brought me to the hospital wing after the third night. And every night after that until the last one. Madam Pomfrey treated the wound each time, cleaning it and applying ointment. But the skin wouldn’t heal properly. The words just kept coming back.”
The quill scratched. I hated the sound.
“Did you inform any staff of what was happening before this point?”
I nodded.
“I told Professor Snape after the first detention. Before the second one happened. He asked me what was wrong with my hand, and I told him.”
“And what was his reaction?”
“He was… angry. Said he’d handle it.”
There was a pause, and then another board member leaned forward.
“The detention was originally for four days. Why did it extend to more than a week?”
I clenched my jaw.
“Because Professor Snape tried to help me,” I said. “He asked to excuse me from the rest of detention, said he needed me for advanced potionwork tutoring. Umbridge refused. Said it was a transparent excuse to protect me. Then she gave me one more week of detention.”
“She escalated the punishment in response?”
“Yes. And he tried again, on the fifth day. Asked again. But she refused again. Then the next day she passed a new decree—number twenty-seven. Said teachers weren’t allowed to interfere with Ministry detentions.”
I didn’t look at anyone. Not the Board, not Lucius. I stared at the spot on the floor where my blood had dripped in the memory, in that office with the tarnished lace.
“And Professor Snape couldn’t do anything else,” I finished. “Not after that.”
The quill scratched on. I didn’t move.
“You did not report this to the headmaster yourself?”
“I didn’t have to. He found out through the formal complaint.”
“Understood. Did you ever directly refuse the detention?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m just a student and she’s a Professor. She’s in charge. So I didn’t think it would help. I thought she’d just punish me more. I didn’t want to give her another excuse.”
A longer silence followed. I could feel every heartbeat thudding in my throat. I thought that might be it—but then, from the right of the semicircle, another voice cut through the quiet like a knife wrapped in silk.
“Mr. Weasley,” Lucius said, smooth as ever, “would you be willing to describe the emotional toll this punishment had on you?”
What a twisted motherfucker.
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to. I knew that tone. Polite. Soft. Almost concerned. It would’ve fooled most people. But not me.
It wasn’t care. It was glee, dressed up in court robes. I was sure of it now—he was getting off on this. On seeing me like this. On watching me flinch and fumble in front of a whole room of adults who held power over my life. This was theatre to him. And I was the bleeding actor centre stage.
My fingers curled in my lap. My voice stayed even.
“It was hard,” I said. “It was unfair. It made me feel like… like nothing I said would be believed. I tried to stay quiet. I thought that was safest. But it made everything worse.”
I heard a chair creak behind me. Mum, probably. But I didn’t look.
A longer silence followed. This time, it must have been the end of it.
But then—
“Mr. Weasley,” Lucius said again, “did you, at any point, exaggerate your injury or reaction to garner sympathy?”
The air vanished from my lungs.
That question. I knew I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t. But something about the way he said it—soft, measured, laced with poison—made my stomach turn. Made me doubt, just for a second, whether anyone else might believe him. Whether they’d think I was just some whiny kid who couldn’t handle a few lines.
My throat tightened. I gripped my knees.
“No,” I said, and my voice cracked. I hated that. “No, I didn’t.”
Lucius hummed. That smug, polite little noise like he was above it all. Like he didn’t believe me, but wouldn’t say so out loud. Not here. Not where it might stain his cuffs. Not where it would look bad.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my chair.
But Snape had told me: no fire.
So there would be no fire.
Just ice.
Useful, pointed ice.
So I stared at the table edge and didn’t blink.
Let him hum. Let him smirk.
I had a scar that would never fade. And every letter of it spelt truth.
The chairwoman cleared her throat.
“At this point, we’ll proceed with Professor Snape’s witness statement.”
Snape stood.
His robes didn’t so much as flutter. His voice was colder than the draft under the door.
“On the evening following Mr. Weasley’s first detention, I noted visible strain in his behaviour and a physical injury on the back of his left hand. Upon inquiry, he informed me that he had been required to use a blood quill under Professor Umbridge’s direction. I verified the injury’s cause and attempted to intervene.”
He spoke like every word was carved in stone. No embellishment. No theatrics. Just fact. But behind the flat tone, I knew him well enough to hear the fury pressed deep beneath it.
“I brought Mr. Weasley to Madam Pomfrey for medical treatment the next night, after the injury worsened. He was treated again each subsequent evening.”
He looked directly at the governors now.
“I submitted two separate formal requests to excuse Mr. Weasley from detention, citing a need for academic remediation under my supervision. Both were denied. Following my first attempt, Professor Umbridge extended his detention by one week.”
He paused.
“Following my second attempt, a new decree was issued the next morning. It forbade all faculty from interfering with Ministry-sanctioned detentions. I could not legally act further without a formal complaint.”
Silence followed. The quill scratched. I kept my eyes forward.
The chairwoman nodded.
“Thank you, Professor. Madam Pomfrey, you may proceed.”
Pomfrey stood, hands folded in front of her.
“The injuries I treated on Mr. Weasley’s hand each night are consistent in every respect with those visible in the memory provided. I have healed many wounds over the years, including those caused by cursed objects and Dark artefacts. This particular form of injury is rare and illegal. The quill used leaves self-regenerating lacerations. Despite my efforts—topical balms, Skele-Gro-infused salves, and scar-reversal charms—the skin resisted every treatment.”
She let the words settle before finishing, voice firm and low:
“He will bear the scar for life.”
There was a sound behind me. A sharp inhale. A shift of weight.
Dad. And Mum. I didn’t turn to look.
I didn’t need to. I knew what that sound meant. Shock. Hurt. Maybe even fury.
But I stayed still.
I’d already known. Long before Pomfrey said it. Maybe even before Snape did.
It was carved into me. I’d known from the very first letter.
The chairwoman gave a slight nod.
“At this time, we request that the board be allowed to examine Mr. Weasley’s hand directly, to confirm the permanence of the injury.”
I stood. My legs felt stiff, but I didn’t stumble.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “That’s fine.”
The room didn’t make a sound as I stepped forward.
One by one, I stopped in front of each governor seated in the semicircle. I held out my left hand, palm down. My skin felt tight and raw, even though the blood was long gone. The words were a dark red now, like old ink soaked into parchment. I must follow the rules.
Some looked at it with professional detachment. Others winced. One man squinted, muttered something under his breath, then nodded and waved me on.
And then I reached the end of the arc.
Lucius Malfoy.
My hand trembled as I raised it. I hated that it did. I hated that he saw it.
His gaze settled on the scar, as if he were reading a signature. His fingers stayed curled around that bloody silver cane, and he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The look on his face—too polite, too interested—made me want to pull my hand back and wipe it on my robes.
But I didn’t.
I let him look. I made myself let him. Because I wasn’t going to flinch. Not here. Not now.
Still, when I finally turned away, a shiver ran through me that I couldn’t stop.
I finished the last two governors quickly and went back to my seat. My parents were right behind me, a foot away. I didn’t look at them. I sat down, straight-backed, and folded my marked hand in my lap like it didn’t matter.
Like none of this mattered.
The chairwoman cleared her throat, then looked out across the semicircle of governors and the quiet room around us.
“This concludes the evidentiary phase of this hearing,” she said. “The Board of Governors will now discuss the matter privately. The Weasley family and Hogwarts’ administration will be informed of our decision by the end of the week at the latest.”
There was a shuffle of parchment, and the quiet scribble of the DictaQuill finally stilled.
“Are there any remaining questions before we adjourn?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room.
I hesitated.
I didn’t want to ask. It felt stupid, somehow. Small. Like I’d made it all this way just to ask something that didn’t matter.
But it did matter. To me.
I swallowed and raised my hand just a little.
“What… what happens if Professor Umbridge tries to talk to me? Between now and the verdict?”
There was a pause.
The chairwoman’s face didn’t shift. Her tone was clipped and professional.
“You are hereby excused from all of Professor Umbridge’s classes until the Board has reached its decision. Furthermore, she will be instructed not to speak to you in any capacity, formally or informally. Any breach of this condition must be reported immediately.”
I nodded.
“Okay. Thank you.”
It was strange how those words— you are excused —landed heavier than everything else.
I heard Mum exhale behind me, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.
I kept my eyes forward, kept my hands folded tight in my lap. My scar itched, but I didn’t scratch it. I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Not even now. Not even for that.
Dumbledore led the way out of the staff room with calm, unhurried steps, his hands folded neatly behind his back. I followed, my legs a little unsteady after sitting still so long, but I forced them to move with purpose. Mum and Dad flanked me like sentinels. I didn’t look behind, but I heard Madam Pomfrey’s steps as well, and Snape’s quiet, deliberate footfalls.
Once outside the room, Dumbledore paused and turned slightly.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said. “I believe we could all use a place to breathe.”
Pomfrey gave me a small, tight smile.
“You did well, Mr. Weasley. Now get some rest, please.” Then she turned and walked away, her robes swishing behind her.
Snape didn’t follow straight away. He looked at me, and for a second I saw something close to pride in his eyes—quiet, measured pride. His voice was calm but firm when he spoke.
“Impeccably done, Mr Weasley.”
I blinked at him, too tired to say anything clever. Just nodded once. Coming from him, that meant everything. He didn’t offer praise unless he meant it—unless it had been earned.
Then he turned on his heel and was gone.
The tension in my shoulders slackened a bit after that, and I followed Dumbledore and my parents toward the gargoyle staircase. We rode up in silence, and when we entered the Headmaster’s office, I felt my whole body dip under a new kind of exhaustion. Like my bones had finally registered how much effort it took to hold myself together.
Mum sat me down in the soft armchair in front of the desk and wrapped both arms around me like she used to when I was small.
“Oh, Ronnie,” she said, pressing her cheek into my hair. “We’re so proud of you.”
Dad sat on the arm of the chair and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“You held yourself like a man. With dignity. You told the truth, and you did it bravely.”
They started talking then, about the memory. About the moment the blood hit the lace, and how awful it had been to see it from the outside. I shook my head, tired of hearing about it, tired of seeing it in my mind even when I closed my eyes.
“Can we… not talk about it right now?” I asked, softer than I meant to. “I’m tired. I just want to sleep, maybe. Sleep everything off.”
Dumbledore gave me a gentle nod.
“Of course. You are excused from all your lessons today, and for as long as you need. Rest however you like, Mr. Weasley.”
Mum stroked my arm.
“Do you want us to stay, sweetheart? We could ask to see you again after dinner, or—”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. I just need to be alone a bit. I need to think.”
They didn’t argue. They both just nodded, understanding, though I could see it wasn’t easy for either of them to let me go.
Then I remembered something and looked up at Dumbledore.
“Sir—I forgot to ask. Am I allowed to tell my friends what happened? About the hearing and all?”
Dumbledore looked at me for a moment, considering.
“I’m afraid not just yet, Mr. Weasley. The governors have not rendered their decision, and until they do, the matter must remain confidential. That includes the hearing, the evidence presented, and your testimony. I understand that this is difficult, but it is essential that we allow the process to unfold without outside influence.”
Then he paused a second before saying, more gently,
“You will be free to speak once the verdict is reached. I promise, the moment it is safe to do so, you may tell your friends whatever you wish. Until then, know that your friends care deeply for you. And if they do not know what happened, they surely know something did. Their support will not falter.”
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
“Thank you, sir.”
Then I turned to Mum and Dad.
“I’ll see you soon.”
They pulled me into one more hug, and then I excused myself and left.
The corridors were empty, and thank Merlin for that. I couldn’t take even one more set of eyes on me—not curious, not pitying, not anything. Too many people had looked at me today. Too many had seen too much. I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I hurried down the stairs, down through the cooling stone passages, toward the dungeons. Safe. Cold. Quiet. The shadows felt like armour. No sunlight. No scrutiny. Just the darkness, and the steady sound of my own breath.
I passed through the common room like a breeze, barely aware of who was there or what they might have said. I didn’t care. I didn’t stop. I made it to the dormitory and shut the door behind me.
The latch clicked, and I finally released a breath. My knees gave a little as I moved to the bed. I sat heavily on the edge, elbows on my thighs, face in my hands.
And I cried.
No choking sobs, no wailing. Just quiet, exhausted tears that wouldn’t stop coming. I didn’t even know what part of me was breaking anymore. I just let it break.
Then I thought—because so many things had happened, I needed to put some kind of order in my mind.
First and foremost: this wasn’t the end.
Umbridge was still at Hogwarts. Still free to roam, like none of it had happened. Even if I was excused from her class, she was still far too close for comfort.
They’d said until Friday at the latest.
Tomorrow.
Then I would know.
I told myself not to dwell on the possibility that they’d dismiss the case. There was no chance of it. I had the scar. I had the memory. Snape and Pomfrey had my back. But still—
My brain whispered, what if?
I wiped at my face, but then another kind of tears came.
The dread I’d felt sitting in the same room as Lucius Malfoy was finally draining away. It was over. He was gone. I was safe.
But I couldn’t stop remembering. Every word he said. Every calculated glance. That stupid silver-topped cane like a bloody signature.
I felt sick just thinking about the way he’d looked at my hand. The way he studied it, like it was something… interesting.
I hated that I’d trembled in front of him.
My hand went to my neck, thumb tracing the skin where the old scar sat like a curse.
I felt filthy. Shaken. Ashamed.
Ashamed that I reacted to that bastard at all.
I stood up, stripped off my clothes, and went to the bathroom. I needed a shower.
As hot as I could bear.
And then some.
The water scalded my shoulders, turned my skin pink, maybe even raw—but I didn’t care. I stayed there a long time, thinking and crying in relief.
By the time I got out, I felt better.
Not good. Not healed. But better.
Empty, like a clean slate. But in a good way.
I pulled on my pyjamas and climbed under the covers.
And for the first time in days, I didn’t dream of lace or quills or blood.
Just silence.
Just sleep.
By dinner, the rumours had already started. Of course, they had. Two professors gone on the same day with no explanation? That was more than enough fuel.
Some said Snape and Umbridge had eloped— eloped —which made me physically cringe into my pumpkin juice. Others claimed they’d both been arrested, which, to be fair, was a bit close to the truth in Umbridge’s case.
But now they were both there at the head table—Snape in his usual black scowl, Umbridge looking like she’d swallowed a whole lemon—so the theories fizzled out. At least the dramatic ones.
I didn’t say anything when I heard the whispers circling down the table. Let them guess.
Blaise gave me a sideways glance, that special tone in his voice as he asked,
“Feeling all better from your mysterious illness, Weasley? The one that made you miss every single class?”
I gave him the flattest look I could manage and coughed into my fist—fakely, dramatically.
He snorted, probably thinking I’d skipped just to skive off school. Fine by me. Let him think I’d been off flying brooms with the Bloody Baron for all I cared.
Harry, sitting next to me, was buzzing like a jar full of bees. His knee bounced, his fork scraped too fast against his plate, his eyes kept flicking to me, waiting. Wanting answers.
But he didn’t ask. Not in public.
Smart little man.
Instead, he started rambling about essays we had due in Herbology and Charms. I hummed along, nodding in the right places, grateful he’d given me something to latch onto.
“I’ll do them tomorrow,” I said eventually. “During DADA.”
Harry blinked at me and then nodded slowly. Yeah. He knew I wasn’t going.
I spooned more potatoes onto my plate, not because I was hungry, but because it gave me something to do. Then, I looked up at the head table from under my fringe. Not obviously. Just a glance.
Umbridge looked awful. Pale, lips pursed tight, jaw clenched like she was grinding her teeth in rhythm with her fork. She was stiff and silent, a stark contrast to the way she usually smiled, her fake smile at everyone as if she owned the place.
Then she turned. Her eyes met mine.
And I looked away immediately, down into my gravy-soaked mash.
My pulse fluttered in my ears. But I didn’t let it show.
“Miss anything in Runes?” I asked Harry, like nothing had happened.
“Not much,” he said, tearing off a chunk of bread.
I risked another look.
She wasn’t watching anymore.
Wasn’t smiling either.
And when I saw that—that she didn’t look smug and superior like she always did—I found something I hadn’t expected.
Satisfaction.
She was rattled.
Good.
Notes:
I think I just made Lucius and Umbridge soulmates.
Chapter 63: BOOK FIVE - VERDICT AND CONSEQUENCES
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
VERDICT AND CONSEQUENCES
The next day, I went to Potions like everything was fine. I walked, I sat, I answered when spoken to. I stirred my cauldron and kept my notes neat, and waited with all the grace I was capable of. But every time the door creaked, or a shadow passed the frosted glass of the dungeon hallway, my heart jolted up into my throat. Any minute now, an owl could come. Bearing news. Good or bad.
But nothing came. Not during instructions, not during the brew, not even when we cleaned up.
Snape dismissed the class with his usual sharp, final tone. Chairs scraped back, feet shuffled, and voices murmured as people filtered out.
But then his voice cut through the noise again.
“Mr. Weasley. Remain.”
I froze for half a second, then packed my things slower than necessary, letting the others go ahead. Harry shot me a quick look, brows drawn in worry. I gave him a tight nod that was meant to be reassuring.
When the last student left and the door shut behind them, I turned back toward the front of the classroom. Snape hadn’t moved from his desk.
He folded his hands in front of him.
“No owl has arrived yet. You are aware there is a possibility that the verdict won’t be reached until tomorrow.”
I nodded once.
“Yes.”
“You are not to attend Defence class today.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.” He tapped one finger on the desk once, as if that settled something in his mind. “I am resuming your individual tutoring. You’ll report to my office this evening at seven.”
I blinked.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.” His tone gave no room for debate. “You will come prepared for both theoretical and practical work. We will resume where we left off.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
“Even if… Even if the decision comes in?”
“Especially if it does.” He looked at me properly then, his gaze cool but steady. “Whether the outcome is what we expect or not, you will have somewhere to be. You will not be left to stew in silence.”
Something tight in my chest unknotted a little at that. The timing wasn’t just about tutoring. It was about focus. About grounding.
“Alright,” I said, quieter than I meant to.
He gave a slight nod.
“You’ve done well this week. I expect you to keep doing so.”
That meant more than I could explain.
“I will,” I said.
“Then I will see you tonight.”
I left the dungeon with my bag slung over one shoulder, feeling oddly steadier. I still didn’t know what the verdict would be. But at least, no matter what, I’d have a place to go.
I didn’t let myself count the hours. Just focused.
I spent the day in the Library. After a quick lunch—where I caught the curious glances of my classmates and the unsubtle way Harry kept side-eyeing me—I buried myself in textbooks and scrolls. I told Harry to wait a little longer, patting him on the head like a pet Kneazle. It made him huff, but he didn’t ask again. I appreciated that.
He left for Defence Against the Dark Arts. I didn’t.
Instead, I stayed tucked in a corner of the Library and copied Hermione’s notes from the day I missed, then dove into the Herbology essay we were assigned. I kept my head down, quill scratching steadily. The work helped. It gave me something to control. Something small, something normal.
It worked, too. I lost track of time. Which is why I blinked in surprise when the Head Girl appeared at my table.
“You’re to report to the Headmaster’s office now,” she said. “He said you’d understand.”
My stomach dropped. I nodded, then packed my things slowly and methodically. There was no reason to rush. I needed the time to brace myself. Whatever the decision was, I would face it.
I made my way through the castle like I was walking through fog. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt real. My shoes made no noise on the stone floor. My hand barely registered the feel of the bannister. When I reached the gargoyle, it stepped aside before I could speak.
I climbed.
The door to the Headmaster’s office stood open. And there they were.
Mum. Dad. Dumbledore. And Snape, standing tall and severe near the window.
When I saw my parents’ faces, I knew.
Mum’s eyes were glassy. Dad looked like something had finally cracked open inside him. Relief. Fury. Love. All of it. Then I looked at Snape—rigid, composed, his expression unreadable—and Dumbledore, who gave me a quiet nod.
Mum crossed the space in three strides and wrapped me in a hug so tight I could hardly breathe. I didn’t stop her. I leaned into it. Dad’s hand found my shoulder next, firm and grounding.
“She’s gone,” Mum whispered. “She’s really gone.”
Dumbledore stepped forward.
“The Board of Governors reached a unanimous decision. Madam Umbridge has been dismissed from Hogwarts, effective immediately. She is currently packing her belongings under supervision. There is no negotiation.”
I blinked.
“That’s it?”
Dumbledore gave a faint nod.
“That is not all. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has opened a formal investigation. She will be charged accordingly. The use of a blood quill on a minor is a criminal offence under both Hogwarts regulations and Wizarding law.”
My jaw was tight, but I managed a slow, measured nod.
“They’re going to use my scar?”
“If you allow it,” Dumbledore said. “With your continued consent. You have the full backing of this institution, and the DMLE’s team will handle the rest.”
I exhaled. The kind of breath you only take when it’s safe. When it’s finally safe.
“You did well, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore added. “More than well. You upheld your integrity under extraordinary pressure. I am deeply proud.”
Snape spoke next, his voice like a blade drawn in the quiet.
“Justice delayed, but not denied. You did well.”
I couldn’t help it. I smiled. I hadn’t smiled like that in days. It felt unfamiliar on my face—but good.
I turned toward all of them, still reeling with relief.
“I can’t believe it was that easy.”
Their expressions shifted instantly.
Mum touched my arm gently.
“Ronnie,” she said softly. “It wasn’t easy.”
Dad’s lips pressed into a line. Even Snape looked at me with a kind of restrained severity.
“You suffered,” Mum continued. “You were brave. You were hurt. That’s not easy.”
“But she’s gone,” I said. “And she hadn’t got the time to target Harry, or anyone else. That’s what matters.”
I sat down in the armchair behind me, finally letting my shoulders sag.
“But… will the Ministry send another disaster to replace her?” I asked after a moment. “Another Ministry ‘educator’ to keep an eye on us? And what about the High Inquisitor rubbish? Is that still a thing?”
Dumbledore steepled his fingers.
“I suspect,” he said slowly, “that the Ministry will be reluctant to act so quickly, given the… public embarrassment this situation has caused them.”
Dad made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a bitter laugh.
Dumbledore gave the smallest of smiles.
“As for the title of High Inquisitor, I am told that Madam Umbridge was its sole holder. No successor has been named, and unless a new Educational Decree is passed, the title holds no further weight.”
“So… no more spot checks? No more clipboard patrols?” I asked, cautious.
“No more,” Dumbledore confirmed.
I leaned back. Let out a sigh.
“Good,” I muttered. “Because if someone shows up with another bloody clipboard, I’ll throw it in the lake.”
Snape didn’t comment, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Mum touched my shoulder again, warm and gentle.
“You can rest now, Ron. You’re safe.”
And for the first time in too long, I believed it.
Saturday morning, the Room of Requirement shifted into a cosy sort of den, all scattered cushions and warm sunlight pouring through windows that didn’t exist. The training dummies were gone, replaced by a large low table in the middle. I was the last one to arrive, a small bag of sunflower seeds in my pocket, crackling with every step.
They were already waiting—Hermione, Harry, Luna, Ginny, and the twins—all seated in a loose circle. They looked up when I came in, like they’d been holding their breath without realising it.
I sat cross-legged on the cushion in front of them, set the bag of seeds between my knees, and took one out to pop in my mouth.
Fred raised an eyebrow.
“We thought you’d decided to vanish for good.”
“Got caught in the sunflower black market,” I said dryly, cracking another seed between my teeth. “Dangerous stuff. Better than Blood Quills, though.”
That got everyone’s attention. Only Harry and Hermione knew about that part. If they held their tongues like Snape asked. Seemed to be the case, as the others seemed nonplussed by the mention of Blood Quills.
“So, the Board of Governors fired Umbridge,” I said, cracking another seed.
They all blinked. George nearly choked on air.
“What?”
“Gone,” I confirmed. “Fired. She’s packing her horrid little doilies as we speak.”
“Why? ” Ginny asked. “How? She’s practically fused with the Ministry.”
I smiled—grim but honest.
“Turns out, using a blood quill on a minor isn’t just twisted—it’s illegal. The board of governors saw my hand. And the memory.”
“She used a Blood Quill on you?” Ginny whispered. “How many times?”
“For eleven nights,” I said.
They all reacted at once.
“Eleven?” George echoed, voice gone flat.
“You didn’t tell us?” Ginny asked, her voice pitched high with disbelief.
“Ron—” Fred started, but I cut him off with a dry chuckle.
“I was following the rules,” I said, bitterness bleeding through my words like ink through thin parchment.
I huffed a humourless laugh and shook my head.
There was a pause. I tossed another seed into my mouth and chewed on it.
Harry leaned forward, brows drawn.
“Why did it take so long for Snape to do something? I mean… he’s Snape. He wouldn’t just let that happen.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “Snape tried to stop it. Twice. Got me out after the third night to see Pomfrey. Tried to get me excused. Umbridge made it worse because of that. Added another week. Then made a decree so no one could interfere again.”
“She retaliated,” Hermione whispered, horrified. “That’s… that’s abuse of power.”
“Tell that to her,” I said, “though I reckon she knows.”
There was another stretch of silence, heavy with something raw and unfinished.
Fred leaned forward, his voice low and rough.
“Can we see it?”
I hesitated. My fingers twitched in my lap.
“Ron,” Ginny said gently. “Please.”
My flippant shell cracked just a little. My hand moved on its own, slow and unsure. I held it out, palm down, the red, stubborn scar catching the morning light from the enchanted window.
I didn’t look at them. I looked at the table, or maybe through it.
“How long will it take to heal?” Ginny asked in a shaky voice.
I paused. Then said,
“Pomfrey says it won’t ever fade.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“She made you carve that into yourself,” Hermione whispered. “I must follow the rules…”
Fred was staring like he’d never seen me before. George looked like he wanted to break something.
I pulled my hand back into my lap, out of sight.
Fred finally spoke, his voice quiet.
“If you’d told us…”
“What would you have done?” I asked, not unkindly. “You’d have tried to help. And she’d have made it worse. That’s how it worked. She didn’t want me gone. She wanted to break me. But it didn’t work.”
Harry’s voice was low.
“But it hurt you.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “But maybe… I mean, I think maybe it happened for a reason.”
That got me a few strange looks.
“What reason?” Harry asked, jaw tight.
“To stop her. Before she could get to you. We all know she would’ve gone after you next. But now she can’t. So in the end, it was worth it. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” Hermione said fiercely. “It wasn’t fine for a second of it.”
“Ron,” Harry said, sounding pained, “you shouldn’t have had to go through any of it. No one should.”
“Sure,” I said. “But someone did. And I can live with it being me.”
Harry looked like he was going to argue. Then he didn’t. He just looked down and nodded once, tight.
A silence settled again.
“So what happens now?” Fred asked.
“She’s gone. Officially,” I said. “And there’ll be charges. Dumbledore said the DMLE is opening a file. I’ll have to give a statement.”
“Will you be alright?” Luna asked.
“I will,” I said. “Eventually. Now we wait to see what fresh atrocity the Ministry sends next. Can’t wait.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll send Moody,” George said.
“Not likely,” Hermione said, frowning. “The Ministry wouldn’t appoint someone so openly loyal to Dumbledore.”
“They want control,” Luna agreed. “Not competence.”
“Then we’re doomed,” Ginny muttered. “Best-case scenario, they send someone halfway sane who lets us cast spells.”
“I’m not holding my breath,” Hermione said. “But either way, we keep this going. Saturday training stays on.”
“Agreed,” said Harry firmly. “We’ve got momentum. We’re not stopping just because the pink devil’s gone.”
“Unless her replacement also thinks detentions should be handwritten in flesh,” muttered Fred darkly.
“No one’s topping her,” I said. “It’s got to go uphill from here. Has to.”
The silence that followed wasn’t exactly hopeful, but it was resolute.
I truly believed what I said. No one could be worse than Umbridge.
On Monday morning, the announcement was made during breakfast. The moment Dumbledore rose at the staff table, silence fell—not the usual sort, but a heavy, charged quiet. The entire Great Hall held its breath. He didn’t even raise his voice.
“Professor Umbridge will not be returning to Hogwarts.”
That was it.
And that was enough.
The first cheer came from the Gryffindor table, then Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw followed with delighted clapping. Even some Slytherins let out poorly hidden sounds of relief. The noise grew into a chorus of joyful chaos—whooping, banging on tables, a spoon thrown in the air. The air buzzed with giddy disbelief.
All day, the rumours flew like enchanted fireworks: some said she’d been devoured by her kittens; others, that she’d been imprisoned in Azkaban for torturing a student. One said she’d been transfigured into a doily and flushed down a prefect’s toilet. I almost hoped that one was true.
No one knew what actually happened. No one asked me directly. I suppose my silent detachment in the days prior had made enough of an impression to keep the curious at bay.
A week later, on another Monday, the new Defence professor was announced. Or, rather, the recycled one.
“Professor Dawlish has kindly accepted the role of Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor once again,” Dumbledore said.
The response was… tepid. A smattering of claps. Some students exchanged uneasy glances. People remembered Dawlish from two years ago. He hadn’t been the worst. A bit rigid, a bit self-important, but he had taught us actual spells.
This time? Not so much.
By mid-week, it became clear he was parroting Umbridge’s syllabus, almost word for word. Purely theoretical. Not a wand lifted. The class atmosphere soured. Some started murmuring that Umbridge wasn’t a one-off fluke but part of something bigger. Why would the Ministry send someone who used to teach practical magic and make him go soft? Why muzzle him? Theories spread. Some said Fudge was afraid that students would learn how to defend themselves. Others whispered about war. About coverups.
A couple of days after the murmurs reached their peak, The Daily Prophet dropped the other boot.
It wasn’t subtle. The headline read: “Illicit Discipline at Hogwarts: Blood Quill Confirmed.” The article didn’t name me, but it didn’t have to. The student was “a fifth-year Hogwarts prefect.” It said the punishment had lasted eleven days. That the scar was permanent. That both the school nurse and a professor had confirmed the injury, and that a memory had been submitted to the Board of Governors.
My name wasn’t in ink, but the story might as well have screamed it.
And, as if perfectly choreographed, a Ministry decree was repealed later that same morning. Decree Number Twenty-Seven: “Teachers may not interfere with Ministry detentions.”
Gone. Cancelled without fanfare. Just a short bulletin in the Prophet’s legal section: “Decree rescinded due to public concern over student welfare.”
The castle buzzed all day with chatter and newspaper pages rustling like restless wings. People weren’t stupid. They put two and two together.
By lunch, I’d caught more than one person looking at my hand.
I didn’t cover it. I didn’t explain.
But I waited. Because I knew it was coming.
If the press had the story, then it was only a matter of time before the name behind it leaked, too.
I just didn’t know when.
Five days. That’s how long it took before the world knew it was me.
Harry and I walked into the Great Hall together, the smell of toast and eggs thick in the air. My eyes felt gritty with sleep, but at least I hadn’t dreamed of quills or lace or canes.
We slid into our usual spots at the Slytherin table. I reached for tea just as Theo leaned sideways and nudged the Daily Prophet across the table toward me.
“Page one,” he said, too casually.
Harry glanced at me. Blaise looked amused. That was never a good sign.
Then I saw the headline.
“Ministry Torture Victim Identified: Prefect Targeted in Coverup?”
Beneath it, a blown-up picture of my hand. Just my hand. Pale, freckled, unmistakably mine. The skin stretched taut where the scar carved across it in livid red: I must follow the rules.
The photo was close, clinical. No context. Just flesh and words. It looked like something out of a crime file. Which it was, as I highly suspected that this was the picture used in the case, both the DMLE and the Board of Governors.
I stared at it for a second too long before swallowing hard and starting to read the attached article.
My stomach dropped.
They connected everything.
My detentions with Umbridge. The Hogsmeade attack. Dumbledore’s claim that Voldemort had returned. And now, the Prophet was stitching it into one big, messy conspiracy. According to the article, I was “a victim of political silencing,” “a symbol of ministry excess,” and my name had become synonymous with resistance.
Resistance, my arse. I did nothing and let my knight in shining armour do the heavy lifting.
I groaned and sat down heavily at the table, dragging my hands down my face.
Harry placed a hand on my shoulder, warm and steady. I didn’t look at him. I just muttered,
“Brilliant. Just what I wanted. Fame.”
Blaise, never one to miss an opportunity, raised an eyebrow.
“You do realise it’s getting dangerous to be you, right?” He took a leisurely bite of toast. “What a life you lead.”
I didn’t even try to answer with a joke. Just looked at him flatly and said,
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He glanced deliberately toward my left hand.
I sighed again, louder this time, and dropped my forehead to the table.
“What a fucking day already.”
The paper rustled beside me as Harry folded it shut.
“We’ll deal with it.”
“I know,” I mumbled.
And I did. But knowing didn’t make the spotlight any easier to bear.
Harry leaned over the paper, eyes scanning.
“Well… at least they’re not printing lies this time,” he muttered. “They’re spot-on about what happened. Even the Hogsmeade connection.”
Across the table, both Blaise and Theo suddenly sat up straighter.
“You mean…” Blaise’s brow furrowed, eyes darting to the article. “You mean their conspiracy theory is true?”
Harry and I exchanged a slow, unimpressed glance. Then we turned to Blaise and Theo, both sporting matching expressions of deadpan disbelief.
“You were there,” I said flatly. “The whole time.”
Harry added,
“You saw what happened to us. What did you think it was?”
Theo didn’t answer. He looked suddenly very interested in his pumpkin juice.
I stared at him.
“Wait, you—” I blinked, trying to find the words. “You didn’t— you didn’t figure out that the two were linked?”
Theo gave a small, twitchy shrug, like his shoulders couldn’t decide if they wanted to rise or disappear. He still couldn’t meet my eyes. That made it worse.
I turned to Blaise.
“What did you think was happening, then?”
Blaise pursed his lips.
“I thought you were just… covering something up. You two and Dumbledore. You all acted like you’d been hit by a freight train, but no one was talking. And then you—” he gestured vaguely toward me, “—had that bloody breakdown last term. I figured, I don’t know, maybe something bad happened, but not You-Know-Who-returned-and-kidnapped-you bad.”
Theo finally spoke quietly.
“I knew something awful happened in Hogsmeade. But I didn’t think—”
He hesitated, then looked up at me, guilt flickering across his face.
“I didn’t think the Ministry was trying to silence you. I thought maybe… You and Harry were staying quiet for your own reasons. Perhaps because it was too much, or too dangerous to discuss. I didn’t think they were trying to threaten you into shutting up.”
That stunned me into silence for a beat. I popped another sunflower seed into my mouth just to buy time.
Harry let out a small snort beside me.
“No offence, mate,” he said, “but if the government tortures one of your classmates and your first thought isn’t oh wow, maybe this has to do with the terrifying thing we’re all refusing to talk about, then you need to start connecting dots better.”
Theo didn’t argue. He just nodded, shoulders folding inward.
“Well,” I said dryly, cracking the shell between my teeth, “congrats, you’re finally caught up with the Prophet now.”
Easter break came, and things didn’t exactly return to normal—but they tried.
We stayed at Hogwarts. A lot of people did. Maybe they didn’t want to go home to worried families, or maybe the castle just felt safer now that she was gone. Safer, or lighter. Like someone had finally cracked open a window.
Some students stopped me in the corridors just to say thanks. A few clapped me on the back like I’d wrestled a troll into submission. One third-year Hufflepuff shoved a folded note into my hand that just said, “Thank you for getting rid of her.” No signature. I kept it anyway.
Others weren’t so friendly.
Pansy Parkinson passed me in the common room and gave me a smile so sweet it could’ve rotted teeth.
“Careful,” she said in a singsong voice, “or he’ll cry to the Prophet again.”
I didn’t bother replying. Just cracked another sunflower seed between my teeth and gave her the look Mum calls my “don’t push it” face.
The younger students were worse in their own way—less cruel, more curious.
“Is it true it says I must follow the rules ?” one second-year whispered, eyes round as Galleons.
“You all saw it in the paper,” I said. “Why ask?”
Some asked if they could see the scar in person. I always said no.
The letters came next.
Some were from magazines and reporters, asking for interviews “to tell my story.” I threw those out without reading more than a couple of lines.
Some were warm, handwritten notes in crooked cursive from people I’d never met—mothers, grandfathers, anonymous students. I kept a few of those. Didn’t answer them, just tucked them into my trunk like quiet proof that not everyone was horrible.
Others were less kind. One accused me of “bringing shame to Hogwarts.” Another said I’d “betrayed the Ministry’s trust.” One was written entirely in cut-out printed letters, like I was in some kind of mystery novel. That one I found sort of funny. I showed it to Harry, who said I should burn it, and to Luna, who said it had nice visual balance.
Then came the Howlers.
The first one screamed about “slandering public officials” and how my father should be ashamed. The second called me an “attention-starved brat” and screeched so loudly it popped a teacup in the Great Hall.
After that, McGonagall and Flitwick had a word with the owl office. No more letters unless they were from family. I didn’t mind. I had enough noise in my head already.
From my family, I got a letter from Bill that just said: “You were brave. We’re all proud. Don’t let them grind you down.”
And one from Percy—formal but sincere—apologising for “not seeing things clearly sooner.” I reread that one twice.
And gradually, peace began to creep back into my days. Slowly. Gently.
We made jokes again.
“Well,” I said to Harry once while inspecting the back of my hand, “at least now I’m the most hardcore prefect at school. Branded to follow the rules.”
Harry huffed a reluctant laugh.
Hermione didn’t find it funny. At all.
Luna told me to eat more sunflower seeds.
So I did. Just in case she was right.
The last weekend of Easter break, the three of us spread out across one of the long tables in the Library and sifted through pamphlets about wizarding careers. It was required over the holidays, and the Heads of House had given us an armload of options to “seriously consider.”
We skimmed through leaflets about everything—Healers, Aurors, teachers, Ministry clerks, Curse-Breakers, Troll trainers (Hermione made a face at that), Wandmakers, Muggle Relations, even Gringotts bankers and people who worked in international diplomacy.
“I can’t believe people choose to work with trolls,” I muttered, flipping the page.
Hermione was already knee-deep in the Healer tract, scribbling notes.
“I think I’d rather work with dragons than trolls,” Harry said.
“Dragons don’t sulk in corners and eat their toenails,” I agreed.
We discussed it all, tossing ideas around as if it weren’t terrifying to think about the future.
Hermione wished there were a career that allowed her to research everything.
Harry said he didn’t care what he did, as long as it wasn’t in the Ministry.
I said I wasn’t sure yet—maybe something with creatures, or something practical, useful. Something where I could help.
We didn’t come to any conclusions. Just shared quiet thoughts and half-formed dreams while the sun dipped behind the windows.
It was the closest we’d felt to normal in weeks. Maybe months.
Chapter 64: BOOK FIVE - DUMBLEDORE'S VOW
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY
DUMBLEDORE’S VOW
Breakfast had been good, for once. My eggs were warm, the tea not too bitter, and I wasn’t being stared at like I was about to burst into flames. It was almost… peaceful. I popped a sunflower seed into my mouth and crunched it, watching the owls swoop overhead.
Then Theo ruined everything.
“What’s wrong with Dumbledore’s hand?” he asked, casual, like it was a throwaway thought.
The words hit me like a Bludger to the chest.
What?
I think I stopped breathing. I didn’t even turn.
Around me, others chimed in.
“I noticed that too,” said Blaise. “All black and… shrivelled. Like it’s been cursed.”
“Reckon it’s just old man skin,” Harry muttered.
Their voices came from far away, like I was underwater. I sat, statue-still, hands clenched in my lap, heart pounding in my throat. Then, I turned. Slowly. Dreading what I’d see.
There it was. The hand. Black. Burned. Cracked like charcoal. His flesh dead all the way up to the wrist.
I didn’t breathe.
Harry nudged me.
“Oi. Stop staring, you’re being rude.”
I looked away.
My eyes landed on my plate. Half-full. I didn’t see it. Just white noise behind my eyes.
I knew that hand. I remembered that hand from later. From after. That wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Not now. Not now.
Dumbledore had found the ring.
He’d found the Horcrux.
And it had nearly killed him.
And now—
Now he was dying.
Too soon.
Way too soon.
I could’ve stopped it.
I could’ve stopped it.
The locket burned hot in my mind, and my chest went tight.
I had it. Since Christmas. It was April. Four months.
Four months I’d had it, shoved in the bottom of my trunk like a forgotten sock. For four months, I’d chosen not to act. Not to speak. Not to trust. Too afraid. Too fucking lazy.
I’d told myself I deserved rest. That I was just a kid again. That I couldn’t change fate.
But I could. I had the map.
I had the map and I didn’t warn the others that the bridge was out.
I killed him.
Dumbledore was dying, and it was my fault. My fault for not coming forward. For not risking it. For being comfortable. For being a coward.
Not just a coward.
A Slytherin coward.
The kind people write books about when they say we’re all ambition and no spine. The kind people whisper about when they think no one’s listening—“Well, he is in Slytherin, after all.”
The kind who survives by letting others die.
I was disgusted with myself.
“Ron?” Harry asked quietly. “Are you alright?”
I nodded once, then stood. My chair scraped loudly across the floor. I left the Great Hall without a word, without a glance back.
The corridors were cool. Empty.
I walked fast.
Down to the dungeons.
To my trunk.
To the locket.
No more waiting.
No more excuses.
No more hiding.
I stormed down to the dungeons. My steps echoed like thunder in the cold corridors, but I didn’t care. I threw open the door to the fifth-year dormitory, went straight to my trunk, and dug until my fingers closed around the heavy, cold locket buried beneath layers of clothes and old notes.
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. I shoved it into my pocket and ran.
I ran through the castle like a curse was nipping at my heels, nearly knocking over a second-year and ignoring his startled yelp. Every breath burned, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I had waited too long already.
I reached the gargoyle and nearly shouted the password in its face.
“Liquorice wand!”
It leapt aside. I took the stairs two at a time, chest heaving, sweat sticking my shirt to my back. I knocked on the door to the Headmaster’s office. Once. Twice.
No answer.
My heartbeat was like thunder in my ears. I pounded harder.
“Professor! It’s Ron Weasley—please—open the door!”
Nothing.
The silence felt like a mockery. Like a punishment.
I waited. I paced. The locket in my pocket burned against my leg. How long did I stand there? A minute? Ten?
Then footsteps. I turned, half in hope, and froze.
It wasn’t Dumbledore.
“Mr. Weasley?”
Professor McGonagall raised a sharp brow as she climbed the stairs. Her eyes moved from me to the office door, then back.
“What on earth are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?”
She looked ready to scold, ready to take points.
“I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore. It’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” Her lips thinned. “What sort of urgent? What’s happened?”
“I—” I hesitated. My throat was dry, but it wasn’t just that. I couldn’t tell her. Not her. “I can’t tell you. I need him. Only him.”
“Mr. Weasley, if this is some sort of—”
“It’s not.” My voice came out harsh. “It’s not a prank or an excuse. I swear. It’s serious, and I can’t explain. Please.”
Her face searched mine. For once, she didn’t look like she saw a troublemaker or a teenager. Just a boy on fire with something too big to say.
She took a breath, her voice lower.
“He’s not in his office.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. He left directly after breakfast. He didn’t say when he’d return.”
I stared at the office door like I could will it to open.
“Please, can you tell him I need to see him? Immediately?”
She studied me again, then nodded slowly.
“I will. Go back to class, Mr. Weasley. And… calm yourself, if you can.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because calm wasn’t on the table anymore. Not now.
By the third day, I was losing my mind.
Every class ended the same way—with me packing too quickly, hurrying to the front, asking a different professor the same question: “Is Dumbledore back yet?”
The answers didn’t change, though the expressions did. Sprout had blinked at me like I’d asked her to recite the goblin rebellion in song. Babbling looked outright confused. Flitwick had been kind about it, concerned even. He’d offered his help twice now, which I appreciated but didn’t need. What I needed was Dumbledore. And he was still nowhere.
Even Professor Sinistra had given me a strange look when I asked after Astronomy. She told me crisply to go to my Head of House with any pressing issues. It was good advice, except for the fact that my Head of House wasn’t the person I needed either.
Still, I had to try.
I walked into Potions determined. If I didn’t get a word in now, I’d go mad. I didn’t care if anyone saw me asking. I was ready to beg if I had to.
But I didn’t get the chance.
As soon as the bell rang and students leapt up to pack their cauldrons and parchments, Snape’s voice sliced through the clatter.
“Weasley. Stay.”
The scraping of chairs didn’t stop, but it changed—sharper now, as people turned to glance. A few Slytherins raised eyebrows. Even Malfoy paused by the door. I ignored them all.
I stayed rooted to the floor, gripping the edge of my desk until the last student was gone. Then I made my way to Snape’s desk, words already spilling from my mouth.
“Professor, I—”
He raised a hand, silencing me instantly.
“I’ve had three separate colleagues ask me—subtly or otherwise—what is happening with you again,” he said, folding his arms. “Apparently, you’ve been asking after the Headmaster after nearly every lesson this week. Would you care to explain?”
I opened my mouth. Shut it again. Then tried.
“I need to talk to Dumbledore,” I said. “As soon as I can. It’s important.”
Snape gave me the kind of long, flat stare that could flatten mountains.
“Everything is important to a fifteen-year-old,” he said coolly, “but if this is a matter of urgency, I am your Head of House. I am your first point of contact. The Headmaster cannot spare time for every student’s anxieties.”
“This isn’t about anxiety.”
“Then explain what it is about.”
“I can’t.”
Snape’s mouth thinned.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.”
That earned me a sharper look. He leaned forward slightly.
“Weasley, we have worked for years to establish a degree of trust—personal as well as professional. You’ve always come to me when it mattered. If something is wrong—”
“It’s not wrong,” I said quickly. “Not like that. It’s not about danger. It’s not about school. It’s… complicated.”
“I see,” he said, and I hated how cold his voice went. “So this sudden obsession with the Headmaster’s whereabouts is unrelated to your safety, or anyone else’s?”
“No. I mean—yes. It’s not that. But it’s serious.”
“Then I ask again—why not tell me?”
I looked down. I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Because it’s not just about me trusting you,” I muttered. “It’s about… him. Dumbledore. There’s something I need to tell him directly. Something only he can hear. And I’m not sure I’m even allowed to tell anyone else.”
Snape didn’t speak. The air hung heavy.
“He trusts me with his life,” Snape said at last, softly.
“I know.”
That brought my eyes up. Not quite to his, but close—to the space between his brows. I always aimed there when I couldn’t stand the pressure of his actual stare.
“I know he trusts you,” I said. “But this… this isn’t about his life.”
“What, then?” Snape asked, voice quieter, more dangerous.
I licked my lips.
“It’s about something more important than that.”
Silence again. He didn’t blink. Neither did I.
Then Snape leaned back, ever so slightly, as if trying to reevaluate something that had just shifted.
“I see,” he said again. But this time it didn’t sound like dismissal. It sounded like a puzzle piece sliding into place—one that didn’t quite show the whole picture, but enough to give him pause.
He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small square of parchment. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a quill and scratched something down in his tight, angular handwriting.
“I will send word to the Headmaster,” he said finally. “When he returns, he will know you must speak with him privately. I trust he will make time for it. Until then—keep your composure.”
I nodded quickly.
“I will try my best.”
He held my eyes a second longer than usual. Something in his expression was close to… worried. Or suspicious. Or both.
Then he gave a sharp nod.
“Dismissed.”
I turned and left the room, my steps quiet but my heart thundering.
It still wasn’t over. But the silence? The silence had cracked. And I wasn’t going to let it grow back.
The Room of Requirement had shaped itself into a quiet, low-lit duelling hall for our tutoring session, its walls shadowed and soundproofed, the ceiling impossibly high and lost in dark rafters. The silence was almost meditative—if it weren’t for the low, electric hum under my skin.
I felt different. Unsettled. Not from nerves. More like everything inside me was shifting too fast, like I was moulting some old shell and didn’t know what would be underneath.
I stepped onto the mats like I always did, drawing my wand with a practised ease. Snape didn’t speak for a few seconds. Just watched me. His arms folded, his posture rigid but not hostile. Analytical. Still, there was something in the way he tilted his head, in the flicker of his gaze that didn’t sit right. It wasn’t what he said. It was what he didn’t.
We ran drills. I got through them. Not as focused as I usually was, but not sloppy either. Snape corrected me once or twice, but without the usual bite. There was no sting in his voice tonight. No sigh of disappointment. No sharp jab of sarcasm to sharpen my reflexes.
That, more than anything, made me anxious.
When the last counter-curse landed solid and Snape raised a hand to call it off, I lowered my wand and stared at the floor. I could feel it, now that the spellwork had stopped. The pressure. The silence stretching a little too long.
He crossed his arms again.
“I haven’t received word from the Headmaster yet,” he said at last.
I glanced up. His tone was neutral. Informative. Too informative.
“Right,” I said. My mouth was dry.
He paused, studied me again.
“I want to remind you,” he continued, voice quieter now, “that if your sense of urgency becomes too great to bear in silence, I am available. I always will be. Should you change your mind.”
There it was. The test. The offer. No demand, no pressure—but the weight of his words anchored the air between us.
I looked at him properly then. Really looked. Not between his brows. Right into his eyes, even if only for a few seconds. My throat ached.
“I trust you,” I said.
His brow twitched faintly, like he hadn’t expected that.
“I trust you with my life,” I repeated. “But not just that. I trust you with the lives of the people I love. That’s not… nothing. You have to know that.”
The words clanged out of me heavier than expected. I looked down, palms damp.
“But what I know—what I need to talk to Dumbledore about—there are people in the world even better at Legilimency than you are at Occlumency. And you’re the best I’ve ever met.” I swallowed hard. “But I can’t risk it. Not even with you.”
There was a long, still silence. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.
Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was very quiet.
“I see.”
I chanced a look. He didn’t look offended. His face was unreadable, but not closed off. He studied me like I was something valuable and volatile, like he understood more than he let on.
“I do not take your trust lightly, Mr. Weasley,” he said. “And I will not question your judgment. But do not wait too long. Time is not a luxury we often afford.”
He nodded once, formally. Dismissal, but not dismissal.
“Same time next week,” he said.
I nodded.
And then I left, the locket heavier in my pocket than it had ever been.
It was Sunday afternoon, and the Library was quieter than usual. I sat at a window table with Hermione and Luna, half-heartedly trying to focus on some Charms revision. Hermione was scribbling furiously in her notes, and Luna had a Quibbler article open in front of her but hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. I wasn’t much better—my textbook had stayed on the same page for twenty.
Then, footsteps. I looked up as a Slytherin prefect approached our table, an older student I vaguely knew by name.
“Weasley,” he said. “You’re to go to the Headmaster’s office. Now.”
My stomach twisted. My heart was suddenly hammering in my throat.
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
I shot to my feet so fast my chair scraped backwards. I scooped my things together in a messy armful, stuffing parchment and books into my bag without any of my usual care.
“Sorry—got to go,” I mumbled, barely glancing at Luna or Hermione.
They didn’t stop me. Hermione’s eyes were wide with concern, and Luna simply nodded, like she knew exactly what this was.
I bolted from the Library, my bag bouncing against my hip. I sprinted through the halls like Dumbledore might vanish again if I didn’t get there fast enough. I couldn’t risk it. I wouldn’t let him disappear again—not now, not with this hanging over everything.
The gargoyle leapt aside as I approached, without even asking for a password. I took the spiral stairs two at a time.
At the top, I stopped, only briefly, just long enough to draw in a breath. My hand trembled as I knocked.
“Enter,” came Dumbledore’s voice.
It was like a balm, a wave of relief so sharp it hurt—but it only lasted a second. Because I remembered what I was about to do. What I was about to say. The risks I was about to take.
I stepped inside.
Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, writing something on an official-looking scroll with deliberate strokes of his quill. He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his eyes found mine instantly.
“Mr. Weasley,” he said, setting the quill down. “Please—come in. Sit.”
I closed the door behind me and crossed the room. My legs felt too long and too heavy. I sat down in the chair across from him and clutched the strap of my bag.
“I… I need to talk to you,” I said.
Dumbledore nodded, folding his hands together, and his face turned serious in that quiet, powerful way he had when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, only listen.
“I’m listening.”
I took a deep, steadying breath.
“I need something first,” I said, my voice coming out tighter than I wanted. “Before I say anything.”
Dumbledore inclined his head calmly.
“Go on.”
“I need your word. A vow. Magical. That you won’t repeat anything I tell you. Not to anyone. Not my parents. Not my friends. Not even to Snape. Unless I say it’s allowed.”
That got his attention.
He didn’t react with surprise exactly—nothing ever rattled him visibly—but he did go still. His eyes studied me in that way he had, not unkind, but thorough. Like he was measuring me against a scale no one else could see.
“You are asking me to take a magically binding vow of confidentiality,” he said slowly. “Regarding what you are about to reveal?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“And why,” he asked gently, “do you feel this is necessary?”
“Because what I’m going to tell you…” I paused, searching for the right words. “It could ruin everything if it got out. Even if you trust someone. Even if they’re brilliant and loyal and careful. Even if they’re you. If it got out, it could get people killed. Or worse.”
His gaze sharpened—only a fraction—but I saw it.
“And yet you still intend to tell me,” he said.
“I have to,” I whispered. “Because I already waited too long. I think… I think you’re dying. Because I waited. And I won’t let anyone else pay the price for what I didn’t do.”
For a long moment, there was only silence between us, thick with the weight of what I’d just said.
Then, finally, Dumbledore stood.
“Very well, Mr. Weasley,” he said, moving toward a tall cabinet and retrieving a small, ancient-looking box carved with runes. “If a magically binding vow is what it takes for you to speak, I will give it to you. I do not take such promises lightly. Nor do I offer them often.”
He set the box on the desk and opened it. Inside was a thin silver chain with a glass bead threaded onto it, pulsing faintly with dull light.
“This is a Vow of Silence charm,” he explained. “It binds me not to share the contents of this conversation—unless you, the vow-holder, permit it.”
He extended the chain to me. I reached out and took the other end. The bead flared softly.
“State the terms,” Dumbledore said.
I swallowed hard.
“You will not speak, write, hint, or otherwise reveal what I tell you today to anyone. Not unless I say you can.”
The bead glowed brighter.
“I swear it,” Dumbledore said.
The light flared between us, then dimmed and turned clear, like still water. The magic sealed.
I sat, still clutching the now-clear bead between my fingers as if it were the only thing anchoring me.
And I finally, finally let myself speak.
“I know things,” I said quietly. “Please… don’t ask me how. Just—please don’t.”
Dumbledore didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded once, indicating I could go on.
“I know why you’re dying,” I said, the words barely getting past my throat. “I know how you got the curse on your hand.”
For the first time, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Not surprise. Not denial. But recognition. Confirmation. And maybe a little sadness.
“The ring,” I continued. “The black stone with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. You found it, didn’t you? You found it and you tried to destroy it—but not before it cursed you.”
The room was silent except for the ticking of the strange silver instrument on his shelf. My pulse was louder than any of it.
“I don’t know how far the curse has spread yet,” I said. “But I know it’s killing you. And you won’t let anyone else know—not really. You’ll keep smiling like everything’s fine until you drop.”
Dumbledore didn’t speak. But he didn’t stop me either.
“The ring is a Horcrux,” I said. “Or—it was, anyway. Like the Diary from my second year. A piece of Voldemort’s soul was hidden in it. You destroyed it, but not before it cursed you. And now…”
My hand clenched on the bead again.
“I should have told you months ago. I had the locket this whole time. Another Horcrux. I didn’t even—at first I wasn’t sure if this was the right locket… But I know now it was the right one. And still… I waited. I waited because I was scared and stupid and I thought we had time, but we didn’t.”
I finally looked up at him.
“You’re dying because I waited. I knew. I knew, and I still waited.”
I took the locket out of my pocket and turned it over in my hand. The metal was cold and heavy in my palm, and I kept my eyes on it because I couldn’t look at Dumbledore. Not yet. Not with everything I was about to say.
“You were right,” I said quietly. “There are others. Not just the Diary. Not just the ring. Not just this.”
I opened my hand a little, showing him the locket before curling my fingers back around it. My thumb rubbed over the edge as I kept talking.
“There’s another one. At Hogwarts. I haven’t checked yet, but I’m almost sure. I just… I thought I could wait. That I had time. Time to figure out a way to give them to you without exposing myself.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Like I had the right to weigh that against everything else.”
I swallowed hard. The guilt made it hard to breathe, but I pushed through it.
“I was scared. I was selfish. I put keeping my secret ahead of the war. Ahead of everyone else’s safety. Ahead of you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
My voice cracked on the last word. I clenched my jaw to stop it from shaking. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes. I just kept tracing the locket, as if I could scrub the shame off with my thumb.
“But I won’t do it again,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Whatever you ask. I won’t hold anything back.”
I fell silent.
There was so much—I didn’t know where to start. What mattered more? That there were more Horcruxes? That one of them was here, somewhere in this castle? That I’d known all along, and kept quiet? I clutched the locket tighter in my hands. The cold metal pressed into my palm, sharp at the edges. In my other hand, the bead was warm and smooth.
I couldn’t speak yet. I didn’t trust my voice.
I stared at the desk. At the curling edge of a parchment Dumbledore had set aside. At the shine of his inkwell. At anything but his eyes.
Say something, I begged silently. Just—say that you believe me. Say that I haven’t ruined everything.
The silence stretched so long it could’ve swallowed me whole. I could hear the distant ticking of his brass instruments, the rustle of the wind through the windows that weren’t open. I was starting to think I’d broken something that couldn’t be fixed.
Then, at last, his voice cut gently through the stillness.
“I believe you.”
I looked up so fast my neck ached.
Dumbledore was watching me with the calm intensity only he seemed capable of—like he saw through me, but not unkindly. Just as if he was reading a map I hadn’t meant to draw.
“I believe you, Mr. Weasley,” he said again, his voice quiet but steady. “And I thank you for the trust you have placed in me.”
My chest loosened a little. Just enough that I could breathe again.
“We’ll take this one step at a time,” he said. “You needn’t worry about giving me everything all at once. Begin with what you feel is most urgent. I am listening.”
I nodded, slowly. He was giving me space to choose where to begin. And there was so much. But if I thought about priorities—if I looked at him, really looked at him—then the answer was obvious.
I glanced at his hand. Blackened. Withered. Like something already dead, clinging to him.
I forced myself to meet his gaze.
“Do you know how to destroy a Horcrux?”
Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t lose their warmth, but a shadow passed through them.
“I have theories,” he said carefully. “None proven. And clearly,”—he lifted his cursed hand a few inches off the armrest—“not always the best ones.”
I pressed my lips together. I wanted to look away, but I didn’t. I owed him more than that.
“They can be destroyed by Fiendfyre,” I said, voice low but steady. “And basilisk venom.”
The air between us changed. I saw it—just a flicker—like the weight of his attention sharpened, like he was suddenly leaning forward without moving an inch.
“I see,” he said. Quiet, measured. “That explains a great deal.”
He didn’t ask how I knew. Didn’t press. He just nodded, like he’d found the missing line in a long equation. And I felt some of my dread peel away, one brittle layer at a time.
There was still more to tell. So much more. But this—this felt like a start.
I glanced down at the locket in my palm, then slowly closed my fingers around it again. My mind raced, flipping through memories, facts, warnings. What was next? What was most urgent, after destroying the ones we already had?
The ones we could still get to.
I looked up at Dumbledore again, still calm and still waiting. Still listening.
I wet my lips.
“Do you… Do you know about the Room of Requirement?”
His brows lifted slightly—just slightly—but I didn’t miss it.
“I do,” he said. “A curious room, one of the castle’s better-kept secrets. Why do you ask?”
I shifted in my seat, the tension creeping back into my spine.
“Because I think—no, I’m almost sure—another Horcrux is in there. The lost diadem of Ravenclaw. It should be hidden in the Room of Hidden Things. I haven’t gone to check yet. I kept making excuses. I told myself I needed a plan. I needed to be sure.”
I looked away, ashamed again.
Dumbledore was silent for a beat longer this time. Not in doubt but in thought.
Then he gave a small nod, his expression unreadable except for a flicker of something heavy behind his eyes.
“We will investigate,” he said. “Soon. And we will take every precaution.”
He looked down briefly at his blackened hand, then back up at me.
Chapter 65: BOOK FIVE - REVELATIONS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
REVELATIONS
There was a question clawing at the edge of my thoughts, but I didn’t know if I deserved to ask it. Not after everything I’d kept from him. Not after letting it go this far. But still—it mattered. It could change what we did next.
I gripped the locket in my palm, then slowly asked,
“Did you… Did you already destroy the Diary?”
Dumbledore’s eyes met mine. Steady. Grave.
“No,” he said simply. “I have not.”
I blinked, surprised despite myself.
“Why not?”
“I have been studying it,” he said. “As carefully as one can, when dealing with such magic. I hoped it might offer clues to the nature of the others—insight into their creation, perhaps. Or a trace of how they might be connected.”
I nodded slowly, the answer settling into place. It made sense. Of course he’d want to understand them. The Diary was our earliest piece. Our first proof. It was only logical to learn everything it could teach us before it was gone for good.
“Right,” I said quietly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled now. Watching me. Not judging. Just assessing. Like he was seeing me more clearly now than before.
“Ron…” he said quietly. “From what you know—how long do we have? When does he begin to act in earnest? When does the war begin?”
I blinked, caught off guard. I’d expected him to ask about the other Horcruxes. But this question—it felt heavier than the others. Like it carried more weight than even the cursed ring sitting on his desk.
I thought for a moment. Really thought. My eyes drifted down to my hands, still curled around the locket, and I tried to remember the timeline I once knew like the back of my mind—but which now felt unsteady, like a floor tilting beneath me.
“Things are shifting,” I said slowly. “Some things are happening… Differently. Earlier. But I think… if Voldemort manages to lure Harry to the Department of Mysteries, and if the prophecy is revealed—one way or another—that’s the moment everything shifts. Whether he wants it or not.”
I stopped there. I hadn’t meant to say that much.
But Dumbledore was no longer still. At the word “prophecy,” something in him had gone razor-sharp. Focused.
“You already knew,” he said. “That night in December. When Harry had his first vision about Bode and Podmore failing to retrieve it… You already knew what they were after.”
I nodded once.
His eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in realisation.
“That is why you asked those questions,” he murmured. “You already had the answers. But you asked them anyway.”
I looked away, my cheeks burning.
“I wanted Harry to have something,” I admitted. “Something to hold onto. Keys. I couldn’t give him everything—I couldn’t even give him anything, really. But I wanted him to know that he was trusted. That he could ask questions and get answers. I wanted him to know Voldemort could send him visions. Real ones. Fake ones. That he couldn’t trust every single one without checking. I just…”
I let out a breath. My voice came quieter.
“I just wanted him to stop and think. To go to someone in the Order. To ask before he did something reckless.”
Dumbledore was silent. Then—
“You were trying to protect him.”
“I still am.”
His face didn’t change, not really. But I could feel it—something behind the blue of his eyes softening, warming.
“You have done more than I could have asked of you,” he said quietly. “And far earlier than I would have dared to hope.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
And that silence—unlike so many others—felt almost… safe.
Dumbledore’s expression shifted, just slightly, but I saw it. A softening, maybe. Or a sorrow. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper.
“Does anyone else know what you know?” he asked, voice low.
I shook my head.
“No. Just you. I never told anyone. Not even Snape.”
I braced myself, knowing what the next logical question would be. I could hear it forming already. How do you know all of this?
But that wasn’t the question he asked.
It was way worse than that.
“Since when, Ron?” he asked gently. “How long have you known?”
The words pierced straight through me.
I blinked hard. My throat closed up.
My eyes burned and overflowed before I could stop them. I pressed the locket and the bead into my palms, trying to breathe around the thick weight in my chest.
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. The shame was a noose.
I stared down at the locket in my lap like it had betrayed me.
But I was the one who had betrayed everyone. By knowing and waiting and hoping it wouldn’t matter.
I looked at the clear bead. A promise that whatever I said would be between him and me.
But still… I was terrified of sharing the shameful truth.
So I cried—quietly, hopelessly—because I had no defence.
When Dumbledore spoke next, his voice was soft. Not the softness of pity, but of understanding.
“That question can wait,” he said.
My breath caught. I still couldn’t look at him. My face burned. My whole chest felt like it had collapsed in on itself.
“You are not alone anymore, Ron,” Dumbledore continued. “That matters, too.”
I nodded once, tightly. I didn’t trust my voice not to shake. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes quickly, furiously, as if I could erase what just happened—what I’d just let him see.
God, I was mortified. In this conversation of all things, I had cried like a stupid, guilty kid.
I sat up straighter. Pulled in a breath that shuddered at the end. Tried to get myself back under control. Dumbledore said nothing more while I fought to collect the broken pieces of my composure.
Finally, I spoke.
“I want to wait,” I said, voice low but steadier. “Just a little longer. For that question. And if… if in some time, you still want to know… I’ll tell you.”
There was a short silence. I finally looked up.
Dumbledore’s expression was just calm, steady, and then he gave a small, solemn nod.
“That is more than fair,” he said. “Thank you for telling me as much as you have, Ron. I know what it costs you.”
The shame didn’t disappear. Not entirely. But the worst of the weight shifted off my chest.
He accepted it. He accepted me.
And I wasn’t alone anymore.
I cleared my throat. My voice was still a little shaky when I spoke,
“What else do you want to know, sir?”
Dumbledore gave me a long, assessing look, like he was weighing every possible question and measuring them against the time we had left.
Then, gently:
“What I want to know next,” he said, “is whether there are more Horcruxes you can name. If there are other objects you suspect, or places you believe he might have hidden them.”
That, at least, I could answer.
All but one.
I sat forward a little, my hands finally still in my lap.
“There are three more,” I said, then corrected myself. “Maybe only two. I don’t know when he made his last one. His snake, Nagini, she could already be a Horcrux.”
Then I thought more about it. I corrected myself again.
“No, she already is. Then there is the Cup. I’m not sure if it has a name, to be honest. It belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. It should be in Bellatrix Lestrange’s Vault at Gringotts. Or it should be sometime in the future. I don’t know exactly when it was put there. Maybe even before the first war ended…”
I stopped rambling.
The ticking of his instruments filled the silence again, the faintest creak of his chair as he leaned forward—barely.
“You’ve named two,” Dumbledore said gently. “What is the third?”
My throat burned. I wasn’t looking at him. I couldn’t.
I was still staring at the grain of the wood on his desk, the scar where an inkwell had burned a shallow ring into it years ago. My fingernails dug into my palm, closed around the bead. He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t.
“You already know, don’t you?” I said, my voice low and tight. “Or you suspect it.”
Another moment passed.
Then, softly, Dumbledore said,
“Yes.”
The word didn’t fall like a weight. It wasn’t heavy. It was worse—it was gentle. A kindness I didn’t want. A confirmation that felt like it scraped something raw open inside me.
I closed my eyes and swallowed. I hadn’t said it. Not the name. Not the full truth. But it was out now. Enough of it.
I finally looked up at him, and his eyes were the same as always. Calm. Penetrating. But not unkind. Never unkind.
I gave the smallest, bitterest smile.
Of course, it had to be Harry.
My poor Harry. My brave Harry.
Dumbledore’s voice was soft again, like he didn’t want to shatter anything already cracked.
“Does Harry know?”
I shook my head before the words even came out.
“No. Just you.”
My throat tightened again.
“Can it be removed?” he asked.
I let out a breath—one of those too-full ones that empties your chest in a single go. Then I leaned back and rubbed the back of my hand over my eye.
“With improbable odds?” I said. “Yes.”
My hand went back to my lap.
“With normal ones? I don’t know. Not without killing him. Not unless… unless everything lines up just right.”
I didn’t want to go into details yet. Not here. Not until I could say it all without wanting to scream or cry or throw something against the wall.
But Dumbledore just watched me, quiet and still. Like he already understood there were some truths that needed to be unspooled slowly, before they cut too deep.
So I added, barely louder than a whisper,
“I don’t want him to die. I’ll do anything. Anything to make sure he doesn’t have to.”
Dumbledore inclined his head, just a little.
“As will I,” he said.
And I believed him. God help me, I believed him.
He didn’t speak again for a moment. Just sat there, watching me with those impossibly clear blue eyes that always seemed older than the rest of him. I braced myself for the next question—another revelation to dig out of my chest, another secret I’d have to bleed dry. But none came.
Instead, after a long silence, he said, gently,
“I believe that is enough for one day.”
I blinked. Not in protest—just in surprise. The room felt stretched thin with everything we’d said. Everything I’d admitted. The idea of continuing made my bones ache.
“You have given me a great deal, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore continued, his voice warm but steady. “More than I could have hoped. And you did so not because you had to, but because you chose to.”
I swallowed. The lump in my throat hadn’t left.
He went on,
“There will be time for more questions—soon. I imagine we will both need some time to… consider what we’ve learned today.”
I nodded slowly, the tension in my back easing ever so slightly.
“Tomorrow?” I asked, almost whispering.
“Tomorrow,” he confirmed. “Or whenever you are ready. I will not press before then.”
There was a beat of silence. I stood up, unsure of what to say now that everything had been said. I carefully put the locket on Dumbledore’s desk, letting the chain click softly on the wood. Dumbledore didn’t offer a farewell or any parting wisdom, just watched me rise as if to say you’ve done enough for today.
As I turned toward the door, he added quietly,
“You are not alone anymore, Ron.”
I froze for a second, then nodded without looking back.
“I know.”
And I left, hand firmly holding the Vow of Silence.
The classroom was as cold and quiet as ever, filled with the sharp scent of stewed nettles and something more acidic bubbling faintly from the cauldrons. I worked through the lesson just as I would on any other day, measuring and stirring with as much focus as I could muster. But I could feel Snape’s eyes on me more than usual.
Not in the sharp, accusatory way he looked at most students. Not even in his usual, unreadable way when he was making sure I wasn’t wasting my potential.
This was something else. Assessing. Observing. Like he was trying to take my measure.
When class ended and everyone began packing up, Snape’s voice cut through the noise like a scalpel.
“Mr. Weasley. Stay behind.”
Harry glanced over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised, but I didn’t meet his eyes. I finished corking my vial and set it gently in the tray, then waited until the last of them had filed out.
The classroom door closed with a heavy thud. I turned to find Snape already at his desk, one hand braced on the edge, watching me.
I stood a few paces away, tense, trying not to fidget.
He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, in a voice that was low and level—but not cold—he said,
“I spoke with the Headmaster last night.”
My breath caught, but I didn’t move.
“He did not share details,” Snape continued. “And I did not ask for any.”
He pushed off the desk and stepped around it, coming closer—not looming, but… nearer. More grounded. Present.
“But he made one thing very clear.” His eyes fixed on mine. “What you did yesterday may prove pivotal. Perhaps the most important step taken this year. Or in many years.”
I stared at him, throat tight.
“I don’t know what was said,” Snape added, “and I know better than to ask. But you should know this: I trust the Headmaster. And I trust you.”
That cracked something in my chest. I looked away before my face could betray it.
“You are not alone in this, Weasley. I want you to remember that.”
The words were sharp in their simplicity. No softness. No coddling. But they settled into me like a hand on the shoulder.
I swallowed hard.
“I wish I could tell you.”
Snape nodded, just once.
“You will,” he said quietly, “if and when you must. Until then, I do not require explanations. Only that you continue forward.”
I finally met his eyes again—those dark, depthless eyes that had seen so much—and nodded. It was the only promise I could make right now.
He nodded in return.
“Go on, then.”
I turned and walked to the door. But just before I opened it, I paused and looked back.
“Thank you,” I said.
Snape didn’t respond.
But his silence didn’t feel like dismissal.
It felt like loyalty.
A Vow, like the one I now wore around my neck.
The dungeon door had barely swung shut behind me when I heard Hermione’s voice, sharp and purposeful.
“Ron.”
I turned. She was standing just to the side, arms crossed, mouth tight. Harry hovered behind her, looking more worried than stern.
I sighed and slung my bag over my shoulder, already bracing for it.
“You’ve been acting strange,” Hermione said, wasting no time. “Ever since Sunday. Actually, even before that. You’re barely sleeping, you’ve got that wild look in your eye again, and you’ve been running after Dumbledore like a madman.”
Harry stepped forward.
“And Snape asked you to stay back again. What was that about?”
“I’m not—” I rubbed my face and looked away for a second, trying to find the words that wouldn’t ruin everything. “I’m not hurt. Or in trouble. Not like… not like before.”
Hermione’s frown deepened.
“Then what is it, Ron? You vanished from the Library yesterday. You never came back. You’re always off somewhere and you look like you’re chasing ghosts.”
Harry leaned closer.
“If something’s wrong—if something’s happening—you can tell us.”
I looked between the two of them, their faces so familiar, so full of worry it made my chest ache. And they deserved answers. They deserved everything. But—
“I can’t,” I said finally. “Not everything. I’m sorry.”
Hermione blinked.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean, I gave my word,” I lied. “To Dumbledore. It’s not about trust, alright? I trust you both with my life. But this—this isn’t mine to share yet.”
Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry gently touched her arm to stop her.
“Are you safe?” he asked quietly.
I nodded.
“Yeah. I’ve got Snape practically breathing down my neck, and Dumbledore’s involved. I’m not alone in this. I’m not doing anything reckless.”
Hermione didn’t look satisfied.
“Then why does it feel like you’re carrying something way too big?”
“Because maybe I am,” I said, trying to make it sound lighter than it felt. “But it’s only for a little while. Dumbledore’s helping me. That’s why I needed to speak with him so badly. It’s not about me, not really. I’m just… trying to fix something. Something important.”
Harry’s brow furrowed.
“More important than us knowing what’s going on?”
I held his gaze.
“If it ever becomes something you need to know, then yeah. You’ll know first. I swear it.”
Hermione sighed, arms falling to her sides.
“You’re being infuriatingly noble.”
“Must be contagious,” I said, flicking a glance at Harry.
Harry didn’t laugh, but his lips twitched, just slightly.
“You’d better mean it.”
I reached out, squeezing his shoulder.
“I do.”
Hermione was still watching me like I was a riddle she didn’t like being unable to solve. But she didn’t push. And for now, that was enough.
We walked the rest of the way to lunch in silence, but it wasn’t a bad one. Just tense, and full of things unsaid. I could live with that. Just a little longer.
I sat where I had yesterday, same chair across from Dumbledore’s desk, same tight knot of nerves low in my gut. The warm bead on my chest pulsed faintly against my skin, hidden beneath my robes. I hadn’t meant to wear it today—it had just found its way around my neck this morning, the same way worry had found its way back into my stomach.
Dumbledore didn’t waste time.
“Today,” he said, folding his hands over the parchment in front of him, “I would like to focus on people’s safety. Yours, the students’, and others’. Is that all right?”
I nodded.
“Yes, sir. I hope I can help.”
His expression didn’t shift much, but something in it softened—approval, maybe, or gratitude. Then he asked the first question, direct and heavy.
“Is Hogwarts in immediate danger?”
I blinked.
“Not… not that I know of. Normally, no. But—could you be more specific?”
“Is there anyone within the castle I should be watching?” he clarified. “Any person under my protection who may not be who they seem?”
That made me sit up straighter. I took a breath and tried to think clearly, to line up the possibilities.
“For safety’s sake,” I said, “check every teacher. Even the ones close to you. For Polyjuice. It didn’t happen last year like it was supposed to, but it still might. Everything’s… out of order now. So it could come later, or sooner. I don’t know. Just check.”
He inclined his head, and I could tell he didn’t take the suggestion lightly.
“As for Dawlish…” I shrugged, apologetic. “I don’t know him. Not really. He wasn’t supposed to be here. I can’t tell if he’s dangerous or just annoying. Sorry.”
Dumbledore didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence settle for a moment before gently prompting,
“And the students?”
My mind immediately offered up a single name.
“Draco.”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed faintly in thought.
“He’s the first to come to mind,” I continued. “Next year—well, normally—he was supposed to try and kill you. Or find a way to. But things are changing already. This could shift, too.”
I rubbed my throat absentmindedly, fingers tracing over the faint, silvery scar there.
“And… he’s acting different. Ever since I told him what his father did to me. That he tried to kill me.”
A pause. A long one.
“I think he could still be… redeemable,” I said quietly. Then, firmer: “Even if he weren’t acting differently, I’d still say that. He’s salvageable.”
Dumbledore watched me in silence. Something flickered across his expression—something difficult to name. Not surprise, but perhaps a kind of solemn appreciation.
When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, almost low.
“It speaks well of you that you can say that. After what you suffered.” He met my eyes. “Not everyone who bears a scar can still wish for the healing of the one who left it.”
My throat felt tight again, but I said nothing. Just nodded. My thoughts still hovered around Draco, and I knew I wasn’t done.
“There’s something else. About him,” I said, adjusting in my seat. “There’s a way for Death Eaters to get into the castle. From the inside. With Draco’s help.”
Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened.
“Go on.”
“It’s… there’s this closet. Or—I think it has another name. It was used during the war. You’d go in one, and come out the other. Like they were… linked.”
I frowned, frustrated by the haze in my memory.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t—do you know what I mean?”
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“I believe you are referring to Vanishing Cabinets.”
My head snapped up.
“Yes. Exactly that. The Vanishing Cabinets.”
Relief flashed through me, as if just having the name brought the danger into sharper focus.
“There’s one in the Room of Requirement,” I said quickly. “It’s broken now, but Draco—or someone else—they could fix it. If they do, the Death Eaters could come through. From the outside. No gates. No wards. They’d just… appear.”
Dumbledore’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Do you know where its twin is located?”
I bit my lip, thinking hard.
“It’s in a weird shop. In Knockturn Alley. The name… it’s something like—Barjow and Burke?”
Dumbledore inclined his head slowly.
“Borgin and Burkes. Yes. That sounds very familiar indeed.”
“Right.” I nodded, sitting up straighter. “That’s it. I think Voldemort worked there when he was young. Or younger. I’m not sure. But I remember it’s tied to him.”
Dumbledore made a thoughtful noise in his throat.
“Then we are undoubtedly speaking of the same place. And if what you remember is true, then the cabinet here poses a very real risk.”
I swallowed.
“Do you want me to show you where it is?”
“Soon,” he said. “But not yet. You’ve already given me what I need to begin intervening. Quietly, for now. If this cabinet is being repaired—or might be—it must be made unusable before it ever can be used.”
I nodded tightly, a small knot loosening in my chest. A step ahead of the future. Just one.
Dumbledore let the silence sit only briefly before asking, quietly,
“Is there another planned attack on Hogwarts?”
I froze, then slowly leaned back into the chair, eyes fixed on the dark grain of the desk.
My mind spun through everything I remembered—everything I hadn’t dared to revisit too closely. Year five: Umbridge, but she was gone now. That nightmare had been cut short.
Then year six. The Vanishing Cabinets. Draco. That was already in motion, or could be, and we’d talked about that.
Then… year seven.
That one was harder to touch. The details blurred. Not because I didn’t remember, but because I didn’t want to. Because by then, Hogwarts wasn’t Hogwarts anymore. It was under Voldemort’s control, not directly, but through Snape, who was Headmaster. It was a different war by then. The rules were gone.
I didn’t say any of that aloud. I just let the silence stretch, weighing everything in my chest like stone.
When I finally spoke, my voice was low.
“No,” I said. “No other planned attacks that I can think of. Not exactly. Not like the cabinets.”
I looked up at him, my throat tight.
“The Vanishing Cabinets—that’s the scheme that matters. That’s the one to foil. It’s pivotal. Without it… Without it happening, then Hogwarts should be safe.”
My voice faltered. I swallowed. Forced the next words out.
“Until…” My fingers dug into the fabric of my robes. “Until you die.”
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. Saying it aloud—it felt like a betrayal. Like I’d made it real just by voicing it.
But it was real. And it was coming.
And this time, it was my fault if we weren’t ready.
Dumbledore didn’t speak right away.
I could feel his gaze on me, and it wasn’t sharp or startled—it was oft. The kind of silence that didn’t press but simply waited. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentler than ever.
“Mr. Weasley… Ron.”
That made me look up. Just for a second.
“I have known, for some time, that my end was drawing nearer,” he said. “You are not the one who made it real.”
I clenched my jaw, but the guilt didn’t ease.
“Knowing what is coming is a heavy burden,” he continued. “Sharing it—trusting someone else to carry part of it—is far heavier still. And yet, you have done both. That is no failure.”
He folded his hands atop the desk, his expression composed—but not cold.
“However,” he added, and now his voice firmed, “we are not at the end yet. The road may be set, but it is not finished. You’ve already changed its shape by telling me what you have. And perhaps… You will change it more still.”
He let that settle. Not a promise. Not false hope. Just possibility.
Then, with a small nod of transition:
“Thank you. Shall we continue?”
Dumbledore let the quiet linger just long enough for the ache in my chest to settle into something bearable. Then, in that calm, deliberate way of his, he spoke again.
“Ron,” he said, “to your knowledge… is there anything else hidden within Hogwarts? Anything dangerous? Cursed items, portkeys, traps… artefacts Voldemort may have left behind? Or any remnants of his presence we should be aware of?”
I leaned back slightly, fingers curling against my knee.
I thought hard. Dug deep.
There had to be more. Something I was missing.
Then it hit me—something so obvious I almost laughed at myself. My eyes widened slightly as the memory surfaced, clear and sharp.
“The Chamber of Secrets,” I said. “There’s still a basilisk down there. A live one. It must be sleeping again now, dormant.”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch, but the intensity in his gaze sharpened.
I kept going.
“If you need venom for the Horcruxes… that’s where to get it. It’s one of the few things that works. I mean, the sword of Gryffindor soaked in basilisk venom can do the job, but so can the venom on its own.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“But the catch is—you need a Parselmouth to open the Chamber. There’s no other way in.”
Dumbledore’s eyes softened just a little, though his expression remained thoughtful.
“That is most useful information,” he said quietly. “And concerning. I will ensure no one else stumbles upon it unprepared. Thank you, Ron.”
I gave a half-shrug, like it didn’t matter, but it did. A lot. That creature was still down there, a secret buried beneath the foundations of the castle. And now, it wasn’t just a threat. It was… a tool. A resource.
And tools, I’d learned, could become weapons. Depending on whose hands they ended up in.
Dumbledore studied me for a moment, his fingers steepled under his chin.
“Would you be able to show me where the entrance to the Chamber lies?”
I nodded slowly.
“Yeah. It’s in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Second floor, old girls’ lavatory no one uses anymore. You have to speak Parseltongue to open a sink—there’s a snake engraved on it.”
“And can you speak it?” he asked, gently.
I shook my head.
“No. I can’t.”
My fingers twitched against my knee.
“The only two Parselmouths I know of are Voldemort and Harry.”
That gave Dumbledore a pause, though his expression didn’t change.
I looked down at my hands.
“Harry doesn’t know I know. About him being one. No one does, actually. Except you now. It’s not something he advertises, obviously. ”
I swallowed, the guilt and nerves creeping up my throat. Dumbledore nodded slowly, and though his face remained composed, I thought I saw the weight of a new understanding settle in his eyes.
“So, to enter the Chamber,” I added, “we’d need Harry. Or Voldemort. And I reckon one of those is off the table.”
There was a brief, quiet beat—then Dumbledore inclined his head in agreement.
“I understand. And I thank you for the discretion you’ve shown on Harry’s behalf.”
His gaze held mine for a moment longer.
“We’ll discuss, carefully, how to proceed. But if the basilisk’s venom can be retrieved, it may be critical.”
I nodded again, heart still pounding.
He leaned back slightly, then tilted his head.
“Earlier, you mentioned the Sword of Gryffindor. You said it could destroy Horcruxes.”
I felt my breath catch a little. Right. Was it really the first time I’d brought it up?
“Yeah,” I said, voice quieter. “The sword, it’s goblin-made. Absorbs what makes it stronger.”
Dumbledore’s fingers steepled beneath his chin, and his gaze drifted slightly as though following a thought far beyond the room.
“Goblin-made… yes. That would explain much.” His voice was soft, contemplative. “It takes in that which strengthens it, rejects what would sully its blade. Remarkable craftsmanship. That quality could, indeed, make it a weapon capable of destroying Horcruxes—if it were imbued with basilisk venom.”
He smiled slightly then, though the weight of everything remained between us like fog.
“It seems the tools we need may already be within reach. And the knowledge to use them, too.”
Chapter 66: INTERLUDE IV
Notes:
Here is a baby interlude with Dumbledore and Snape.
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE IV
21 April 1996
The door shut softly behind Ron, and the room fell into silence.
Albus Dumbledore did not move for a long time.
The fire crackled, casting shifting gold across the floor and shelves. Instruments whirred and ticked and pulsed in their gentle rhythms. But the man at the centre of it all sat still, his hands folded, his gaze fixed not on the fire, nor the door, but the chair Ron had occupied only moments ago.
He looked at the place where the boy had sat, stiff with shame and courage both, holding a secret too large for anyone his age to bear.
And he breathed out slowly.
“He knows,” Albus whispered aloud, as if saying it would solidify it. “Truly and fully.”
The full truth of Harry’s burden. The nature of the Horcruxes. The names, the objects, the locations. Even the danger of Nagini. Even—God help them all—the truth about the boy himself.
And he has known for some time.
Albus rose slowly and moved to the window, the same one he so often gravitated to in moments of doubt. The horizon beyond the Forbidden Forest stretched dark and endless, but above it, the sky was clear. Stars burned with indifferent clarity.
How many students had passed through this school, he wondered? How many had glimpsed truths they could not name? How many had seen and acted, when the world looked away?
He thought again of Ron Weasley.
How many times must he save us before someone recognises the pattern?
Year after year. Secret after secret. And now, this.
No prophecy guided him. No chosen fate. Just instinct. Just love.
And now Albus could not shake the feeling that Ron saw more than he ever said.
Not just insight. Not deduction.
Foreknowledge.
He had danced around it before, wondering in idle moments whether the boy possessed some latent, nontraditional form of Divination. But now, he was nearly certain. Not prophecy. Not even Sight in the way Trelawney defined it.
No, Ron Weasley knew things. Things he should not. Things he could not have pieced together on logic alone. Too many coincidences. Too many near-misses that became salvation.
Albus had asked how long he had known. The answer had not come. And perhaps that was for the best.
Because if it had been years...
He did not allow the thought to finish. Not yet.
He turned from the window, moving back to his desk. His eyes drifted to the cursed ring beside the cold teacup. To the locket Ron had handed over, chain curled like a snake. So many cursed things. So many fragments of a soul.
And yet, what haunted Albus most in this moment was not the Horcruxes. Not even the prophecy.
It was Ron’s voice.
“I don’t want him to die. I’ll do anything.”
And he meant it.
That was what terrified Albus most of all.
Because loyalty that deep, that fierce, was beautiful—but also dangerous. Ron would sacrifice anything to protect Harry. And that included himself.
He saw now how close the boy had come to breaking. The laughter in the Great Hall. The way he had cried without shame, because there was simply too much to carry alone. And he saw, too, how close Severus had come to shattering his own cover for this boy.
“You are not alone anymore,” Albus had said.
But he had to make sure that remained true.
Ron was not just an ally. Not just a gifted student. He was a stabilising force. A thread that connected so many others—Severus, Harry, even Albus now.
And if he were to fall?
The Order would lose more than a strategist. They would lose hope.
Albus lowered himself into his chair again and let out a breath that felt centuries old.
He would protect this boy. Not because Ron was the key to winning the war—though he might well be.
But because Ron was the kind of soul the world did not see coming. The kind of soul who changed fates without asking to.
And now, Albus would watch. Would guard. Would guide.
Not to control.
To preserve.
To protect what was rare.
And maybe, just maybe, to help him carry the world he had already begun to shoulder.
The stars outside blinked in silence.
And Albus, finally, allowed himself to whisper to the empty room:
“You are not alone anymore, my boy. And you never will be.”
Severus swept into the Headmaster’s office with the urgency of a man who’d waited long enough.
His eyes narrowed the moment they met Dumbledore’s.
“I assume,” he said, without preamble, “that Mr. Weasley’s visit was as urgent as he insisted.”
Dumbledore didn’t immediately answer. He was seated behind his desk, hands steepled before him, gaze distant. Then he looked at Snape and said, with quiet gravity,
“Yes. I would go so far as to say it may well have been one of the most pivotal conversations I have had in my entire life.”
Severus’s face flickered—slight, but there. Surprise. Then suspicion.
“You are bound by something,” he said slowly. “A vow?”
Dumbledore nodded.
“He asked for a Vow of Silence before he spoke.”
Severus stared, incredulous for a beat.
“And you granted it.”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch.
“He has shouldered more than you or I ever intended. More than he should ever have had to. The information he carries is delicate and dangerous. But he has given me more than I dared hope.”
Severus’s jaw clenched.
“So I’m to be left in the dark now, is that it? After years—decades—of risking everything, you trust him with knowledge you won’t give me ?”
Dumbledore studied him with a calm that didn’t feel dismissive, but weighty.
“I trust you more than anyone alive, Severus. That has not changed. But this… this is not a matter of trust. It is a matter of choice. His.”
Severus turned away, his robes flaring as he moved toward the fire, jaw tight.
“Then what am I to do?”
Dumbledore paused, choosing his words with care.
“For now,” he said, “you are to continue as his Head of House, and his protector. I will not tell you why, but I will tell you this: if Ron Weasley falls, the war will be lost.”
Severus went still.
Dumbledore continued, softer now.
“He must be protected, Severus. Not because he is delicate—he is not—but because what he carries is irreplaceable.”
Severus’s shoulders dropped slightly, tension bleeding into stillness. He exhaled through his nose.
“And what of training?” he asked, not turning around. “If he is such a vital asset, surely he must learn Occlumency.”
“I am considering it,” Dumbledore said. “But I believe his instincts might be more naturally resistant than most. He has learned to compartmentalise more than even he realises. For now, I will not force training on him. If the need grows greater, we may revisit the idea.”
Severus turned finally, watching him closely.
“You think he can bear the weight.”
“I know he already is.”
Silence lingered again.
Severus didn’t like being left out. Not after all he’d done. And yet… something in Dumbledore’s voice rang deeper than manipulation. It rang like truth.
He said nothing, but Dumbledore could probably read the storm in his eyes—conflict, frustration, and something else quieter beneath it. Worry. Not just for the war. For Ron.
“He trusts you,” Dumbledore added softly. “More than he knows how to say. Do not let that be a burden. Let it be your guide.”
Severus looked away again.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet.
“He should never have been put in this position.”
“No,” Dumbledore agreed. “But he is in it nonetheless. And he has chosen to fight.”
Severus inclined his head slightly, barely a nod.
“Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t fight alone.”
And he left the office with his mind reeling, his heart quieter than expected, and the name Ron Weasley echoing through thoughts he didn’t quite know how to settle.
Chapter 67: BOOK FIVE - TAKING MEASURES
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
TAKING MEASURES
The evening light had shifted. It was getting late, and I would soon have to go back to the common room before curfew began. I’d gone quiet again, twisting a loose thread on my sleeve, but my thoughts weren’t still. They were racing ahead, toward something that had been gnawing at me ever since the war had begun to breathe down our necks.
I cleared my throat, my voice cautious.
“Sir… the prophecy.”
Dumbledore’s eyes rose from the parchment he’d been quietly annotating. He gave no indication of surprise.
“Yes?”
“Is it really necessary,” I began slowly, “to keep guarding it at the Department of Mysteries?”
A pause.
I pressed on.
“I mean, the only way Voldemort can get it is if he sends Harry for it. And now we know he can send fake visions. Harry just needs to know not to trust everything in his head. If the Order makes sure he understands that, then… then there’s no real risk, is there?”
Dumbledore studied me, but his expression remained mild. I rushed ahead.
“I mean, if he goes for it himself, he reveals himself to the entire world. He wouldn’t risk that. Not yet. So why…” I hesitated, the words tripping ahead of me before I could catch them, “Why keep Order members there? My dad almost died for it, and—”
I froze.
I hadn’t meant to say that. Not out loud. Not here.
I shut my mouth fast and held my breath, like I could shove the words back in by force.
Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, not exactly—but something gentled in it.
“I see,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My face burned and my chest felt too tight.
“I understand now,” he continued, as if reading the space between my silence. “You’ve seen the cost. Already. Before it was paid.”
I still didn’t look up.
Dumbledore folded his hands slowly.
“Your concern is not misplaced. And your reasoning is sound. You are right—so long as Harry does not retrieve the prophecy himself, Voldemort cannot access it. That much is fact.”
He paused, then said,
“I will speak to the Order. And consider how our resources may be better allocated. We need not throw ourselves blindly at ghosts when the danger lies elsewhere.”
Only then did I let out the breath I’d been holding, slow and silent.
But shame still prickled at the back of my throat.
I hadn’t meant to make it personal.
I hadn’t meant to slip.
And yet Dumbledore hadn’t scolded me. Hadn’t even looked surprised. Just… resolute.
Like a man taking another step toward something inevitable.
“Thank you, sir.”
Dumbledore gave me a faint nod, folding his hands atop the parchment in front of him.
“It is nearly time we adjourn for today,” he said. “But before you go, there is one last matter we must address. A matter of protection.”
I straightened in my chair. The word alone made my chest tighten.
“You possess knowledge that, should it fall into the wrong hands, could undo everything we hope to achieve,” Dumbledore continued, his voice still calm but edged with something harder now—urgency, maybe, or the weight of knowing too much. “That is not a reflection on you. But it is the reality of the world we are in. And so, it is paramount that you begin training in Occlumency. Proper training.”
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. He was right. I just nodded once, slowly.
“I would teach you myself,” Dumbledore said, more gently now. “But time is no longer mine in the way it once was. Nor, I fear, is magical strength. The role must fall to someone else.”
I already knew the name before he said it.
“Snape,” I said.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “He is the most accomplished Occlumens I know, and he has taught you before. That familiarity will help.”
I hesitated for a second, then met his eyes.
“Do you think I should tell him everything?”
There was a pause. Then, without hesitation:
“No.”
Relief, sharp and sudden, filled my chest.
“I will speak to Professor Snape myself,” Dumbledore said. “I will make it clear which memories must remain untouched. You may trust that he will respect those boundaries. I will see to it.”
I thought that over. I trusted Snape to obey Dumbledore’s boundaries, and mine if I ever named one. There was no debate to be had anyway; Snape was the only solution we had. Furthermore, he had been preparing me for years with his mental exercises. I did them each night, almost religiously.
I was ready for the next step.
I refused to be the weak link.
“I’m ready for it,” I said, voice steady.
He studied me for a moment, and then said,
“Very well. I will speak with Professor Snape tonight. You may expect him to begin lessons soon.”
A strange sort of calm settled over me. Purpose, maybe.
Then I asked the question that had been tugging at me for days.
“Will you… be leaving again soon?”
Dumbledore looked away, briefly, toward the window that didn’t show the real sky.
“All the knowledge I had to leave the school for,” he said slowly, “is now already here. I don’t need to leave for long periods anymore.”
I nodded, trying to look like I wasn’t as relieved as I felt.
“Okay,” I said. “Then I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. I’ve got prefect patrol tomorrow night.”
“I look forward to it,” he said warmly.
I stood, gathered my things, and met his eyes one last time.
“Goodnight, Professor.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Weasley,” he said. “And thank you. Again.”
I slipped out the door, the warm bead under my shirt still pulsing gently against my chest.
The porlock was not what I expected.
Sort of looked like someone had left a haystack out in the rain and then given it anxiety. It twitched when we moved too fast, and every time Grubbly-Plank raised her voice—though she never shouted—the poor thing flinched like it was being hexed. She had us observing quietly and drawing it, labelling its features as best we could. She’d even brought in a few illustrated examples and a magical creature reference book for comparison.
I sat cross-legged in the grass, half-listening to Grubbly-Plank’s commentary while sketching the hunched, shaggy form in front of us. Harry and Hermione were next to me, all three of us a little off from the main group. That suited me just fine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Hermione’s page.
Aouch.
Her porlock looked like it had come out of the wrong end of a vanishing spell and then been stomped on by a hippogriff. One of the legs had four joints. Another seemed to sprout from the middle of its back.
But I didn’t say anything. I just kept sketching, labelling the mane, the drooping forelock, the tiny nostrils. My handwriting wasn’t anything special, but I could draw alright.
“Last night’s lesson was rubbish,” Harry muttered suddenly, his voice low enough not to disturb the porlock, but tight with frustration. “He just yelled at me for not clearing my mind. I tried. I really did. And I still had another bloody vision.”
Hermione’s pencil paused mid-label. She looked up, soft concern etched in her brow.
“Oh, Harry. I wish I could help. I’ve been trying to find something—anything—to explain how Occlumency works. But there’s barely a whisper about it in the Library.”
“Maybe you’re not meant to read your way through this one,” I offered, glancing at Harry. “You’ll have someone to talk about it with soon. Snape’s going to start teaching me Occlumency this week.”
Harry blinked, then let out a breath.
“Finally,” he said, dragging the word like it was a lifeline. “Finally, someone who’ll understand my pain.”
He gave me a look of such dramatic relief that I snorted.
“Don’t celebrate just yet,” I said. “I might be even worse than you.”
Harry grinned.
“Nah. You’ll have tips to give me in no time. Or at least you'll learn new and colourful ways to insult him back.”
I grinned, but the small flicker of guilt returned as Hermione spoke, voice wistful.
“I wish I had a mentor like you do, Ron. Someone teaching me all these secret things, showing me magic I can’t find in books.”
I looked up, surprised. She wasn’t pouting or resentful—just… wistful, like she said. And I felt a pang of guilt settle under my ribs.
I hesitated, then said quietly,
“Are you still mad about it? That Snape’s been tutoring me all this time?”
She blinked and shook her head, brushing her hair back from her cheek.
“I was never mad. Just… frustrated. You were learning something I couldn’t even study on my own. But I don’t feel that way anymore.”
She smiled slightly.
“Honestly, with the training we do in the Room, I get the good parts of Snape’s tutoring without the bad part of Snape’s actual presence.”
Harry let out an impressed “oof” and raised his eyebrows at her.
“You’re mad, saying that in front of Ron. He might hex you for badmouthing his favourite professor.”
I groaned.
“Shut up, Harry.”
He laughed. Even the porlock looked up for a moment before flicking its ears and sinking back down.
And maybe, some of the tension in my chest eased just a little.
It started as one of those long, silent patrols—the kind where our footsteps echoed through the empty corridors like the castle was trying to remind us we were still being watched. I didn’t mind the quiet. With Pansy, it was usually better that way.
But of course, it didn’t last.
“You must think you’re very clever,” she said suddenly, the words snapping out like a curse. “Still getting private tutoring. Still pretending the rules don’t apply to you.”
I didn’t look at her. Just kept walking, my pace steady.
“You know the decree was never repealed,” she pressed. “Umbridge might be gone, but the law’s still standing. Or is that only for the rest of us?”
“You could report it, if you want,” I said calmly. “See how far you get.”
“Oh, don’t tempt me.” She stopped walking, so I did too. Her arms were crossed, lips curled in a sneer. “Dawlish might not care, but it’s just a matter of time before someone does. The way Snape treats you—you think people haven’t noticed?”
“I don’t think about it much,” I replied, still poker-faced. “Maybe you’re the only one who cares.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“No. I’m just the only one who’ll say it. You’ve been playing this game since first year, haven’t you? Hiding behind someone powerful. Getting first dibs. Always slithering into someone’s favour.”
I kept my face blank, but I could feel a headache starting behind my eyes.
She stepped closer.
“What are you giving him in return?”
That one caught my attention. My jaw clenched, and I turned to face her fully. Her expression was a little too smug for comfort.
“Careful,” I said, my voice quiet. “You’re about to say something really stupid.”
“Oh, I think I’ve said exactly what people are thinking.” Her gaze was sharp, satisfied. “You and Snape. All those hours alone. You’re not even denying it. Are you so sure he’d risk everything for your pretty face if there wasn’t something in it for him?”
I didn’t flinch. I’d already stood in Dumbledore’s office and told him things no one else on Earth knew. This? This was nothing.
“If you’re trying to get a reaction,” I said flatly, “you’ll have to try harder.”
“I could tell Dawlish,” she said. “Spin the story however I like. Enough detail to be believable. Get him watching. Get Snape questioned.”
The only thing that made me blink was that. Not for myself, but for Snape. My throat tightened just slightly.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She smiled, like a cat that had cornered a mouse.
“I want to pass Potions this year. I want access to whatever help he’s giving you. And if I can’t have that—then I want you to make sure he eases off. You owe me that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I said, voice calm, even though my fingers itched with the desire to snap back harder.
“Maybe not now,” she said, voice too sweet, “but you will. I’ll make sure of it.”
I met her eyes and held the stare.
“You want to threaten me, go ahead. You want to smear his name, do it. But don’t expect me to crawl because you think I’m scared of what people think. I’ve already done worse than anything you could dream up. And I’ve survived it.”
She faltered—just barely—but it was there. That flicker of doubt. That split-second when she didn’t know what to say.
I turned and walked on.
Behind me, I heard her shoes click angrily on the floor as she followed.
But she didn’t speak again for the rest of the patrol.
And for now, that was victory enough.
The windows were open today. A breeze swept in through the arches and stirred the fringe of parchments on Dumbledore’s desk. I sat where I always did now—same chair, same desk, same ache in my chest. The bead beneath my collar was warm, a comforting weight.
Dumbledore folded his hands, elbows resting lightly on the arms of his chair. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning either. Just watching me with that unnerving mix of gentleness and precision. Like he was measuring something invisible between us.
“I’d like,” he said slowly, “to return to the matter of the prophecy.”
I tensed despite myself. I’d known it would come up again. It had to. But still, part of me wished we could talk about anything else. Basilisks. Cabinet networks. Fiendfyre. Anything less weighty than destiny.
Dumbledore continued,
“You’ve given me fragments—important fragments—about Voldemort’s interest in the prophecy stored in the Department of Mysteries. I would like to confirm that I have understood you correctly.”
I nodded once, tight and brief.
He raised a hand, fingers loosely steepled, and began ticking things off with his tone, not his fingers.
“First, you’ve told me that Voldemort cannot retrieve the prophecy himself—not directly. The orb can only be taken by someone named in it.”
I nodded again.
“That’s right.”
“Second,” he said, “you implied that Voldemort will attempt to circumvent this restriction by luring someone else—namely Harry—to retrieve it on his behalf.”
“Yes,” I muttered, voice rougher than I meant it to be. “That’s what he will try to do.”
“You also said,” Dumbledore went on, “that if Voldemort were to go after the prophecy himself, it would expose his return to the public. Therefore, secrecy is paramount in his current plan.”
“Exactly.”
Dumbledore inclined his head.
“You also suggested that guarding the prophecy around the clock with members of the Order may no longer be the best allocation of our efforts. Because if Harry is informed—if he is told to question the visions Voldemort sends—then Voldemort’s strategy can be thwarted without such a heavy cost.”
I swallowed hard and nodded.
“Yes.”
“And then,” Dumbledore said, voice dipping ever so slightly, “you spoke of a cost already paid. You mentioned Arthur. That your father nearly died protecting the prophecy.”
My throat clenched. I looked away, fixing my gaze on a spinning device ticking on the far shelf.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “That’s what happens. Or was supposed to.”
Dumbledore didn’t press the moment. He just let the silence settle a little, the weight of it neither condemning nor forgiving. Then he exhaled softly.
“So let me ask plainly: do you believe that Harry is still at risk of being manipulated into going to the Department of Mysteries?”
“Yes,” I said. “If things play out the same way… Voldemort will use visions again. Ones that feel urgent. Ones that scare him. He’ll make it feel personal.”
“And the vision Harry will receive,” Dumbledore asked gently, “what will it show?”
I hesitated. I’d tried not to think about it too much—about the night that would come, with shouting and duelling and Sirius—
“He sees Sirius being tortured,” I said, forcing the words out. “In the Department of Mysteries. He thinks he has to go save him.”
Dumbledore leaned back, eyes shadowed.
“But Sirius isn’t there.”
“No,” I said. “It’s a trap. Just a way to lure him in. He nearly dies. We all do.”
Dumbledore’s face didn’t move much. But I saw it anyway—the tiniest falter around his eyes, the crack of emotion he normally kept tucked away. He knew, I realised, exactly what I meant by we all.
He was quiet for a long time after that. I could hear the faint creak of the portraits above us, the shifting of old wizards in their frames as they pretended not to eavesdrop.
At last, Dumbledore looked at me again, and this time, his voice was soft.
“Thank you, Ron, you’ve confirmed more than you know,” he said. “Now, I must ask. Is there a person whose life depends on a choice we make soon?”
Dumbledore’s voice was quiet, but it carried weight.
I didn’t even have to think.
“Sirius,” I said. “If he comes to save Harry from a trap—then yes. He dies. But we can stop that. We know it’s a trap. We just don’t go.”
My fingers curled tightly in my lap. That was the easy one. The one I could still say plainly.
“Then there’s you,” I added.
Dumbledore didn’t move, didn’t blink. He simply waited.
“I know what you might be thinking,” I said. “About how to make your death… useful. About giving it purpose… About asking Snape to do it.”
There. I’d said it. The room felt colder for it.
“I’ve only considered the idea recently,” he said, calm, measured. “I have not made a final decision.”
I stared at my knees. My fingers had clenched into the fabric of my trousers without me noticing.
“Do you think it’s worth it?” I asked. “To break him like that?”
Dumbledore was quiet. He looked at me, but didn’t answer.
So I answered myself.
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe it’s worth it in the short run. Or mid-term. Maybe it’s what keeps the war from ending in bloodier ways. But in the long run… it’s the thing that kills him.”
That got Dumbledore’s full attention. He looked at me very carefully, and something passed over his face — not surprise, exactly, but understanding.
“You believe that my death, by Severus’s hand, will seal his fate,” he said.
I nodded slowly.
“It’s what Voldemort will use. To justify it. To make it look necessary.”
Dumbledore’s fingers steepled together, thoughtful.
“And do you think Severus… would refuse?”
“I think he’d agree,” I said. “Because it’s you. Because he’d do anything you asked. That’s the worst part.”
A pause.
Then, very softly, Dumbledore asked,
“How important is this to you, Ron? For you to plead like this?”
I didn’t answer right away. My throat felt tight again. But I had already torn myself open for him multiple times. What was one more crack in the surface? What was left to hide?
So I drew a breath and said quietly,
“Do you know what my boggart is?”
He looked at me. Really looked. His eyes sharpened behind the half-moons, searching—remembering. I knew he’d heard things. Rumours. Reports from teachers. Maybe even asked, discreetly, without ever letting on. Dumbledore always knew more than he let people think.
He didn’t answer my question directly. Just waited, his silence a kind of invitation.
So I gave it voice.
“It’s his death,” I confessed quietly.
The words hit the air like a stone dropped into deep water.
“That’s what I see,” I added, a little shakily. “Him. Dying. In pain. Because of something I couldn’t stop. Or… something I let happen.”
My voice broke just enough to make me angry with myself. I cleared my throat and sat back, pressing my hands together to keep them from shaking.
“So, yeah,” I said. “It matters. It matters a lot.”
Dumbledore leaned back slowly in his chair. His expression didn’t shift dramatically—there was no dramatic intake of breath, no sudden flash of pity. Just a quiet deepening in the lines around his eyes. A softening that made something inside me twist.
He folded his hands carefully, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Letting the weight of my words settle. Letting me breathe again.
Finally, he spoke.
“I had not realised the extent of your concern for Severus. But I understand now.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. Not yet. I felt too raw. Too exposed. Like every part of me had been turned inside out and hung in the open.
He continued,
“It’s a dangerous thing to love someone in the midst of war. To hope to keep them from every harm, when the world seems determined to test that hope at every turn.”
That made me look up.
His eyes met mine gently, almost regretfully.
“I don’t yet know what the end of this path will be,” he said. “But I can tell you this, Ron: I will not choose to damn Severus if there is another way.”
Something unknotted in my chest, but it didn’t ease entirely. It couldn’t. Not until I was sure.
I swallowed.
“You were considering it because of the Elder Wand, weren’t you? To make sure it passed to someone you trusted?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly—not in shock, but in confirmation.
“It was… a factor. One of many. It is not a weapon to be taken lightly.”
“But you don’t need to die for it to change allegiance,” I said, forcing the words out before I lost my nerve. “It doesn’t need killing. Just defeat. Disarming.”
That caught his attention.
“You’re certain?”
“As certain as I can be. That’s how it worked—how it will work. With Draco. With Harry. Death isn’t required. Just mastery.”
He leaned back, steepling his fingers once more.
“That changes things.”
I didn’t say anything. I just held his gaze, hoping he understood the weight of it.
“No plan,” Dumbledore murmured, “is worth more than the people it is meant to protect.”
A breath left me.
“Then don’t ask him,” I said. “Please. Not unless it’s the only way.”
“I won’t,” he promised, with a nod as solemn as a vow. “Not while another path remains open. You have my word.”
And for the first time in a very long time, I believed that might be enough.
We sat for a moment in the quiet, the weight of the promise still hanging in the air between us. Outside, the sun had dipped lower behind the mountains, casting long bars of shadow across the stone floor. I let my hands rest in my lap, unclenched for once, and felt the faint tremble begin to ease.
Dumbledore’s gaze drifted toward the window, thoughtful, like he was measuring the time we had left. Not just in minutes, but in years. In choices. In lives.
“There’s much to prepare,” he said eventually, more to himself than to me. “The shape of the coming months will depend on what we do now. Who we trust. Where we place our faith.”
He turned back toward me fully, his expression sobering.
“To your knowledge… are there any within the Order who may not be loyal?”
I shook my head, then paused.
“No. I mean—none who are disloyal. But… there are people who aren’t dependable.” I hesitated, then added, “Mundungus Fletcher. He’s loyal, I think, but he’s not reliable. Don’t put him in a position where someone’s life depends on him. He’ll bolt. He does bolt. And someone dies.”
I thought of Moody, dying during the Battle of the Seven Potters. Falling to his death because his partner was a coward.
“Duly noted,” Dumbledore said. “And the others?”
“They’re loyal,” I said, more confidently.
Dumbledore inclined his head again, a small smile at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Then let us turn our attention outward,” he said. “You’ve already named many of Voldemort’s supporters. Do you know of any others—any allies or Death Eaters—who may not be accounted for?”
I exhaled.
“I don’t know which ones are already on the Order’s radar, so I’ll just list them.”
I started to count them off on my fingers.
“Crouch, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Fenrir Greyback, the Carrows, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Nott, Macnair, Avery, Mulciber, Rookwood, Travers, Yaxley, Dolohov, Rowle, Crabbe, Goyle…”
Dumbledore’s expression remained impassive, but I saw his eyes sharpen slightly at a few of the names. Some of them were already known, I figured. Some weren’t.
“And then there’s Pius Thicknesse,” I added. “I’m not sure if he’s a Death Eater himself or just under the Imperius. But eventually he becomes Minister for Magic. It’s one or the other.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly, processing.
“That will be something I keep a close eye on.”
“Also,” I said, before I could overthink it, “when Fudge gets the boot—and he will—Scrimgeour’s your better bet rather than Thickness. He’s not exactly friendly, and he’s a pain sometimes, but he takes Voldemort seriously. He actually fights back.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“Thank you,” he said. “Those details may prove critical.”
I shifted in my seat, the heaviness of all this beginning to sink deeper into my bones. There were still names I hadn’t said. Still questions he hadn’t asked. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like we were—maybe—getting ahead of something instead of always behind.
Dumbledore folded his hands, contemplative.
“We’ll revisit this list again, if you think of others. But for now, this has been… invaluable.”
I nodded, not quite sure what to say. Just that I was glad I’d finally spoken. And maybe, just maybe, in time—I could help prevent the worst of it.
He paused, eyes scanning my face again, as if weighing whether to ask the next question. Then:
“Ron… do you know where Voldemort might be now? Where he’s operating from?”
That was harder. I bit the inside of my cheek, thinking back.
“Now that he has a real body again,” I said slowly, “he should’ve left Riddle House behind. That was temporary. Symbolic.” I glanced up at Dumbledore. “It was where he was reborn. But not where he stays.”
Dumbledore didn’t speak, letting me work through it.
“He’ll be at Malfoy Manor, most likely,” I said. “Even if Lucius is in disgrace because of… because of Dobby.”
My voice snagged unexpectedly on the name. I cleared my throat and looked away.
“Doesn’t matter. The manor’s big, and secure, and old magic runs deep in that place. It’s a good stronghold. He’ll use it. And his cellar too, for prisoners.”
“And if Hogwarts falls?” Dumbledore asked, already anticipating the answer.
“Then this castle becomes his, too,” I said quietly. “It’ll be his base. His prize. He always wanted it. He won’t stay away if it’s handed to him.”
My fingers curled over the edge of the armrest, gripping hard.
“It all depends on whether we hold Hogwarts or not.”
Dumbledore hummed softly, low in his throat. A sound of deep thought more than agreement.
“Then that,” he said, “is what we must protect above all else.”
He leaned back slightly, his gaze distant for a breath of a moment. Then his focus returned to me.
“With everything you’ve given me, I will need a few days to take… certain measures. Discreetly, but swiftly.”
I nodded once, trying not to let the anxiety creep back in. It was strange how even after giving everything I knew, it didn’t feel like relief. Just a new kind of weight. A quieter one, maybe. But heavier.
“Severus has agreed to begin your Occlumency instruction,” Dumbledore said, more gently now. “Your first lesson will be tomorrow evening, in your usual place.”
I blinked, surprised it had been arranged already.
“Right. Thanks for the heads up.”
He inclined his head, then regarded me with a look that was—somehow—both warm and weary.
“We will speak again,” he said, “once I’ve handled what needs to be handled.”
“Of course,” I said. My voice was quiet but steady.
I stood, shouldering my bag, and paused at the door.
“Goodbye, sir.”
“Goodbye, Ron,” he said kindly. “And thank you.”
I gave him a small nod, then stepped out, the door shutting softly behind me.
Chapter 68: BOOK FIVE - VISUALISATION
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
VISUALISATION
The Room of Requirement had shaped itself into something I hadn’t expected—but the moment I stepped inside, my shoulders dropped an inch.
It looked like Snape’s office.
Not an exact copy, but close enough. The same cold stone walls, the same tall shelves lined with dusty jars and dull brass scales. It even smelled like his office—a mix of ink, potion smoke, and something darker that didn’t have a name. I didn’t know I’d needed it, but the familiarity anchored me. I’d spent enough hours in this kind of room to know how to breathe in it.
I still wasn’t exactly eager to have my mind cracked open like a vault, but the dread wasn’t choking me anymore.
He stood near a conjured desk that looked almost identical to the one in the dungeons. Arms crossed, gaze already on me like he’d been waiting for more than a few minutes. Like he could read something in me, I didn’t even know I was showing.
“You’re early,” he said, not quite a greeting.
I shrugged, letting my bag slide to the floor.
“Didn’t fancy wandering around with it hanging over me.”
He gave a short nod, neither approving nor disapproving, and stepped aside as I crossed the room and pulled out a chair. The legs scraped faintly on the stone floor, and the silence between us stretched.
I didn’t want to say it.
But I also didn’t want to start this lesson with something unsaid.
“There’s something I should tell you first,” I said.
Snape’s eyes sharpened, and he shifted just slightly.
“Go on.”
“It’s about Parkinson.”
The sharpness didn’t leave his expression. If anything, it solidified.
“She cornered me during patrol a few nights ago,” I said. “She’s still obsessed with the idea that something’s going on between us. That you’re favouring me. She thinks—well, she said—she’d expose us if I didn’t give her something in return.”
He didn’t explode, didn’t pace or curse. But I could feel the shift in the air like a crackle before a storm. His voice, when it came, was quiet.
“What sort of exposure does she believe will harm us?”
“She didn’t say outright. But she implied I was… protected. Too protected. That I’ve been hiding behind you.” I swallowed. “And that if I don’t give her something—leverage, I guess—she’ll go to Dawlish.”
The name alone had a weight to it. But Snape didn’t flinch.
“Dawlish is not Dolores Umbridge,” he said, dry and cold. “He holds no decree to police tutoring, nor any official role within Hogwarts unless the Headmaster gives it. He would need something substantial to act—and even then, the Ministry would tread lightly after the Prophet debacle.”
“That’s what I figured, too,” I said. “But she’s still a snake. I thought you should know. Just in case.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, not at me, but at something distant, as if he were already plotting moves three layers deep.
“She may yet do nothing. But it will be seen to.”
“I don’t want it blowing back on you,” I added. “If she starts shouting about... things.”
“If she threatens my position or yours,” he said evenly, “I will handle her.”
I nodded, the tension in my chest loosening just slightly.
He looked at me again, that unreadable expression settling back into place.
“Is that all?”
“For now,” I replied with a shrug.
“Then,” he said, “we begin.”
One moment Snape was standing still, hands clasped behind his back, face expressionless as ever.
The next, something cracked open in my mind—sharp and silent, like a knife sliding between thoughts. A warmth unfurled in my chest, familiar, calm, and wrong. My limbs loosened, breath slowed, and a thought that wasn’t mine whispered:
Kneel.
I didn’t.
I pushed back hard—harder than instinct, harder than doubt. I knew this trick. Knew the taste of foreign magic in my head. My mind snapped shut like a trap, not even touching the impulse. I stayed standing and raised an eyebrow.
Snape’s mouth twitched. Almost a smirk. Almost.
“Well,” he said, voice low, “at least I won’t have to waste time with the first step.”
I let out a breath through my nose.
“Was that supposed to be a test or a joke?”
He gave me a long look.
“If I ever tell a joke, you’ll know. The first step in Occlumency is recognising what is you, and what is not. Foreign magic. Intrusion. You’ve already been trained to resist the Imperius. You understand the principle.”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s move on.”
He stepped back, folding his arms. The faint light caught the edge of his sleeve, just like it would in his real office. I still wasn’t used to how much this room felt like his. Like the walls knew him.
“The second step,” he said, “is to empty the mind. Clear it of thought. Memory. Emotion. So when the probe comes, there is nothing to catch, nothing to grip.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Which should be easy,” he added, with mild venom, “if you’ve been doing the exercises I gave you. Nightly. Without exception.”
I swallowed and nodded again.
“I have.”
He didn’t say he believed me. But he didn’t challenge it either.
“Then we move on,” he said. “Step three. Once you can empty your mind, you must learn to control it. To structure it. Barriers. Doors. Fog. However your mind organises itself—use that. Build defences.”
I glanced at him.
“You mean I’m supposed to imagine a brick wall in my head?”
“If a brick wall works, yes,” he said. “But use your own symbols. A vault. A forest. A maze. Something that can’t be breached. Something only you understand.”
Right. That made sense. Sort of.
He continued, voice sharper now.
“Step four. Memory control. Prioritise what you protect. Learn which memories are vulnerable and where to hide them. Some will need to be buried. Others can be decoys—innocuous distractions that waste a Legilimens’ time.”
I shifted slightly in place, feeling the back of my neck prickle.
“And step five?”
He gave me a look.
“Endurance. You’ll be attacked. You’ll fail. But eventually, you’ll last longer. Stand your ground. Force me out.”
Right.
“Only then,” he said, “when you can resist —not just block, but redirect —will you be ready for the final step.”
He let the silence stretch before adding,
“Step six. Active Occlusion. Feeding false trails. Planting fake thoughts. A skill for liars and spies. Which, like it or not, you may one day need to be.”
I nodded slowly, the weight of it all pressing in.
He watched me a moment longer, then said,
“We begin with step two. Empty your mind.”
I took a breath.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Felt the warmth of the room settle around me—familiar, safe. The smell of ink, of parchment, of ash. The walls weren’t real, but they felt real enough. My muscles loosened.
Inhale. One.
Exhale. Two.
Inhale. Three.
Exhale. Four.
I counted, letting the rhythm of breath replace the noise in my head. I focused on nothing else; not the desk beside me, not Snape across from me, not what might happen if I failed.
Just the numbers. Just the breath.
Then came the clouds.
Light, soft, floating over the expanse of my mind’s eye. I summoned one each time a thought tried to intrude. A flicker of memory—covered. A scrap of anxiety—hidden. I watched the clouds drift and cluster, reshaping my thoughts into formless white.
When the sky in my mind was nearly full, nearly quiet, I opened my eyes.
Snape regarded me with his usual impassive stare.
“I will increase the intensity of my attacks gradually,” he said. “First, at the same level I use when casting the Imperius.”
I nodded. My breath stayed even. I was ready.
“Legilimens.”
Pansy’s face surfaced immediately in my mind—smirking, eyes narrowed with false sweetness, her voice dripping with implication. But I didn’t cling to the image. I pictured it floating away, a lazy cloud drifting out of my reach across a pale blue sky.
Another voice followed—Head Girl, lecturing me last week about curfews. Another cloud. Drifting, dissolving.
Snape’s silhouette appeared next. His voice was sharp, the memory clear—him drilling me in duelling stances. This time, I hesitated. I stayed with the memory for a beat too long. Then I remembered myself and let it float too. I imagined it shrinking, a dark smudge on the horizon, swept away by a breeze I could almost feel on my skin.
And then—suddenly—I knew he was gone.
I blinked, the image dissolving, my head still wrapped in that strange cottony quiet that came with the practice. I let the silence linger.
Snape made a quiet sound, almost thoughtful.
“That was the lowest intensity,” he said. “Emotionally neutral memories. You did well… even if you faltered on the third mem— Legilimens. ”
He didn’t even give me time to prepare.
Umbridge’s voice hit me like a curse. “Hem hem—” And I was back in that awful DADA class, her syrupy condescension oozing through the room like poison. My chest clenched. I froze for a second. I wanted to punch something.
I dragged my mind away—clumsily—forcing the image out like someone opening a window in a smoke-filled room. Clouds, I thought. Go back to the clouds. The wind’s picking up. Push it all away.
Snape was still there, though—I could feel the weight of him.
I thought of him—not now, but before. The first time he taught me how to resist the Imperius. The way he’d stood so still, so intense, as I flailed and failed, and tried again anyway. I saw the scene play out like a film. Detached. Distant.
And then—
Lucius.
Lucius Malfoy’s face—gleaming, furious, too close. My throat ached.
“Stop,” I said aloud, voice sharp. But Snape didn’t pull back. He kept searching, rifling through my thoughts like a man tearing through drawers in a panic.
I panicked, too.
The clouds weren’t enough. They were too soft. Too slow. Lucius was still there.
I needed noise.
I pictured wind—howling wind, screaming through train windows on the Hogwarts Express, loud enough to drown thought. I turned it up in my mind, cranked the volume until it roared. Until I couldn’t hear anything else.
That’s when I realised he was gone.
I opened my eyes, breathing hard, but steady. My fingers twitched, but I didn’t feel raw—just emptied out.
“You’re improving,” Snape said. “Better at chasing neutral thoughts. But you must detach from the emotions tied to high-stimulus memories. You let them touch you too long.”
Another pause. Another breath.
“Legilimens. ”
I was standing before the Board of Governors. Their eyes pierced through me, Lucius among them. I felt myself shrinking, my shoulders curling in.
No.
I made myself rise above the scene. Look down at it all from higher up. Like I wasn’t even in the room. The crowd blurred below me.
It flickered. The memory pulled me back.
I forced myself out again—upward. The clouds returned. I painted the sky in pinks and blues and purples, the way sunrise looked over the Great Lake. I focused on the colour.
Lucius’s cane flashed in the memory like a blade.
So I pictured it—snapped it in half, and smashed it over his smug head.
Everything went still.
And I was alone again in my mind.
I blinked a few times, slow and uncertain, still floating in the noise-blank cotton of my thoughts. Then I glanced up at Snape, who stood there, his wand lowered. His face was making something weird.
“…Did I just—push you out?” I asked cautiously, almost disbelieving.
He tilted his head, as though weighing the words.
“Not precisely,” he said. “You didn’t drive me out. I retreated.”
He paused.
“The mental image you conjured caught me off guard. It disrupted my concentration.”
I tensed. That sounded like I’d done something wrong. Snape stared at me for a beat longer. Then:
“That,” he said finally, “was quite a believable false memory.”
I blinked.
“It was?”
His voice was low and even—calm, but with a glint of something behind it. Interest, maybe. Curiosity.
“Your mental imagery is unusually vivid. Intentionally warping the memory mid-cast isn’t standard, but it was effective. It’s a technique closer to step six: planting false impressions. Distraction, redirection.”
I sat up a bit straighter, not sure whether I was pleased or just baffled.
“So… that’s good?”
“It’s… promising,” he said, and for Snape, that might as well have been glowing praise. “Your imagination and instinctive response could make you particularly adept at planting false thoughts. We’ll revisit this in later lessons.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“Right,” I said. “Okay.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Is it—can you use that? The fake memory stuff—to drive someone away?”
Snape narrowed his eyes faintly, considering.
“Not usually. Not unless the image is… particularly gruesome, or emotionally disturbing to the Legilimens. And only if they are unprepared, or—” He flicked his hand. “—soft.”
“Got it,” I muttered. “So it’s not a defence strategy.”
“Correct,” he said. “Do not base your mental shielding on lies. It makes your mind chaotic, unreadable perhaps, but also unstable. You want to be a locked vault, not a maze of trick mirrors.”
I frowned.
“But then how do I fight back?”
Snape looked at me, still as stone.
“I mean,” I continued, “if I’m supposed to keep my mind empty—blank, no thoughts, no emotion—then how do I have any drive to push someone out? When my mind is blank, I don’t care that someone’s there. I don’t have anything to fight with. How am I supposed to push someone out if I’m not even mad they’re in?”
My voice didn’t rise, but the confusion was there, quiet and honest.
Snape didn’t answer immediately. He looked at me like he was revising something. Not judging—just reassessing.
Then he said,
“That… is the flaw in most textbooks.”
He stepped closer, lowering his wand fully.
“You’re not wrong. Pure detachment creates a void. You’re silent, yes, but vulnerable. The best Occlumens don’t merely hide. They defend. ” He paused. “The trick is control. Emotion—not suppressed, but leashed.”
He met my eyes.
“When the time comes, Weasley, you will learn not to extinguish your will to fight… but to sharpen it. Quietly. Intentionally. And when necessary—”
His voice dropped, silk and steel,
“—you strike back.”
I swallowed. Then nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “I want to learn that.”
The Room of Requirement had once again provided exactly what we needed: an open, sun-drenched glade beneath a high ceiling painted like the sky. The sound of a stream burbled pleasantly in the background, and every few minutes, one of our Patronuses would sweep through the clearing like a silver breeze.
“Come on, Hermione!” Harry called, his weasel darting between her feet. “You’re almost there—your otter’s practically waving at us.”
“I think it’s just... liquidy hope,” she muttered, brows furrowed in concentration. “Give me a second.”
Ginny’s horse was even closer to being fully formed, its legs flickering beneath a solid head. Fred’s magpie swooped down and passed right through her shoulder.
“Oi!” Ginny scowled. “That’s not helpful!”
“Encouragement from a higher plane, sister dear,” Fred said solemnly.
George added,
“Also, we’re bored. Get to the glorious silver light bit already.”
My goose waddled past, honking indignantly at the twins’ magpies. It flapped into the air, gave a lazy loop, and then landed beside Luna’s hare, which sat primly on its haunches like it owned the place.
Hermione’s wand moved. Light burst forth—and this time, it didn’t fade. An otter leapt from her wand with a joyful bounce, its feet barely touching the grass as it bounded toward the stream.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then we all shouted at once.
“Yes!”
“You did it!”
“Brilliant, Hermione!”
Hermione looked as if she might faint.
“It’s—it’s solid! It’s really solid!”
Ginny narrowed her eyes.
“Well, I can’t let you one-up me—Expecto Patronum!”
And just like that, a shining horse galloped into being, its mane streaming behind it like a banner.
More cheering. The twins whooped and lifted Ginny up between them as she laughed.
Then—of course—they produced bottles of butterbeer from their bottomless bag of mischief.
“You walk around with butterbeer?” Hermione asked, half amused, half scandalised.
“Always,” Fred said, handing her a bottle.
“We knew today would be the day,” George added, offering one to Ginny. “We had faith in you.”
Both girls looked touched. Hermione ducked her head with a smile, cheeks blooming a little pink as Fred passed her the drink.
I stood a bit apart, watching her laugh at something he said, and I couldn’t help but notice the way Fred looked at her—like he saw something special.
Huh.
Huh.
I raised an eyebrow. Interesting.
Luna appeared beside me, plucked a sunflower seed from my open hand without asking, and crunched down thoughtfully.
“Love’s got long roots,” she murmured. “Even when it grows sideways.”
I blinked at her.
“That’s… poetic.”
“Isn’t it?” she said, still chewing.
We watched in companionable silence as the others clinked bottles and bantered loudly. George was recounting a ridiculous story involving Ginny, a rogue Bludger, and a gnome in their garden.
I handed Luna another seed. She accepted it wordlessly, leaning just slightly against my shoulder.
Yeah. This? This was a good day.
Later, we left the Room of Requirement together, all six of us still grinning and glowing with the triumph of the session. Ginny and Hermione were flushed with their recent victories, and Harry kept flicking his fingers like his weasel Patronus might come bursting back out at any moment. Even the twins looked satisfied, which was saying something.
We made it down the corridor toward the Entrance Hall as a group—still laughing, still warm from spellwork and butterbeer. But then Ginny let out a soft “Oh!” and pointed ahead.
There he was.
Hagrid. Towering and unmistakable, his beard a bit more unruly than usual, his massive coat dusty and wrinkled—but it was the purple-black shiner around his left eye that made us all pause.
“Blimey,” Fred muttered.
“Welcome home,” George said under his breath, before steering Ginny and Luna toward the Great Hall with a nudge. “We’ll get seats.”
“Tell him we’ll visit after!” Ginny called back to us, glancing over her shoulder.
The three of us broke away from the group and approached him.
“Hagrid,” I said, grinning. “You’re back.”
He turned at the sound of my voice, and even with one eye almost swollen shut, he looked delighted.
“Ron! Harry! Hermione! Look at yeh lot. Still in one piece, then?”
“Barely,” Harry said.
“We missed you,” Hermione said sincerely. “Can we come by after lunch?”
“’Course yeh can,” Hagrid said, beaming. “I’ve just got the kettle warmin’. Got biscuits too.”
“We’ll be there,” I promised. “Save us the good ones.”
He chuckled, thumped my shoulder with one giant hand (it nearly knocked me into Hermione), and we headed off toward the Great Hall.
When we entered, the twins, Ginny, and Luna had already claimed a spot at the Gryffindor table, halfway down. We slid in beside them, grabbing plates as a steaming roast floated overhead.
“Still alive?” George asked, already piling his plate.
“For now,” I said.
“What happened to Hagrid’s eye?” Ginny asked quietly, glancing toward the staff table.
“We’ll ask him,” Harry murmured. “We’re going to see him after.”
They nodded, and the conversation moved on, bouncing between food complaints and Grubbly-Plank’s strangely specific rant about porlocks being misunderstood and deeply introverted.
“You’re not introverted if you kick people in the shin,” Fred said.
“They only do that when startled!” Luna offered brightly.
Ginny tried to flick mashed potatoes at Fred. George tried to charm it to stick. Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled.
I just leaned back, soaking in the noise and comfort of it all. For the first time in a long time, lunch didn’t feel like a pause between disasters.
It was loud, messy, and perfect.
After lunch, the three of us broke off and headed toward the grounds. The sun was still high, warm against our cloaks, the breeze soft enough to almost feel like summer.
When we reached Hagrid’s hut, he was already outside setting out mugs and a chipped old teapot. He gave us a proud little wave and gestured to the chairs he’d conjured from nowhere.
“Tea’s up,” he said, “and I nicked some biscuits from the kitchens. Don’t tell.”
We sat in a comfortable circle in the grass, birds chirping somewhere in the trees, the lake shimmering in the distance. It was so peaceful that it was easy to forget the questions hanging between us. But eventually, Hermione looked over gently.
“Hagrid… what happened to your eye?”
He shifted. Actually shifted. Big boots scraping the earth as he cleared his throat and looked away.
“S’not important,” he said. “Bit of a scrape. Nothing to worry yerselves about.”
“Was it during your mission?” Harry asked carefully.
Hagrid sighed and reached for the teapot.
“It went well, at first. Real well. Found what I was lookin’ for. But then…” He shook his head. “Death Eaters showed up. Not for me, mind—same mission, I reckon. But it got messy fast. Couldn’t finish what I started. Had to come back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he muttered. “Let Dumbledore down. Let the Order down.”
“No, you didn’t,” Hermione said firmly.
“You came back alive,” Harry added.
Hagrid looked down into his tea as if it had secrets at the bottom. Then, after a moment, he brightened.
“But enough about that. Tell me—how’s Hogwarts been holdin’ up without me?”
So we told him. About classes, about the things that had shifted in his absence. About the chaos. The Prophet. The trials. Umbridge.
His brow furrowed the moment I was mentioned.
“She did what to yeh?” he growled. “That woman—she deserves Azkaban for touchin’ yeh like that!”
“Hagrid,” Hermione said quickly, “it’s been handled. She’s gone now.”
“Still,” Hagrid grumbled. “If I ever see her again…”
Harry and I exchanged a look. Hermione wisely changed the subject.
“So, are you coming back to teach again?”
“’Course I am,” he said with a grin. “Can’t let you lot go learnin’ without me. Got next lesson already planned, I do. You’re gonna love it.”
I smiled into my mug. Honestly? I was glad. Grubbly-Plank was good. Efficient. But she didn’t love it the way Hagrid did. She didn’t make the lessons feel like magic.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
I had to wait to find out what Hagrid’s surprise was. Tuesday meant Care of Magical Creatures for most students, but not for me—not yet. I had my career advice meeting first.
Everyone else had already had theirs, except Blaise. Hermione had come out of her meeting like she’d just aced a test she didn’t study for. Harry… Harry hadn’t said anything. He’d been quiet for the rest of the day, more tense than usual. That didn’t bode well.
Now it was my turn.
I knocked on the door to Snape’s office, hearing the familiar low, “Enter,” and stepped inside. The door shut behind me with a soft click. The room was warm and shadowy and still smelled faintly of herbs and the bitter edge of potions, and that alone made my shoulders loosen a little. I knew this place. It was familiar.
Snape didn’t look up right away. He finished writing something, and only then did he set his quill down with exacting care. When he finally looked at me, it was like being put under a microscope.
I sat in the chair across from him and waited.
“This meeting,” he said, “is meant to review your academic standing and discuss your prospective career path. Based on your current grades, we’ll also determine which N.E.W.T.-level classes you’ll be permitted to continue.”
He reached for a parchment near the edge of his desk and scanned it. His expression didn’t change.
“You’ve received Exceeds Expectations or Optimal marks in most of your classes. History of Magic and Herbology are your only Acceptable scores. You meet the N.E.W.T. requirements for all classes… except Herbology. That may limit you in some fields. However,” He placed the parchment down neatly. “You have many options.”
I nodded, trying not to look too pleased about it. He set the parchment down.
“Which subjects are you intending to drop?”
That I could easily answer.
“I want to drop History, Astronomy, and Herbology for sure,” I said. “And I thought I’d wait until this meeting to ask if you think I could manage seven N.E.W.T.s.”
Snape tilted his head slightly.
“You’ve already demonstrated,” he said slowly, “that you can balance your studies, your prefect duties, extracurricular tutoring, and an unusual amount of extracurricular chaos. I see no reason why you shouldn’t manage seven.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
“Right. Good. That’s good.”
Then came the question I’d been dreading.
“And have you given thought,” he said, “to what you’d like to do after Hogwarts?”
I grimaced before I could stop myself.
“No. I mean—no, sir. I don’t have the faintest idea.”
Snape didn’t look impressed.
“Surely,” he said, drawing the word out like a rebuke, “you must have an inkling.”
I dropped my eyes. I hadn’t meant to. But it happened anyway.
There was a pause. Then his voice, sharper than before, cut through the quiet.
“I do not make a habit of using Legilimency on students, Mr. Weasley. So I would appreciate it if you told me directly what it is you’re trying to hide.”
I swallowed.
“You won’t like it.”
“I am not asking for something I’ll like,” he said, with that familiar edge. “I’m asking for the truth.”
Of course not. I ran a hand down my face and sighed.
“I just…” My throat closed up for a second. I forced the words through it. “I can’t picture it. Being alive, I mean. After all this. I can’t see that far ahead.”
The silence that followed was absolute. I didn’t dare look up.
When I finally did, Snape hadn’t moved. But something in his expression had changed—his jaw tight, his eyes colder than they’d been a second ago. Not angry. Not cruel. More like… Scared.
Oh.
Snape didn’t speak right away. His hands remained steepled over the parchment, but they weren’t as still as before. His thumb tapped once, twice, against his knuckle—a tiny, unconscious movement that made my stomach twist.
“I see,” he said at last. His voice was low. Careful.
I didn’t know what to say to that. I hadn’t meant to tell him. But now it was out there, hanging between us like fog that wouldn’t clear.
He inhaled through his nose, slowly. Then leaned forward, just a little.
“You are not a seer,” he said.
It wasn’t biting. It wasn’t mocking. It was just… steady. And firm. Like a tether thrown toward me from across some impossible distance.
“No, sir,” I said.
Not really.
“And you are not doomed,” he added.
That part, I couldn’t answer.
His fingers shifted slightly against each other, like he was grounding himself.
“There is no war,” he said carefully, “that does not demand a toll. You are… aware of that.”
“Yes,” I muttered. “I am.”
“But what you feel is not fate,” he continued, “and not prophecy. It is fear. Reasonable. Understandable. But not truth.”
I stared at the edge of his desk. My hands had curled into fists in my lap without me noticing.
“Perhaps,” he said, more quietly now, “you see no future for yourself because you’ve spent too long bracing for the worst. But that does not mean you do not have one.”
His words settled over me slowly, like mist over skin. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He studied me for a few moments longer, then leaned back in his chair.
“This is a career meeting,” he said, almost dryly. “Not a funeral. So unless you plan on leaving school in a blaze of glory within the next two years, we will proceed.”
I huffed something like a laugh. It caught halfway in my throat, but I managed it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he said. Then, just a little softer, “Don’t be so quick to count yourself out.”
I looked up.
Snape’s gaze was level. Firm. And—for just a moment—kind.
And then he gestured for me to continue.
“Now. Since you’re keeping Potions, Defence, Transfiguration, Charms, Ancient Runes, Care, and Divination… that opens paths. Curse-breaking. Research. Spellcrafting. The Department of Mysteries. Possibly auror work.”
I blinked.
“You think I could make it into the Department of Mysteries?”
“You are more capable than you believe, Mr. Weasley,” he said simply. “The real question is—what do you want?”
And for the first time, I let myself wonder, visualising what my future might look like…
Chapter 69: BOOK FIVE - TRAPS AND TAILS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
TRAPS AND TAILS
I told Harry I wanted to sleep in on Sunday—until at least lunch—and he just shrugged. Made me promise I wasn’t sick or brooding, and then let it go.
Which is how I found myself slipping out of the dungeons with the Map in one pocket and the Cloak over my shoulders. The corridors were quiet. Most students were still snoring or shovelling toast. Perfect.
When I reached the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Dumbledore was already there.
He looked like he was just taking a stroll, hands behind his back, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby, and twiddling his thumbs. Literally.
I smiled before I could help it. I liked seeing him like this—eccentric, yes, but warm. The kind of man who could lull you into a sense of safety even when standing two feet from a corridor full of broken, cursed junk.
I pulled the Cloak off.
“Morning, sir.”
“Ah, Ron,” he said, beaming. “Punctual, as ever. I do appreciate a man who understands the value of stolen time.”
We didn’t waste words after that. I paced in front of the blank wall three times, thinking of what we needed: the place where everything is hidden. The door appeared, tall and solid, and we stepped inside together.
The Room of Requirement never disappointed. Towering piles of discarded objects stretched in every direction—broken furniture, cracked cauldrons, books oozing something suspicious, cabinets with missing doors. If I hadn’t already seen it before, I would’ve thought it impossible.
We stood in silence for a moment, each probably thinking about what was buried in here.
Then Dumbledore reached into his robes and pulled out a small, palm-sized object that started releasing a faint trail of silver mist.
I eyed it with interest.
“What’s that?”
“A detection charm, of sorts,” he said, examining the mist. “It senses lingering traces of dark magic. Rather sensitive. Not terribly specific, but helpful if you’re hunting something cursed.” He gave it a thoughtful tap. “Of course, if there are too many dark artefacts in the room, it may just scream in protest and refuse to cooperate.”
I gave a dry little laugh.
“So it might explode.”
“Oh, let’s hope not.”
We split up after that. I headed off toward a towering heap of cabinets and dusty trunks.
It didn’t take long. Five minutes in, I found it—a massive, black cabinet with ornate brass handles and a cracked base.
“Professor?” I called.
Dumbledore appeared moments later, the mist from his device turning greyish as he neared.
“Ah,” he said quietly, setting the instrument on a nearby desk. “There you are.”
He pulled out his wand and began casting. Pale blue spells shimmered and sank into the cabinet’s wood, one after another, like ink bleeding into paper. I recognised some of the spellwork—warding, alert triggers, maybe even a variant of a trapping charm I’d read about once.
When he was done, he stepped back, face lined with thought.
“This warding should prevent any magical repair attempts,” he said. “It will alert me immediately if tampered with, and it will trap anyone who tries to fix or activate it.”
I nodded.
“I get why we wouldn’t want to destroy it—it’s a valuable artefact—but… why not move it somewhere safer?”
“Because it is valuable,” Dumbledore said, “not just for what it is, but for what it tells us. If Voldemort’s followers become aware of it—as you say they might—we’ll know the moment they try to act on that knowledge. It will tell us which threads of your foreknowledge are shifting. And which are not.”
That made sense.
“You think the person who’ll fix it could change?”
“Exactly. If Draco falters, someone else may be given the task. Or if he never learns of it, another path will be taken entirely. This trap will help us track the divergence.”
“And what if it’s not a student?” I asked. “If it’s someone powerful. Someone who knows their way around wards.”
Dumbledore gave a soft chuckle.
“While vanity is generally unbecoming, I dare say there are few alive who could dismantle my work undetected.”
I huffed in amusement.
“Fair.”
He turned to the instrument on the table.
“Now then. Let’s see if this can help us locate the diadem, shall we?”
I nodded, feeling the weight of the day settle on my shoulders—but also, strangely, a thrill. We were doing it. Taking steps. Shaping the war before it shaped us.
We split up again after that. Dumbledore gave me a nod and vanished into the maze of forgotten things with his clinking, fog-spouting instrument in hand. I couldn’t hear much beyond my footsteps and the distant, rhythmic rattle of his device echoing somewhere deep in the room. It was strange—how quiet it could be when we were surrounded by so much stuff.
I passed piles of shattered furniture and crates spilling out all sorts of mad things—cursed teapots, singing hairbrushes, what looked like a melted violin. A lot of it was probably dangerous. Some of it looked suspiciously like stuff the twins would have loved. Or sold.
That thought lingered, heavier than I liked. I pushed it away. I didn’t need to know where Fred and George got their stock. Didn’t want to. That was their business. And maybe plausible deniability would protect Mum’s sanity one day.
I rummaged through a large cupboard with a blistered surface and immediately recoiled when I found a skeleton inside—one with five legs. I slammed the doors shut with a shudder and took a step back. Bloody hell.
That was when I noticed it—off to the side, on a nearby crate. A big, ugly bust. I frowned at it. Something about it pulled at the back of my mind, like a memory half-formed. I tilted my head, considered it, and turned to go.
And then I stopped.
I didn’t know why it nagged at me—but it did. It was a feeling I’d learned to trust. A memory I hadn’t placed yet. Something from the books. Something important.
So I went back.
I moved the bust down onto the floor so I could open the crate it had been sitting on. It was full of empty Butterbeer bottles. I scowled and shut it again, putting the bust back where I found it. Then I crouched and started digging around the clutter nearby. Most of it was disgusting—sticky, dust-covered, and half-melted. I nicked my finger on something rusty and muttered, “Brilliant,” before remembering that I could just get Madam Pomfrey to patch it up later. If it turned out to be cursed, well… that’d be a nice capstone on the day.
I found a powdered wig next, tangled and damp with who-knew-what. Gross. I was about to chuck it over my shoulder when I saw something glinting in the mass of hair.
I froze.
Carefully, I pried it loose. It was a tiara. Dusty, tangled, but definitely a tiara. I turned it over in my hands, wiping it clean, and the dust came away to reveal tiny carved wings. An eagle.
I blinked. And blinked again.
Then I saw the words. Etched in the old metal, faded but still clear: “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.”
Oh.
Well, bloody hell.
I just stood there for a moment, holding it. Voldemort really was a cocky bastard. Just chucked one of his soul jars into the biggest junk pile in existence and assumed no one would ever find it. That kind of arrogance might actually work in our favour, but still. What a git.
“Professor!” I called. “I found something!”
Dumbledore arrived a minute later, his instrument clinking louder and faster as he neared. The fog was darker now, coiling around itself like smoke. He came to a stop when he saw what I was holding.
Then he laughed. Actually laughed.
“It seems, Mr. Weasley,” he said, eyes twinkling behind those half-moons, “that a well-honed instinct and an unclouded eye may have just outperformed my expensive magical instruments.”
I smiled, a little self-conscious, but held the diadem out to him.
The fog in his instrument turned violently black and clinked like a furious wind chime before he waved his wand and silenced it. He slipped it back into his robes and took the diadem carefully from my hands.
He turned it this way and that, studying the metalwork, the gems. He murmured a few spells I didn’t recognise, and I watched with open curiosity, letting the moment settle into me.
Then he conjured a deep box lined with velvet, lowered the diadem inside, and sealed it with another quiet incantation.
“Well done,” he said. “This is another crucial step. And a great one.”
Then he looked at me. The kind of look that told you he wasn’t just seeing the surface.
“And it also gives me hope,” he added softly. “Hope, despite what you told Professor Snape.”
I blinked, feeling heat crawl up my neck.
“He told you.”
“He did,” Dumbledore said. “He was… quite distraught, actually. He stormed into my office, claiming that whatever we were doing in secret was crushing your hope for a future. Severus is not a man who shows his distress easily, Mr. Weasley. You’ve unsettled him.”
I winced.
“Didn’t mean to.”
“I don’t believe you did,” Dumbledore replied. “But sometimes, people need to hear the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. And sometimes, those people… need to be reminded that the future still exists.”
He held up the case containing the diadem.
“This,” he said, “is proof of that. This is one more wound we will not let fester. One less threat hiding in the dark.”
I looked at the box in his hands, then at his face. He was smiling faintly, but his eyes were serious.
“I know that it is difficult to picture a world beyond war,” he continued softly. “Especially when you carry so much knowledge of what may come. But I promise you, Ron… that future does exist. You’ve already shaped it by being here. And by choosing to fight for it.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
“Thank you, sir.”
Dumbledore’s smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“No,” he said. “Thank you.”
Then he carefully tucked the case into an inner pocket of his robe, made sure it was secure, and gestured to the door.
“Shall we?”
I let out a slow breath and nodded again. And together, we walked back through the mountains of forgotten things—me, a little lighter, and him, just a little brighter.
I moved through the dungeons under the cloak, the Marauder’s Map open in my hands and glowing faintly in the torchlight. The corridors were almost empty at this hour, which was perfect. Quiet meant fewer eyes, fewer questions. It wasn’t hard to follow Snape’s dot; it moved steadily up from the fourth floor, heading toward our usual meeting spot near the Room of Requirement.
I smiled a little. Third lesson. I was getting the hang of it. Snape hadn’t said it outright, but I could tell—he was impressed.
But then… something tugged at me.
A dot moved just a little too closely behind Snape’s—same direction, same corridor, same pace.
‘John Dawlish’
My stomach dropped.
What the hell?
Dawlish didn’t leave his classroom unless it was to eat, and even then, he did it at odd times when most of us were somewhere else. He didn’t patrol the halls. Didn’t chat in the staff room. If he was moving now—if he was following Snape—
I sped up.
The fifth-floor stairs creaked under my feet, so I moved more slowly again, careful. I glanced down. Snape’s dot turned toward the stairs to the sixth floor. I glanced up, and he was there, at the end of the corridor.
I glanced down again.
Dawlish’s dot? Still behind. Still coming. Still in front of me.
Except… he wasn’t there.
I narrowed my eyes.
I looked straight ahead—Snape’s figure was visible now, cloak billowing like usual as he swept forward.
But I couldn’t see Dawlish.
My gut told me everything I needed to know.
I backed off a little, stepped into the shadow of a tapestry, and whispered the Human-Presence-Revealing Charm.
A shimmer.
Just barely.
There—at the edge of the corridor, pressed against the far wall. The faintest distortion in the air, like sunlight on stone, like heat waves. A wand tip glinted for half a second.
Disillusioned.
Bloody bastard was under a Disillusionment Charm.
He was tailing Snape.
Undercover.
I let out a slow breath and stepped wide around him, careful not to brush too close. My heart thudded. This wasn’t a patrol. This wasn’t casual curiosity.
He was spying.
On Snape.
Probably on us.
Snape was still walking—he hadn’t turned. He hadn’t noticed.
And we were one floor away from being caught in the act.
Unless I stopped it.
Unless I stopped one of them.
I didn’t know what the hell to do yet, but I knew I had to move fast.
I thought. Then I acted.
I cast the Trip Jinx without hesitation.
A sharp thud cracked through the corridor, followed by a muttered curse and a weird shimmer in the air, like water rippling after a stone’s hit. For a second, Dawlish’s body flickered into view, the Disillusionment Charm stuttering. He was hunched, halfway to the floor.
Snape turned in one fluid, dangerous motion. His robes snapped behind him, wand already drawn.
“What do you think you’re doing, Dawlish?”
Dawlish straightened like he hadn’t just faceplanted against a stone wall.
“Routine security monitoring,” he said flatly.
Snape raised one eyebrow, slow and sharp.
“Fascinating. I wasn’t aware routine security now involved skulking under Disillusionment Charms.”
Dawlish’s jaw worked.
“Ministry orders are clear. I’m to investigate any violations of educational decrees. Yours included.”
Snape’s mouth curled in a nasty little smirk.
“Yes. And I’m sure the Ministry will be delighted to learn their top man tripped over thin air while spying on a professor during a walk. Truly, the stuff of legend.”
Dawlish’s face darkened.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“Oh, but it seems you do,” Snape said silkily. “Especially since we already had a little chat yesterday about your baseless suspicions and your source.”
I blinked. Yesterday?
“Just following up on a lead,” Dawlish snapped.
Snape’s voice turned cold enough to crack glass.
“Ah, yes. Miss Parkinson. A student known far and wide for her good judgment.” His arms folded across his chest. “An antagonistic child with a taste for melodrama—and you’ve let her wind you up like a Weasley Whiz-Bang. Pathetic.”
Dawlish’s hands clenched.
“If you believe my actions fall outside my duties,” Snape went on, dangerously calm now, “take it up with the Headmaster directly. Not by scuttling after me under an invisibility charm like a sixth-year delinquent.”
For a moment, Dawlish didn’t move. Then he squared his shoulders like he still had some dignity left.
“I’ll be reporting this encounter to my superiors.”
“I encourage it,” Snape replied. “Perhaps they’ll send someone better suited to stealth next time.”
Dawlish didn’t answer. He just turned and stalked off, boots loud and sharp on the stone.
I pressed flat against the wall as he passed, holding my breath so he wouldn’t accidentally brush against me. Once he was gone, I checked the Map—yep, already halfway down to the fourth floor. I stepped up to Snape and whispered,
“He’s gone. Fourth floor now.”
Snape’s head whipped toward me, his gaze cutting through the air.
“Of course you were here,” he muttered. Dry. Irritated. Not even a little surprised.
We didn’t speak again until we were inside the Room of Requirement, the door sealed behind us.
Snape turned to face me immediately.
“If you intend to sabotage Ministry officials during your free time, Mr. Weasley, I would appreciate being informed beforehand.”
I shrugged.
“Didn’t have a safe way to warn you. And we were already close to the seventh floor. It worked, didn’t it?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“It did.”
I allowed myself a small, smug smile.
“So… Parkinson went to Dawlish with her suspicions, huh?”
Snape’s eyes narrowed—though not at me this time.
“She did. Dawlish confronted me yesterday. Apparently, she noticed… inconsistencies in your tutoring schedule and decided to stir trouble.”
“Because she’s mad you picked me instead of her,” I said, scowling. “And probably mad she can’t blackmail me.”
“She is dangerous precisely because of that pettiness,” Snape said. “And Dawlish is too eager to see rot in this school. The Ministry didn’t send him to protect us. They sent him to dig.”
I ran a hand through my hair.
“You think he’ll keep trying?”
Snape looked at the door, thoughtful.
“Yes. But now he knows he can be caught. He’ll be more cautious. And slower. That gives us an edge. Let’s not waste it.”
I nodded.
He turned his gaze back on me, sharp and measuring.
“In our first and second sessions, you showed you could dismiss neutral to mid-stimulus memories when the Legilimency intensity was low or moderate.” His voice was smooth but purposeful. “Now I want you to push further—dismiss high-stimulus memories, under low intensity.”
My shoulders tensed at the shift in tone. I nodded again, more stiffly this time. I wasn’t sure I could do it. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know what counted as high-stimulus in Snape’s definition.
He raised his wand.
“Legilimens.”
The rush was instant. The staff room. Polished wood. Lucius Malfoy’s sneering face at the hearing with the Board of Governors. I felt that old spark of fury flare—then blinked it away. That memory had been dragged up so many times it had lost its bite. I shoved it aside like a passing cloud in a blue sky.
Then, Umbridge. Her toad-like smile in her office, droning on about rules. A swell of hate surged in my chest and clenched in my hands. I chased it once. Failed. Tried again. Again. Then finally—breathed in, counted clouds—and let her float away. It cost me more effort than I liked to admit.
Next: Sirius. First time I met him properly. He was insulting Snape. It was angering, but fleeting. It passed. I let it go.
I was so focused on my mental sky, I barely noticed the shift. Snape’s pressure increased. The clouds scattered like they’d never been there at all. And suddenly—
“What are you accusing him of?” My voice, in the kitchen at Headquarters.
I panicked. Not this one. Not this memory.
I tried to bring back the clouds. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even breathe properly.
“…you’re still blaming him for what happened in the graveyard…”
The room was too loud. My brain was too noisy. I tried to drown it in wind, in noise, imagined the shriek of the Hogwarts Express hurtling down the tracks. Anything to stop it.
“You’re a handsome boy.”
No.
I made the wind howl in my mind. Louder. Louder still. But the memory got louder, too. I was spiralling now, the wind and memory feeding each other like fire and fuel. I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t hide.
“I don’t blame him.”
Don’t look. Don’t look don’t look don’t look—
But the more I tried not to think about it, the clearer it became.
“He needs support from people who know the truth…”
My stomach twisted. I didn’t know anymore if I was seeing it or reliving it. My chest hurt.
“…He has to take part in their plans sometimes just to stay alive.”
“I was there. Not you. Me. I saw what happened. I lived it. And I don’t blame him. I never did.”
“…he suffered enough just being there…”
I couldn’t breathe. Not properly. My fists were clenched so hard they hurt. My throat burned.
“He needs support from people who know the truth. Not suspicion. Not this…”
“I was there…”
“... when he comes back here, where it should be safe, he still gets glared at like he’s the enemy.”
“... I never did.”
“I can’t even imagine it.”
“…he suffered enough just being there…”
Then, it stopped.
The words faded like smoke, the kitchen vanished, and I was back in the Room of Requirement. I gasped, dragging in air like I’d been underwater. My palms pressed hard against my knees. Sweat cooled on the back of my neck. My head throbbed like a Bludger had hit me.
“Shit,” I panted. “That wasn’t mid-intensity… was it?”
Snape said nothing for a beat. I looked up at him through burning eyes. His face was unreadable. But something in it had changed.
And I waited.
“No,” he said coolly. “That was not mid-intensity.”
A pause. Then, quieter:
“I presume your mother did not take that well.”
I winced so hard I nearly pulled a muscle. My chest heaved, still struggling for breath, but that question made it worse. He’d heard that part. Of course, he had. I wanted to apologise, but the words wouldn’t come. It was too mortifying—too raw. My mouth opened once, twice, then I just shut it and wheezed until I got my breathing under control again.
I closed my eyes and went back to the clouds. That quiet sky I’d learned to picture. Pale and drifting, soft-edged, far away from everything. It helped a little. But my mind still felt… feeble. I’d never felt it like that before. Tired, slow, like it had been wrung out like a rag. Is that what real high-intensity Legilimency felt like? No wonder I couldn’t block it—not even for a second. I’d clearly gotten too confident after the last session.
I imagined the wind in the clouds, chasing away the sting of failure, the embarrassment curling tight in my gut. It would take time. All of this. That was the truth.
When I opened my eyes again, Snape was still watching me. Apparently, he hadn’t looked away once. I felt my face flush hotter and prayed it could be passed off as exertion and not shame.
He spoke finally, with that carefully blank face of his.
“Your desire to shield others’ opinions of me is noble,” he said. “But sentiment is the enemy of silence. You must learn to distance yourself—even from your own loyalty.”
I wanted to groan, but I kept it in. Fantastic. More feelings spilt everywhere, and now I was getting a lecture on sentimentality. I managed a stiff nod.
“Legilimens.”
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
A memory of Sirius again. Nothing terrible. A flare of anger, but familiar. I pushed it away with a cloud. Then one of Harry and Hermione debating what to do about something—I didn’t even bother focusing on the topic. I chased that one too. My mind settled again into the sky.
I floated like that for what could’ve been minutes, half aware of Snape’s presence clawing at the edges of my thoughts but not breaking through. Until something shifted. Pressure mounted. The clouds blew apart.
I was at the Three Broomsticks. Warm light. Butterbeer. Sirius’ voice:
“Snivellus? You’re telling me Snape’s the hero in this? Merlin, that’s rich.”
Anger. Again. My sky blew sideways. I slammed the wind louder in my head. I didn’t remember the rest of that conversation. Good. I leaned into the clouds. Sirius was gone.
Another memory cropped up. A flicker of a debate with Harry. I didn’t remember the words, so I sent it off like a balloon. Then—
Back in the kitchen at Headquarters.
Mum.
“You’re a handsome boy.”
No.
Clouds. I needed clouds. But the mortification peeled the sky back like paper.
Back to Sirius. His sneering tone again.
“Snivellus? You’re telling me Snape’s the hero in this? Merlin, that’s rich.”
“Snape literally saved your life, dude.”
Then—
“Ohhh, someone’s got a crush on Snivellus.”
Panic.
I stopped thinking about clouds. I couldn’t think about anything gentle or soft. The embarrassment was a noose.
So I used the technique I’d hidden until now.
Flapping wings. Webbed feet slapping every surface. Honking—horrible, blaring, deafening honking. Dozens of geese filled my vision, my ears, my soul. Chaos incarnate.
And just like that—
Snape retreated.
The silence was immediate and brutal. I blinked hard, gasping. Back in my own head, lungs tight, face burning hotter than before. I could barely look up.
He’d heard that.
Of course, he had.
I wanted to die.
Snape hadn’t said a word. I risked a glance from under my fringe.
He was standing very still, one hand raised, pinching the bridge of his nose.
What did that mean? Anger? Frustration? A sudden desire to banish me from his presence forever? Was he trying to calculate the most efficient way to obliterate a memory from existence?
Then he said, in a voice of profound disbelief—
“…Geese. Of course.”
That was it.
No shouting. No lecture. Just that.
I blinked. Looked at him properly now. Was that… was that consternation?
He stayed like that for a moment, then muttered,
“This may be the most unconventional—and absurd—counterattack I’ve encountered in my entire career.”
A short, shocked laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Snape finally looked up and gave a slight, nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
“…A flock of geese, Mr Weasley?”
I gave him a sheepish grin, halfway between mortified and proud.
“It stopped you, didn’t it?”
He pursed his lips like he’d bitten into something sour. Then schooled his face back into impassivity.
“Absurdity can be effective,” he said at last, “if anchored in force of will. Still—try not to rely on chaos as your only line of defence. It won’t always work against a skilled Legilimens.”
“Right. But,” I said, cocking my head, “you are a skilled Legilimens. And it did work.”
A twitch of his eyebrow.
“I was taken by surprise once,” he said. “It will not happen again.”
I couldn’t help the grin that stretched my face.
Challenge accepted.
Chapter 70: BOOK FIVE - O.W.L. EXAMS
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
O.W.L. EXAMS
May was madness.
Hermione’s revision timetable might as well have been blessed by Merlin himself, because without it, we’d all have keeled over weeks ago. Every fifth year was caught in the OWL storm—barely sleeping, barely eating, just studying, revising, tutoring, collapsing, rinse, repeat. No more Saturday training with my friends, no more Sunday walks by the lake. No more anything that didn’t involve books or exam questions. I was, officially, a dull boy. Just another in the army of frazzled students who had to be handed Calming Draughts by Madam Pomfrey like she was dealing sweets.
I couldn’t wait for it to be over. The whole year, really. Because then came June, and the warm weather brought sweat and sun and that cursed itch beneath the scar on my throat. It wasn’t painful—not exactly—but the constant scratchy feeling made me want to claw at it like I was moulting. I couldn’t, though. Drawing attention to it made people remember what had happened. And I didn’t want to deal with that. So I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on Ancient Runes instead.
The atmosphere was… thick. Feverish. Like everyone was about to snap. Even the professors knew it—none of them gave us homework anymore. Our lessons turned into giant review sessions, everyone recapping the bits most likely to come up on the exams. It helped, sure. But it also made it real.
Then Snape gathered all the Slytherin fifth years for a formal little meeting and handed out our examination timetables and the official procedure parchments. That was the moment it hit me: Shit was real now.
As I copied the dates and times into my planner, I had a horrible thought—how was I supposed to survive two weeks of this?
I ended up writing to Percy. That’s how bad it was.
And the worst part? His letter helped. It was stiff, awkward, like he didn’t quite know how to be kind anymore. But it was still kind. He gave me a few tips, reminded me to eat regularly, and told me I’d be fine because I always stepped up when it mattered. It shouldn’t have hit me like it did, but I teared up reading it. I was so bloody sleep-deprived I nearly cried over that.
It felt like some sort of magically induced PMS. I didn’t dare say that aloud, of course. If Hermione ever heard me compare my exam breakdown to her periods, I’d be hexed into next week.
So I kept my mouth shut and suffered in silence.
And Snape—of course—didn’t relent. Not on the duelling, not on Occlumency, not even when I showed up looking like death warmed over. The duelling, at least, helped. It burned off the nervous energy. I could sleep better after those sessions. Occlumency, though, was slowly killing me. I had a headache that lasted three days straight before I finally asked Snape—quietly—if he could maybe ease up a bit or give me something for it.
He gave me the potion. Of course he did. He’s a hard-ass, not a monster. But the lessons didn’t get easier. If anything, they got harder. He said that I was improving, that I was close to the next level. Which, apparently, meant he had to beat me over the head with my worst memories until my brain melted out of my ears.
At least Dawlish stopped trailing Snape. That was a relief. Pansy tried a few times—badly—but I always spotted her. She gave up after a week. Probably realised her OWLs were more important than her vendetta.
Everything blurred into one long stretch of heat, stress, ink-stained fingers, and not nearly enough sleep. But I kept going. Because it was almost over. Just a few more weeks. Just a few exams.
And then I could finally breathe.
The day before exams began, the examiners arrived at the castle, and it was like someone had dropped a swarm of wasps into everyone’s brains. My dormmates were fully losing it, revising for hours after dinner. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle had barricaded themselves in the common room, while Harry, Blaise, and Theo were quizzing each other with wild, slightly haunted expressions that made me want to back away slowly from the dormitory.
Me? I decided to stop at a reasonable hour. No good would come of cramming until I forgot my own name. In the middle of Harry grilling Theo about Charms theory, I stood up and headed for the showers, hoping a cold rinse would wash away the day’s sweat and the clingy summer heat.
The water hit me like a shock at first, then a blessing. I stood there a long time, eyes shut, letting the roar of it drown out the churn of anxiety and the endless parade of facts and spell names. Eventually, I shut off the tap and stepped out, towel wrapped around my waist, rubbing another one through my dripping hair.
As I came out of the steam, I saw Draco stepping into the bathroom. He was unusually quiet, fiddling with his towel like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He looked... distracted. I ignored him, like I always did now. That was our new status quo—no jabs, no sneers, no smug comments. Just silence. Honestly? I preferred it that way.
I did notice him looking at me—more like staring, really. I sighed inwardly. He’d seen the scar on my neck before. It wasn’t a secret. I’d long stopped caring if people stared. He should’ve been used to it by now.
I stepped up to the sink and started brushing my teeth, keeping half an eye on him through the mirror. He still hadn’t moved toward the showers. Just stood there like someone had Petrified him. Eyes wide. Frozen. Like a cat that’d just spotted a cucumber.
I frowned around the toothbrush.
“What?” I mumbled.
He jumped like I’d hexed him. His eyes somehow went wider, and he stammered something I didn’t catch before bolting into the nearest shower stall and slamming the door shut.
I stared at the stall for a second, then spat into the sink.
“Weird,” I muttered, rinsing out my mouth. But he hadn’t been rude all year. Not really. So I let it go.
I changed into pyjama bottoms and headed back to the dormitory. Harry, Theo, and Blaise had moved on to Transfiguration questions by then, their voices fast and urgent.
I sat on the edge of my bed and towel-dried my hair as best I could. My thoughts drifted again—same place they always did lately—upward, toward clouds. Soft, white, slow-moving clouds against a pale sky. No more studying tonight. Rest mattered more now.
Anxiety curled in my chest, low and tight, but I pushed it away—let it float off with the clouds in my head. Astronomy facts tried sneaking in. I chased them off with a breeze. Potions theory? Another cloud. Gone.
I balled up my towel and tossed it into the laundry basket—made it in one shot. Then I yawned and said,
“Goodnight.”
They all stared at me like I’d just cursed their bloodlines.
I just chuckled, closed my bed curtains, and slid under the covers. Their voices kept going, muffled now, distant like echoes through a wall.
I closed my eyes.
Clouds floated—soft, endless. I drifted off before I even noticed.
After breakfast, the fifth- and seventh-year lingered in the Entrance Hall while the rest of the school headed off to lessons. Lucky them. At half past nine, we were called in, one class at a time, to return to the Great Hall. The space had been completely rearranged—gone were the four long House tables, replaced instead by rows of single desks, all facing the staff table at the front.
Professor McGonagall stood waiting there, stern and composed. Once everyone had found their seat and the room had fallen silent, she spoke.
“You may begin.”
So we began.
The first exam was Charms. It was all a bit intimidating until I sat down and saw the first page of the theory exam. Long, yeah—but I knew these answers. I filled them out steadily, confident. The questions were clear, not full of tricky phrasing or misleading bits. Just straightforward theory. I didn’t even feel the need to glance at the hourglass.
The practical part went even better. They asked us to demonstrate the kind of charms Mum uses at home practically daily—Levitation, Colour Change, Growth Charm. It was muscle memory. I’d grown up with this magic. My wand didn’t even wobble once.
Second day, though? Transfiguration. A different beast entirely. The theory paper wasn’t long, but each question was a bloody essay. It was all interpretation and comparative techniques and bloody ethics in magical alteration. I kept second-guessing how much to write, and I wasted time editing myself mid-answer. By the time I reached the last two questions, I had ten minutes left and my brain felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. I scribbled the last answers in a rush and left the exam feeling like an Erumpent had flattened me.
Luckily, the practical was better. I took one look at the objects and knew what to do. My Vanishing Spell worked on the first try, no misty half-disappearances or slipping focus. And the cauldron I had to transfigure into an animal turned into a badger. A real one, too—well, he walked a bit like he had sore hips, but still. Good enough.
That evening, I dragged myself to the dungeons, hoping Snape would have cancelled Occlumency. No luck. He had mercy for exactly one person—Harry, who’d managed to wheedle a postponement until Saturday. I hadn’t even thought to ask. So while everyone else revised Herbology, I got to spend the evening with Snape tearing through my brain like a raven after entrails.
And of course, he honed in on study sessions. Stress. Doubt. Everything I was already feeling. My concentration shattered more than once, and by the end, I had a headache the size of Scotland. Snape handed me a vial of something bitter and sharp-smelling and told me off, stern but not cruel. Said I had to learn to occlude under pressure or risk being useless when it counted. I took the potion. And the lecture. One was definitely more tolerable than the other.
Herbology came next, and I was already a wreck before we even entered the greenhouse. The written part was a nightmare. I blanked on the names of half the plants unless they’d been used in Potions, and then I accidentally just wrote the ingredients list for Pepper-Up on one of the longer answers. Brilliant.
The practical was worse. Fanged geraniums, of course. Mine bit me three times. Should’ve asked for a begonia. They’re nicer. Fanged, but polite.
That evening, Snape moved our duelling tutoring up a day, and I knew it wasn’t random. He’d done it because my Defence exam was tomorrow. It was small, as gestures go, but I noticed. After the session, I thanked him genuinely. He just gave me a sharp look and told me to clean and treat my bite wounds before they got infected. Charming.
So I did. I spent the rest of the night rubbing smelly ointments into my arms while Blaise made disgusted faces and asked if I’d bathed in troll sweat. I ignored him and just made sure every bite was covered.
Thursday. Defence Against the Dark Arts. This was the one I was ready for.
The theory questions were easy. I flew through them. Defensive techniques, curse-break protocols, jinx classifications—I answered them all without pausing. Then came the practical, and I was ready. Every spell they asked—I cast it. No stuttering, no delay. Some of it I did nonverbally, and they gave me a raised eyebrow and a check mark for that.
Then they called for the Boggart.
I was ready for that, too, but the examiner wasn’t. She took one look, went ghost-pale, and fainted on the spot.
I stood there, wand out, waiting. An assistant rushed in with salts. It took twenty minutes to revive her. When she did finally wave me on, she barely looked at the spell I cast to banish it, like she just wanted the whole thing over with. I really hoped that wouldn’t cost me points.
To salvage what I could, I told her I could cast a Patronus. She looked sceptical until I actually did it—my goose shot out of my wand, full-bodied and bright as anything. That seemed to wake her up properly, at least. I really, really hoped that helped balance the score.
Friday was mercifully short. Just Ancient Runes, and at fifth year level, it was still all theory. A few hours of rune translation and one longer essay about comparative inscription methods, and we were done. I felt good about it. Confident, even.
Hermione and I spent most of the afternoon going over our translations together, swapping notes and examples until Harry snapped.
“Can you both shut it?”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked in the middle, sharp and brittle. Hermione froze, halfway through explaining a rune variant. I looked over at him—he was staring out at the lake, jaw clenched, fists dug into the grass.
Something about the way he said it made us both go quiet.
After a moment, Hermione asked, soft and cautious,
“Harry… are you alright?”
He didn’t look at her.
“I’m fine.”
It came out too fast. Too tight.
Hermione and I exchanged a glance. She raised an eyebrow at me. I gave a tiny shrug but leaned in slightly, nudging his foot with mine.
“Harry, come on,” I said. “It’s us.”
He let out a breath, shaky and shallow. For a second, I thought he might shut us out again—but then his shoulders sagged like something inside him had snapped loose.
“I’m tired,” he muttered. “I haven’t been sleeping properly. I keep getting visions. Worse than before. More of them. Every night. And it’s like—I don’t know. Since exams started, it’s worse. I’m so bloody tired, and it’s so hot all the time and I can’t… I can’t shut it out.”
Hermione moved a little closer, putting a hand on his arm, her voice soft and worried.
“Harry…”
“I hate this,” he said, teeth clenched. “I hate it.”
I wanted to say something helpful—anything—but nothing really came to mind except honesty.
“It’ll be better tomorrow, right? After your Occlumency lesson.”
He turned on me so fast I flinched.
“Only you would say that,” he snapped. “Only you would feel better after a damn Occlumency lesson.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
He pushed on, voice rising.
“You don’t get it, Ron. It’s not just Snape being a git. It’s—he tears through my mind like he owns it. I leave those lessons feeling stripped bare, like I’ve been flayed open from the inside out. And then comes the headache—splitting, like I’ve been hexed. He keeps digging through my worst memories, like he’s looking for something to hate me for. And it’s not working, alright? It’s not working!”
Hermione drew back slightly, startled. I felt rooted to the spot.
“It’s not blocking the visions,” Harry went on, voice cracking again. “They keep coming. Some of them even stronger than before. So what’s the point of all this? What’s the bloody point of going through that if it doesn’t even help when it matters?”
Hermione looked like she wanted to say something—to fix it, to explain it—but she faltered.
“I don’t know, Harry,” she said gently. “Maybe it is helping, just… not all the way yet. Maybe the worst ones still get through because you haven’t fully mastered it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not helping at all.”
He laughed, but it was bitter and small.
“Yeah? Then what am I supposed to do until it starts working properly? Just suffer through it? Waste my time getting shredded open by Snape while Voldemort takes a joyride through my head?”
I looked at him. Really looked. His eyes were shadowed, not from lack of sleep alone, but from the weight he was carrying. And the worst part? He hadn’t said a word about it until now.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
He blinked, clearly not expecting that.
“I’m sorry I didn’t realise how bad it was,” I said. “You’ve been carrying all this and I didn’t see it. I should’ve. I… I just thought you were tired. Stressed like the rest of us. I didn’t know it was like this.”
For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then he looked down at the grass again, and his voice was hoarse when he replied.
“It’s not your fault.”
But it felt like it was, a little. Because I’d been there. And I still hadn’t noticed. I thought he was feeling better than in Canon.
“Maybe it’s not my fault,” I said, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve, “but I still should’ve asked. Or noticed. You’re my best mate, Harry. You don’t have to go through this like you’re alone in it.”
Harry let out a breath through his nose, still looking down.
“I didn’t want to whinge about it.”
“You weren’t,” Hermione said gently. “You were suffering. That’s not the same thing.”
He glanced up at her then, eyes tired and bloodshot. She met his gaze with one of those looks she always used when she was trying to fix something important, soft but unwavering.
“You’re allowed to talk to us when it’s too much. We’re not just here to swap revision notes, you know.”
Harry huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like disbelief brushing up against exhaustion.
“Yeah, well. It feels like I’m never not being watched or judged. Occlumency’s like… standing in front of Snape naked, and he gets to poke at everything I hate about myself.”
I winced at the image.
“Yeah, that sounds… horrifying. Not gonna lie.”
That pulled a tiny, grudging snort out of him. He rubbed a hand down his face.
“Don’t tell me it’s all for my own good again,” he muttered.
“I won’t,” I said. “But I will say… You don’t have to go into that room alone in your head. Not really. You can talk to us afterwards. If it helps. Or just shout into a pillow while we pretend not to hear.”
Hermione gave me a look, but her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.
“I mean it,” I added, serious now. “You don’t have to be alright all the time.”
For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. Then his shoulders dropped, like he’d finally exhaled something he’d been holding in for weeks.
“I hate that he sees everything,” he said, voice low. “That I have no privacy. That I can’t even hold my own thoughts without someone breaking in.”
He turned to me then, and there was something raw in his expression—frustration, confusion, something like betrayal.
“How do you do it, Ron? How can you go through those lessons and still sit there and say I’ll feel better after it? Doesn’t Snape split your head open, too?”
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because I wasn’t sure if I should say it out loud.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “It feels like that. Especially when he’s going at it full force. Like I’m stuck in my own head, watching the worst parts of it play on repeat and not being able to stop it. Like I’ve been shoved into the backseat and the steering wheel’s gone.”
Harry didn’t speak. Just watched me like he needed to hear all of it.
“There are memories I never want to see again,” I said quietly. “But I’ve seen them more times than I can count now. Lucius Malfoy, Umbridge… they pop up every time he uses high-intensity attacks. The ones that really hit. At first, it made me feel sick. I couldn’t sleep after. But after a while…”
I trailed off, trying to put it into words that made sense.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m almost desensitised to them now. I don’t even feel afraid when I see their faces. I still hate it—I hate them —but the fear’s gone. It’s like… like the more I look at those memories, the less power they have over me.”
Hermione was watching me now too, quietly.
“And I think…” I exhaled. “I think it kind of feels… healing. In a twisted, horrible, therapeutic sort of way. Like I’m finally dealing with things I’d been avoiding, even if I didn’t know I was avoiding them.”
Harry didn’t respond right away. He looked out across the lake, jaw working like he was chewing on the thought. The wind stirred his hair. I couldn’t tell if anything I’d said helped. But he wasn’t lashing out now. He wasn’t folding into himself either.
“It still hurts like hell,” I added, because that part was important. “It doesn’t get easy. But it gets… less sharp. More manageable.”
He nodded slowly, eyes distant.
“I don’t want to be numb to it,” he murmured. “But I wouldn’t mind not feeling like I’m breaking every time.”
“Then keep going,” I said. “We’ll help you carry the pieces when it gets bad. You’re not doing this alone.”
He looked at me, and something in his face softened. Just a bit. But it was there. His eyes were still tired, still sad, but something in them had shifted, just a little. Like the storm had eased for a moment.
“I don’t want to be angry at everything all the time,” he admitted.
“Then don’t be,” I said simply. “At least not with us.”
“I’m trying,” he said. “I really am.”
“I know,” Hermione said, her voice warm and certain. “And that’s enough.”
He looked away again, but this time it wasn’t to hide. Just to breathe. Just to feel the wind off the lake and the grass under our hands.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
We didn’t say anything back. We didn’t need to.
For the first time all week, Harry didn’t look like he was about to snap in two.
Saturday, we gave ourselves a proper break. No notes, no books, no bloody star charts. Just sun, grass, and enough laughter to peel away the stress. Ginny and Luna joined us by the lake, and it was probably the most relaxed I’d felt in weeks. Luna told us all about some creature that supposedly haunted the Prefect’s Bathroom—something with translucent teeth and a fondness for bubble bath. I think she was joking. Maybe. Ginny played along like it was gospel, and Hermione laughed so hard she nearly choked on a strawberry.
I didn’t think about exams once.
But Sunday, we were back at it. Potions next. Hermione had made a revision plan weeks ago, colour-coded and structured to the minute. When I thanked her for it—genuinely—she gave me this surprised little smile that looked like I’d just handed her an Outstanding on a silver platter. Worth it just for that.
Monday started strong with Potions. I was glad it was the first of the week; I still had some energy left from the weekend. The theory exam was long, but nothing caught me off guard. Maybe my essay was a bit short—just a couple of paragraphs when I probably should’ve written more. But it made sense, and I was happy with it. The practical went even better. My two brews—Calming Draught and Deflating Draught—came out with the right colour, right consistency, no curdling, no exploding cauldrons. I walked out of the dungeons riding a quiet high.
Tuesday was Care of Magical Creatures. Harry joked again that I must be Hagrid’s long-lost lovechild, and honestly, I wasn’t offended. I breezed through the written questions and had a great time with the practical. The fire crab I fed didn’t even nip at me. Must’ve been my gentle tone. Or the treats.
I went into Occlumency that evening in a good mood. Which, as it turned out, helped. I was sharper than last week, more focused. Snape still tried to dig into my anxiety—especially about my Potions exam—but the joke was on him. I felt good about that one, and every time he dragged the memory into the open, I shoved it back, clean and fast. At the end of the lesson, I actually had the nerve to say,
“You could’ve just asked how it went, you know, instead of trying to yank it out of my skull.”
Snape didn’t even blink.
“Where would be the fun in that?” he said, then dismissed me with a wave.
I think that was his idea of a joke. Maybe.
Wednesday brought the dreaded Astronomy exam. The written part was just dull—hours of tedium and frustration. Still, I was confident I passed, and more importantly, I was thrilled that I’d never have to sit through another bloody Astronomy lesson for the rest of my life.
I told Harry and Hermione that over lunch. Hermione gave me a look and said,
“You seemed to like Astronomy just fine when it was taught in Divination.”
I scowled.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Harry smirked.
I sulked a bit after that and went back to revising for the practical. I spent the night under the stars, trying not to nod off at the telescope. Pretty sure I misnamed at least two constellations, but I was too tired to care. When it was finally over, I whooped loud enough to startle three Ravenclaws. Harry and Hermione stared at me like I’d gone mad. Fair enough.
That evening, I let myself get pulled into palm-reading practice with Theo and Blaise. They grumbled a bit, but they didn’t leave, which meant they didn’t mind. At some point, I realised I was spiralling—cramming facts into my head without absorbing anything. So I stopped. Closed my eyes. Found my clouds. Let the breeze in. It helped. It always helped. I went to bed early, because there’s no point trying to predict the future if you’re too knackered to read your tea leaves.
Thursday was Divination—my favourite. Or, it used to be. The written part was mostly constellation-based, which nearly made me yank out my hair. Who designs a Divination exam to be a knock-off Astronomy paper? But I held on. Barely.
The practical saved the day. I had a clean, vivid vision in the crystal ball—three symbols, easy to interpret, and I nailed the meaning of each. The tea leaves gave me a thestral, which I interpreted as change through unseen trials (Hermione rolled her eyes when I told her). Then came palm-reading, and thankfully, I’d practised enough that I didn’t mix up the lines again. It felt good to do something I was confident in.
That night, I dragged myself to the duelling session. I was slower than last week, less aggressive, but still sharp when it mattered. Snape didn’t say anything, which I took as a good sign. Maybe I was hiding my exhaustion better. Maybe Occlumency was helping.
And finally, Friday. Last day. History of Magic.
Ugh.
I was almost cheerful heading in, just because I knew I’d never have to do it again. The exam itself was gruelling. I skipped two questions completely and filled one in with a date I’m ninety per cent sure was when Merlin invented trousers. The essay question… well, I only realised at the end that I’d written “Ragnuk the pigeon-toed” instead of “Ragnok the pigeon-toed,” and I didn’t have time to fix it.
Maybe they would think it was my handwriting. Maybe I would get lucky.
Maybe not. Who cares?
The exams were over, life was good again.
Which is why I was completely blindsided when shit happened that night.
Chapter 71: BOOK FIVE - THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES
A scream cut through the dormitory like a curse. I jolted upright, heart hammering, already out of bed before I was fully awake. My wand was in my hand without thinking.
Harry had leapt out of his bed, too. He was on the floor, drenched in sweat and gasping, his eyes wild with confusion and panic.
The other boys sat up, startled and bleary. Blaise swore. Theo muttered something that might have been a question. Draco was already staring at Harry like he’d grown two heads. No one moved. Just silence and staring.
Harry sat hunched on the cold floor, breathing like he’d run miles. And I knew. I just knew—this wasn’t just a nightmare.
“Harry?” I crouched down next to him. “What did you see?”
Then he said it.
“Voldemort’s got Sirius.”
Gasps. A choked noise from one of the boys. The name alone made everyone freeze.
But I didn’t move away. I grabbed Harry’s shoulders. He was burning up and trembling.
“You have to close your mind,” I said firmly. “Right now, Harry. Shut him out.”
He shook his head.
“They’re at the Ministry. He’s trying to use Sirius to get what the Order’s guarding there—he’s torturing him. He said he’ll kill him! I saw it—he’s really doing it!”
“You don’t know that,” I said quickly, but he wasn’t listening.
“I need to find him. How do I get to the Ministry? I need to go now!”
He was spiralling. I saw it in his eyes—that hazy, feverish look. He wasn’t here anymore. He was already halfway to the Department of Mysteries.
No. No, we weren’t doing this. I’d talked to Dumbledore about this possibility just before exams began. If this was that vision, then Dumbledore would know how to prove it was false. That meant we had a plan. We just had to stick to it.
I braced myself.
“Let’s go to Snape.”
“What the hell is going on?” Blaise demanded from his bed.
“Mind your business,” I barked, grabbing Harry and pulling him up. “Get dressed. We’re going.”
“I don’t care about Snape,” Harry snapped, already fumbling for shoes. “I’m going to the Ministry. Now.”
“Not without me,” I said, dragging on my trousers and grabbing my wand.
I caught up to him on the stairs and gripped his arm. He was still burning with adrenaline. I steered him through the common room, half-guiding, half-forcing him along. His feet moved, but his head wasn’t here.
Snape’s quarters were ridiculously far from our common room. Every second stretched out like it might snap. My grip on Harry didn’t loosen once.
We turned sharply at the corridor just past his office and stopped in front of the door to his private chambers. I knocked, hard and fast.
“We don’t have time for this,” Harry hissed. “He’s torturing him—”
The door opened.
Snape looked furious. Of course he did. Then he saw Harry. Saw me. He didn’t ask a thing.
“Harry had a vision,” I said quickly. “He says Voldemort’s got Sirius and he’s torturing him. We need Dumbledore. Now.”
Snape didn’t blink.
“Wait.”
He turned back into his quarters, door left just slightly ajar.
Harry made a move to go. I yanked him back.
“You’re not running off alone. Not this time.”
Snape returned faster than I expected, fully dressed, cloak billowing behind him. He shut the door hard and didn’t say a word, just strode off—not back the way we came, but in the opposite direction.
I followed. Dragged Harry with me.
He protested all the way.
“We’re wasting time—Dumbledore won’t believe me—”
“Yes, he will,” I said. “He has to .”
Snape didn’t pause, didn’t turn. We reached a blank wall. He barked a password and walked through like it wasn’t even there.
I pulled Harry in after him before it could close. Hidden stairs. We climbed fast, two at a time. I heard Harry stumble once, but I didn’t let go. Not once.
We crossed paths with Filch. Snape barely acknowledged him. Just snarled something and kept walking.
Up more stairs. Finally, the gargoyle. Another password. It leapt aside.
We climbed.
At the top, Dumbledore’s door was open.
He was there, already standing, already alert. He looked anything but calm. As we stepped in, a Patronus—a shimmering silver bird—dissolved in the air before him.
“Sit down,” he said.
“There’s no time,” Harry snapped. “He’s torturing Sirius—he’s got him in the Ministry, where the weapon is—he’s going to kill him!”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch.
“Severus alerted me at once. I am contacting the Order now to verify Sirius’s location.”
“There’s nothing to verify!” Harry shouted. “I saw it! He’s in pain!”
Suddenly, a silver jackrabbit leapt into the room. Tonks’s voice rang out:
“Neither Sirius nor Remus is at headquarters. They went out for drinks. I’m heading to the pub now.”
The Patronus vanished.
Dumbledore’s eyes met mine. He didn’t say a word, but I understood it.
This isn’t how it went before.
My stomach dropped. I felt cold.
Dumbledore pulled Snape aside, speaking low and fast. Harry paced like a caged animal.
It didn’t take long. The rabbit came back. Tonks’s voice again:
“I found Lupin in a back alley. He’s hurt—Death Eaters attacked. Sirius traded himself for Remus’s life. They took him. I’m calling backup.”
The Patronus faded.
My blood ran cold.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Sirius was never supposed to be in danger. He wasn’t even supposed to leave the house.
He’s free now, I realised.
“Shit,” I whispered.
Harry turned, fire in his eyes.
“We have to go. We have to save him!”
Dumbledore and Snape were already moving. Patronuses fired off from both of their wands in rapid succession—messages, calls for help, rallying the Order.
This was it.
The night everything changed.
Two Patronuses arrived in quick succession—a lynx and a badger. Each one bore voices confirming that Order members were regrouping at Grimmauld Place and awaiting instructions.
Then a third appeared. A sleek silver wolf with a voice I recognised instantly. My chest twisted.
Bill.
His voice echoed through the room: “Percy is already stationed at the Ministry. He’s ready for us to arrive.”
Dumbledore nodded sharply.
“Harry. Ron. You will remain here. Severus, you too. I must go.”
He disappeared into the fireplace, green flames swallowing him whole.
As soon as he was gone, Harry resumed pacing like a man possessed.
“We should’ve gone with him,” he muttered. “We should’ve gone.”
“You will not,” Snape snapped. “You will stay exactly where you are and stop acting like a reckless fool. You’d be a liability.”
Harry turned.
“A liability? You think I’d slow everyone down? Sirius is my godfather!”
“You are a child,” Snape hissed, voice full of disgust. “You would be of no use except to make things worse.”
“You don’t know that! You think you know everything just because you’re Dumbledore’s greasy little spy—”
“Enough!” I barked.
Neither of them listened.
Harry was shouting again. Snape was spitting words like poison.
I moved between them.
“ CALM THE FUCK DOWN! ” I shouted, louder than both of them. “Screaming at each other is helping no one! So shut it. Now.”
Snape sneered but backed off a step. He actually listened.
Harry didn’t. He rounded on me next.
“Of course you’d take his side. You always do. My only family is being tortured and you’re standing there doing nothing! Just like him! You’re a bloody coward, Ron.”
That one hurt.
But I didn’t react. I didn’t give him what he wanted.
Snape, however, took a slow step forward. His voice was like cut glass.
“Better a coward who thinks than a hero who gets people killed.”
Harry surged forward.
I had to shove both of them apart again.
This was going to explode—and I had to find a way to keep it from tearing us all apart.
Then Harry screamed.
It wasn’t rage this time. It was pain. Sudden and sharp and full of terror.
He collapsed.
I dropped to my knees beside him.
“Harry!”
His face was pale—too pale—and his scar was a livid, angry red like it had been carved open fresh. He gasped like he couldn’t breathe, hands curled against his chest.
“Harry, look at me,” I said. My voice was shaking. “Stay with me. You’re safe. You’re here.”
But he wasn’t hearing me.
He was somewhere else again—and I had no idea what he was seeing now.
“Close your mind!” Snape barked from behind me, voice like a whipcrack. “Potter, CLOSE your mind, now!”
Harry only whimpered—and then screamed again.
In the next moment, Snape was beside me. He dropped to his knees, face drawn and grim.
“Look at me, Potter,” he said sharply. “Focus on my voice. You will shut him out. Do you hear me? Occlude— now .”
Harry was shaking violently.
Snape grabbed his shoulder, not gently.
“Listen. You are being invaded. This is not a dream. This is not real. Dispel the image. Anchor your thoughts. Focus on the floor beneath you. The air. My voice. Now. ”
I watched helplessly as Snape kept drilling the words into him—harsh, commanding, unrelenting. Not kind. Not soft. But present. And real.
“Do not give him anything!” Snape growled. “Push. Him. Out.”
Harry gave a gasping sob—but after a few minutes, something in his expression shifted. A twitch. A jerk of his head. His hands clenched tighter.
And then—he stilled.
Snape released his shoulder like it burned.
Harry lay there, panting, eyes unfocused but no longer distant.
“That,” Snape said coldly, standing to his full height, “is what happens when you don’t practice properly.”
But his voice had lost its edge of fury. It was just tired now. Like the rest of us.
Then, a phoenix Patronus shimmered into the room—bright and regal. Dumbledore’s voice echoed from it, calm and clear.
“Severus. Do what we talked about. Now.”
Snape’s face went blank. He stood without a word, cloak swishing.
“You will stay here,” he said, his voice hard and cold. “And if you do anything foolish, Potter, I will make you regret it.”
He swept from the room, not through the fireplace, but down the stairs.
I was still kneeling beside Harry.
He turned his head toward me, eyes bloodshot and too wide.
“Please, Ron,” he said, voice raw. “Sirius is my only family. I can’t let him die. Please… let me go.”
My heart clenched, but I shook my head.
“Harry… you’re not ready. You’re young. You haven’t trained for this. If you go, you’ll be a liability in a fight.” I swallowed. “Dumbledore is the only wizard Voldemort’s ever feared. He’s the most powerful wizard alive. He’s already there. He’ll bring Sirius back. He will, Harry. You know he will.”
“No,” Harry growled, nearly shouting again. “I don’t know! No one knows! Maybe Sirius is already dead and I’m still here— arguing —instead of doing something!”
He got to his feet, a little unsteady. I rose too, trying to help.
He slapped my hands away.
“You don’t understand,” he spat. “You have a family. You don’t get it. I need to do something. I can’t just sit here and hide behind Snape or Dumbledore!”
Then, before I could stop him, he sprinted to the fireplace.
“Harry, don’t—!”
He seized the Floo powder.
“Ministry of Magic!”
Green flames roared.
I lunged toward him, but he was gone.
The flames snapped out.
I didn’t even hesitate.
I grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, shouted, “Ministry of Magic!” and threw it down.
The green took me, and I was gone.
The Atrium was completely empty, echoing with silence under the golden statue’s fixed expressions. Harry was already there, sprinting past the fountain, past the unmanned security desk.
“Harry!” I shouted, running after him. “Stop! Please—stop!”
He didn’t. He didn’t even look back. He reached a lift and slammed his hand on the button.
“Harry, wait—”
The grilles clanged shut just as I reached him.
The lift began to descend.
“Fuck!” I cried out, kicking the doors. Angry tears stung my eyes. How did he even know where to go? Did Voldemort show him in the vision? This was mad.
I turned and darted into the next lift. I jabbed the button for the lowest floor with more force than needed.
When the lift jolted to a halt, I barely breathed.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard footsteps—Harry’s. Running.
I didn’t dare call his name now. We were too far in. And the enemy could be anywhere.
The grilles slid open.
“Department of Mysteries,” the cool female voice said pleasantly.
I bolted out.
At the end of a long corridor stood a plain black door—and it was just clicking shut.
Too late. I sprinted forward and slammed into the door.
It didn’t budge.
Inside, I heard a loud noise, like something heavy scraping against the ground.
Then, the door creaked open.
I stepped into a large, circular room. Every wall was identical. Black. Every door the same. No markings.
Nothing.
I picked a door at random and opened it.
Empty. Silent.
No Harry.
I tried another. Just desks and dust.
When I let go of the knob, both doors slammed shut behind me.
The walls groaned—and then began to revolve.
I spun, heart racing, as the room twisted around me. The doors blurred. I closed my eyes, trying to find my cloud, my peace—but nothing came. No calm. Just the roar in my ears.
The room stopped.
I ran to the nearest door. It wouldn’t open.
Panic gripped me tighter.
I yanked another one open. It was the first I’d tried—still empty.
Slam.
The spinning started again.
I paused.
I was breathing too fast again—panicking. Exactly what Snape warned me against during duelling. Control your fear, Weasley. It makes you reckless.
I swallowed hard and pulled myself back. No more running blind. No more flailing.
I took out my wand and tapped the side of my head.
The Disillusionment Charm sent a chill across my skin like a cold trickle of water, and I faded from view. Not invisible, but close.
I waited—counted to five—then took a breath as steady as I could manage. My pulse thudded in my ears, but I forced it to quiet. I had to be clever now, not just desperate.
I cast the Air-Resonance Charm next, low and tight under my breath. The air shimmered faintly around me. It would muffle my steps the same way it did when Harry had to face a dragon.
Almost invisible. Almost silent.
I could move.
The spinning had stopped. The door before me was still.
I turned the handle and slipped through, wand raised.
The room was strange—cold and silent, the walls lined with clocks. Dozens, maybe hundreds, each ticking in its own uneven rhythm. The noise was maddening, a disjointed clatter that filled the space like insects crawling through my skull.
Then came the explosion.
Distant, but close enough to rattle the ticking. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.
I inhaled sharply and dropped to a crouch beside the wall. Think. Think. You trained for this. Snape’s voice echoed in my head—calm, sharp, irritated as ever.
Use the perimeter. Limit exposure. Don’t silhouette yourself. Move smart.
I pressed my back to the wall and began to edge forward, one quiet step at a time, eyes sweeping every corner. The air buzzed with tension. Another crash rang out—closer.
I gritted my teeth.
The next door groaned open under my hand, and what I saw made my stomach clench.
Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched into the darkness, filled with glass spheres glowing faintly in their cradles. The Hall of Prophecies. Or what was left of it.
Because half the room was collapsing.
Shelves fell like dominoes, shattering on the marble floor. Orbs burst on impact, sending up bursts of light and eerie, echoing voices. The air was thick with dust and magic and something else—something wrong. I ducked instinctively as a shelf toppled far too close.
Nope. No way. Not this way.
I turned and bolted back the way I came, slamming the door just as another explosion shook the room.
Back in the circular room. I didn’t hesitate. I spun, picked the door nearest my left hand, and yanked it open.
Sound hit me like a spell—shouting, hexes, a crash of glass and stone.
Battle.
I slipped in and stuck to the wall, heart hammering so loudly I feared someone might hear it. The room was vast and chaotic, with debris littering the floor. Bright spells arced across the open space like comets.
I kept low, moving between broken bits of furniture and shelves, trying to stay behind anything that could shield me.
I spotted them.
Tonks, pink hair wild and eyes blazing, duelled two Death Eaters at once. Moody was nearby, his magical eye whirling in every direction, his wand cutting through the air. Neither of them saw me, and more importantly, neither of them was with Harry.
Another explosion rang out, this one deeper in the back of the room. A door hung off its hinges there, the sound of more fighting leaking through the gap.
I moved. Fast.
I didn’t even think of trying to help Tonks or Moody. I wasn’t here to play hero. I was here to find Harry and get him the hell out.
I reached the broken door and slid through.
And then I froze.
It was cold. Not temperature-cold—but deep, soul-chilling cold. Like the room had been drained of anything warm or right. A massive, sunken amphitheatre stretched below me. At the centre was a stone archway with a tattered veil that fluttered even though there was no wind.
I knew what it was.
The Veil.
Harry was down there. So was Sirius. Percy, too, face pale and wand raised. They were surrounded—four Death Eaters closing in, pressing in tight. Sirius was keeping them at bay with a skill and speed I’d never seen before—he fought like a storm, wand flashing, every movement brutal and precise.
Harry was duelling too—sloppier, wild, desperate. And Percy—he looked terrified, but he stood his ground.
There was no time.
If I charged in, I’d just be another target. Deadweight. A liability.
I had to think.
Get Harry out. That was the only goal. Get Harry out of this alive.
I stayed low, ducking behind the high stone benches, weaving between tiers like a ghost. One spell at a time, like Snape drilled into me. Never from the same place twice. Always nonverbal.
Stupefy.
A red jet zipped out from between the benches and slammed into one of the Death Eaters flanking Percy. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, and the chaos shifted. Sirius saw the opening and pushed forward, forcing his opponent back. Percy adjusted too, wand raised higher. Harry shouted something I didn’t catch, but I heard the hope in it.
I moved. Another tier up. Changed my angle. Watched for the next opening.
But then—
They appeared.
Bellatrix.
Lucius.
Out of nowhere, like smoke solidifying into a nightmare.
Bellatrix’s mad eyes scanned the scene and locked on Harry.
She didn’t hesitate. Her wand rose, her smile wild.
I saw it all in slow motion. My own limbs frozen. I couldn’t reach Harry in time—
Percy did.
He shoved Harry back and stepped forward, wand forgotten, shield forgotten—just Percy.
Bellatrix’s spell struck.
Percy jerked backwards.
His heel caught the edge of the dais.
He toppled toward the Veil.
“ACCIO!” I screamed, standing without thinking, my voice cracking like a whip.
My wand nearly shook in my hand. For one second, nothing happened. Then the spell snagged his robes—
—and I yanked.
He flew back, away from the archway, limp as a doll, and hit the stone floor hard.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t move.
I wanted to run. To go to him. To check. To breathe.
But I couldn’t.
Harry was still in the fight.
I wiped my sleeve across my eyes. My face was wet and I didn’t even notice when I started crying.
I ducked again. Shifted left. Aimed for Lucius.
Stupefy.
He staggered back, not down, but distracted.
I spun to move—
My foot slipped on dust or blood or a broken tile—I didn’t know.
Lucius’s wand snapped toward me just as I fell—
The curse hit my shoulder.
Pain ripped through me, white-hot and blinding. I cried out, back hitting hard stone as I tumbled down two tiers, landing in a heap.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My ears rang. Something warm and sticky ran down my arm.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself still.
Don’t move, Weasley. Assess.
I peeked over the edge of the bench I’d landed behind. My arm screamed in pain. My wand was still in my hand, though slick with blood.
Then—they arrived.
I saw the unmistakable flash of bubblegum pink as Tonks barrelled into the room from the rear, followed by Death Eaters.
Moody was right behind them, shouting curses like battle hymns. Kingsley’s voice followed, deep and calm, his spells fast and precise.
And then—
A shockwave of power.
Dumbledore stepped in.
And Bill, and Lupin, wands already raised.
The tide just turned.
The second the Death Eaters saw Dumbledore, everything shifted.
They yelled to each other, spells faltering, panic setting in. I heard one bark, “Retreat!” another shout, “No use! He’s here!” Their fear was so thick I could almost taste it.
I didn’t stop moving.
Dumbledore’s presence was like a bloody storm cloud about to break over their heads—but I couldn’t afford to get distracted. I was still halfway up the amphitheatre, using the tiers as cover. I crawled over another bench, wand clutched tight in my bloody hand.
Below, Sirius and Harry were still fighting—still surrounded.
I couldn’t get to Percy. I still didn’t know if he was breathing.
But I could keep going.
I spotted Bellatrix and Lucius pushing toward a side exit—still throwing spells behind them, wild and furious.
Tonks and Lupin surged forward from the opposite direction. Lupin’s face was carved from stone. Tonks looked like lightning given shape, curses flying from her wand as fast as thought.
They joined Harry and Sirius, meeting Lucius and Bellatrix head-on.
And then—Dumbledore moved.
With a flick of his wand—so fast I barely saw it—several of the remaining Death Eaters were suddenly yanked together into the centre of the room. They screamed and thrashed, but they couldn’t move. It was like invisible ropes had wrapped around them, suspending them midair. Their wands dropped uselessly to the floor.
I crept lower. I was close now—three rows from the dais. If I could just give Harry and Sirius a bit more room—
Then bang.
A crack of light. A scream.
“AAARGH!”
Tonks hit the ground, curled on her side, clutching her leg. Her wand flew from her hand and clattered across the stone.
Bellatrix was already spinning to flee, wild laughter on her lips.
Lucius too—shoving off curses, trying to carve a path out.
Dumbledore didn’t miss a beat. He turned and flicked his wand—silent, deadly.
A jet of gold blazed toward Bellatrix.
She deflected it. Barely.
Moody and Kingsley joined the fight, flanking Lucius with no hesitation. Sirius struck from the front.
Lucius tried to Apparate—couldn’t. Anti-Apparition field. He turned, tried to flee— too slow.
A bolt from Bill caught him. He went stiff mid-step and fell like stone, completely immobilised.
Then Harry screamed.
He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his scalp, face twisted in agony.
“Harry!” I shouted, forgetting I was meant to be quiet.
I stumbled down the last bench, ignoring the pain in my arm, my legs, everything. My wand was slick in my hand, and I was already aiming, scanning for a threat—even though I didn’t know where it was.
But I felt it.
The air shifted.
At the far end of the room, where Dumbledore had cornered Bellatrix against the wall, something ripped into the space—a crack, not loud, but deep, like the world had been sliced open.
And then he was there.
Voldemort.
Not in shadow. Not in some vision. Not in Harry’s mind.
In the flesh.
He appeared beside Bellatrix like a shadow drawn into shape, wand already raised, his face pale and shining with something like fury—and something worse.
He didn’t look human.
Bellatrix gasped and stumbled back behind him like he was a shield she’d summoned. She looked terrified but proud.
Harry screamed again, louder this time, like his skull was splitting open.
Dumbledore didn’t flinch.
He didn’t speak, didn’t lower his wand. He took one step forward, eyes locked on Voldemort like he’d expected this moment all along.
“Tom,” he said quietly.
Voldemort didn’t answer.
He raised his wand—
And all hell broke loose.
Voldemort and Dumbledore clashed like titans—no warning, no breath between them. The air boomed as spells collided midair, radiant and terrible. I dropped low, arm instinctively shielding my head as shards of stone exploded from the walls.
To my left, Kingsley and Moody surged forward, cutting off Bellatrix. She shrieked in frustration, but couldn’t reach Voldemort’s side—every path she tried, they blocked.
To my right, Lupin crouched beside Tonks, murmuring to her, wand already pressed against her thigh where blood soaked her torn trousers. Her face was white, jaw clenched.
Sirius was suddenly there, kneeling by Harry, who still gripped his head, trembling, barely aware of anything. Sirius touched his shoulder, saying something low and urgent. Harry didn’t respond.
And Percy—
God, Percy.
Bill had reached him. I saw him drop to his knees, tear open Percy’s robes near the ribs, wand shaking as he cast diagnostic spells I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell if he looked relieved or scared.
I hesitated.
My legs pulled toward Percy, my brother, possibly dying. But my heart had already turned toward Harry.
I cursed under my breath and bolted to Harry. I grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Harry—come on. Come on, we’ve got to move.”
He looked up at me, dazed, eyes full of pain and confusion. His scar was still red and angry, and Voldemort hadn’t even looked at him, but his pain was real.
I wrapped my arm around him and hauled him to his feet. He staggered but didn’t resist.
“Come on,” I hissed. “We’re going to Bill and Percy. We need to regroup.”
Sirius helped me steady Harry, and the three of us hobbled toward the far wall, where Bill was now muttering urgently over Percy. The sight nearly undid me—Percy’s head lolled sideways, but his chest rose. Bill pressed a hand over a bleeding wound and looked up when he saw us.
“He’s alive,” he said quickly. “Bad hit, but I’ve got him stable for now.”
I nearly collapsed in relief.
Behind us, spells were cracking like thunder. Dumbledore and Voldemort were circling each other midair now— levitating —trailing threads of power like comets in a storm. The Veil fluttered with every blow they exchanged.
Lupin appeared, carrying Tonks in both arms. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed. He set her down carefully beside Percy.
My heart was thundering. I realised I was still under the Disillusionment Charm. With everything happening, it felt ridiculous—like hiding from a hurricane under a leaf.
I let it drop.
The chill lifted, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I saw myself—bloody, limping, pale—but alive.
Everyone was looking to Dumbledore, but no one knew what to do.
Harry was still shaking. Percy was out cold. Tonks was barely conscious. Sirius was bleeding from the temple. No one was leading—no one except the man currently duelling the most powerful dark wizard alive.
So I stepped forward.
“Everyone together,” I said, louder than I meant to. “Don’t separate. Wands ready. Protect them—Percy, Tonks, Harry—keep your backs together. Don’t try to duel Voldemort. Just hold until the Aurors come.”
No one argued. Lupin and Sirius flanked me on both sides, wands ready.
Then—Dumbledore’s voice, cutting through the fury like a blade.
“The prophecy is gone, Tom! You’ve lost!”
Voldemort’s scream of rage was so raw it shook the stones.
And right then—the reinforcements arrived.
The doors blew open. Dawlish led the charge, wand raised, with a dozen Aurors behind him. They froze almost immediately when they saw who Dumbledore was fighting.
Half of them looked ready to run.
Dawlish paled.
“Merlin,” he breathed. “It’s him—he’s here—!”
And then Voldemort turned.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t grab Bellatrix. He didn’t gloat.
He disappeared.
Gone in a blink, with a crack like thunder.
Just like that—it was over.
The silence was deafening.
Chapter 72: BOOK FIVE - HARSH TRUTHS
Notes:
One of my favourite scenes. I believe some of you will like it, too.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
HARSH TRUTHS
The silence after Voldemort vanished was worse than the battle.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Dumbledore stood at the centre of the room, wand still raised, robes torn and smudged with ash, his face harsh and cold. The air crackled where Voldemort had been just moments ago.
The Aurors—Dawlish at the front—were still frozen, wide-eyed. For a moment, I thought they might run, even now. But they didn’t.
Instead, they began to move with jerky precision, as if waking from a dream. Wands rose. Orders were barked.
Kingsley and Moody were already cuffing Death Eaters—tossing them to the floor with efficient, brutal gestures. Bellatrix snarled and thrashed, still laughing as two Aurors bound her in thick magical restraints. She didn’t stop laughing until Moody silenced her with a wordless jinx.
Lupin had taken over guard near Tonks, who was still pale and dazed on the stone. Sirius crouched beside Harry, one hand on his shoulder, quiet and steady.
I stood frozen.
Percy hadn’t moved.
Bill was bent over him, wand flashing in unknown patterns. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I wanted to go, but my feet were stuck, my body stiff with adrenaline and pain.
Then—crack, crack, crack—three Healers from St. Mungo’s Apparated into the room, wands drawn at first, then quickly holstered once they took in the scene. They wore white and green robes with charmed badges that glowed faintly.
They wasted no time.
One immediately ran to Tonks. Another jogged toward Percy, joining Bill and checking vitals. A third—tall, greying—glanced my way as he passed.
“You,” he barked, pointing his wand at my shoulder before I could answer. “Concussive trauma. Fractured scapula, mild laceration. You’ll keep your arm. You’ll live.”
He moved on before I could thank him.
The Healers conjured floating stretchers and carefully levitated Tonks and Percy onto them. Tonks groaned faintly as they adjusted her leg. Percy didn’t make a sound.
Bill hovered near Percy’s stretcher like a hawk.
“I’m going with him,” Bill told the nearest Auror, who looked like he wanted to protest until he noticed Bill’s expression. “He’s my brother. Try and stop me.”
No one tried.
The Healers nodded briskly to Dumbledore and began escorting the stretchers toward the door, casting protective charms as they moved.
Bill turned back once, eyes flicking across the room. He met mine for a second and gave a sharp, quick nod—then followed Percy out.
That left us.
The captured Death Eaters. The Aurors. The Ministry. And us.
One of the Ministry officials—a man in long grey robes with a clipboard and too much authority—approached Dumbledore, flanked by two Aurors. They started talking. I couldn’t hear them all, but it didn’t look friendly.
He didn’t even look at the injured. Just at Dumbledore. At Harry. At Sirius. At Lupin.
There was a storm building in his voice.
I caught enough.
Trespassing.
Destruction of Department property.
Interference with a classified wing of the Ministry.
They wanted to detain all of us. Me. Sirius. Harry. Lupin. And even Albus fucking Dumbledore.
Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change. He said something low. The Ministry man said something louder. Then Dumbledore raised one hand, very slightly—and whatever he said next made the man step back like he’d been burned.
Then Dumbledore turned toward us.
He crossed the ruined stone floor, his movements fluid but heavy with wear. His robes were scorched at the hem. Dust clung to his sleeves.
He stopped in front of us. I straightened reflexively, though my legs still felt like water.
“They wish to detain you,” Dumbledore said calmly. “All of you. For the crime of being present when truth finally became undeniable.”
Harry made a faint noise, somewhere between a scoff and a groan.
Dumbledore looked at him gently.
“They are frightened. That is not new.”
Sirius crossed his arms.
“Let them try to arrest me. I’d like to see—”
“No.” Dumbledore raised a hand again, not to silence him, but to steady him. “You’ve done enough tonight. You all have.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then conjured something with a graceful flick of his wand. A silver goblet shimmered into view, hovering in the air between us, faintly glowing. A Portkey.
“I’ve arranged our departure,” he said. “You’ll be taken to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey is already expecting you.”
Lupin nodded once. Sirius stood and helped Harry to his feet. My shoulder was burning again, but I didn’t say anything.
The moment we all touched the Portkey, the world yanked itself away from us.
Spinning.
Then the stone of the Department of Mysteries was gone.
And we were standing in the cool hush of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.
Madam Pomfrey was already there, wand in hand, mouth tight.
“Beds. Now,” she snapped, pointing.
I staggered, legs shaky. She took one look at my shoulder and waved me aside before I could even reach a bed.
“You,” she said sharply. “Here. Sit down. Shirt off.”
I obeyed. The world narrowed. My shoulder throbbed with heat, pain flaring as I peeled my shirt down one side. Blood had dried and crusted at the seam, but fresh warmth trickled down my arm. My hand was trembling.
She closed the curtains around us and clicked her tongue.
“Stitches first. Then I’ll mend it fully. That’ll teach you to block with your shoulder, Mr. Weasley.”
I didn’t answer. Just sat there.
Pomfrey’s hands worked fast and clean, her charm-threaded needle pulling through skin with a tug-tug-tug rhythm that should’ve grounded me.
It didn’t.
My adrenaline was still boiling under my skin. My mind wouldn’t stop. Every time I blinked, I saw Percy again—crumpled beside the Veil, his eyes closed, blood soaking through his robes. I kept hearing the way his body hit the stone. Limp. Like a doll. Like—
No.
I tried to think of clouds.
Pale ones. Weightless. Moving slowly in a quiet sky.
But nothing came. Just red.
My chest was too tight. I couldn’t breathe right. I couldn’t get out. I was back there again—running, ducking spells, screaming for Harry, not knowing if Percy was alive, not knowing if I’d saved him in time—
“Hold still,” Pomfrey snapped gently. “Almost done.”
I nodded mutely. My throat was sandpaper.
Then I heard him.
Snape.
“—told you explicitly to stay in Dumbledore’s office. But no, you had to be the martyr again, didn’t you, Potter?”
I flinched.
Harry’s voice rose, defensive.
“I had to! He was torturing Sirius—what was I supposed to do, just sit there and let it happen?”
I felt the world tunnel in. The needle left my skin. Pomfrey muttered a sealing charm, but I barely heard it. My pulse was roaring in my ears.
Then Harry’s voice again, louder. And this time—
He laughed.
A bitter, hollow sound.
“What’s the big deal? Nobody died, so I’d say that’s a win.”
My blood ran cold.
I stood.
I pushed the curtain aside so hard it rattled on the rail.
Snape turned, eyes flashing. Lupin straightened from his chair, Sirius lifted his head. Harry was still half-sitting on his cot, flushed and trying to talk over the silence that followed his words.
I marched toward him, past Snape’s tall, furious form. My feet made sharp, even sounds against the tile.
Harry looked up, confused—until I reached him and brought my hand across his face.
Crack.
The sound echoed like a spell.
He staggered sideways, blinking in shock.
Silence. Total silence.
No one moved.
No one said a word.
So I spoke.
Not loud. Not shouting. Just… steady. My voice low, flat, cold with something that had been boiling inside me for hours.
“You think this is a win?” I said.
Harry blinked. Still silent.
“You ran,” I said. “You saw something terrifying, and you didn’t stop to think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t wait. You didn’t trust us—you didn’t even give us the chance.”
He flinched.
I didn’t stop.
“You left without a plan. Without backup. You dragged me with you, and I followed because I was scared not to. Because you were ready to throw yourself into a trap just to feel like you were doing something.”
Sirius shifted behind me but didn’t interrupt. No one did.
“And now,” I went on, breath hitching, “you sit there and say ‘nobody died’ like that makes it fine? We don’t know that, Harry. Percy’s at St. Mungo’s. He might still die .”
My voice cracked there. I didn’t care.
“You say nobody died, but Harry, I was there. I saw. Percy literally stood between you and Death. He took the hit instead of you. Do you hear what I say? If Percy hadn’t sacrificed himself, you would be dead. Right fucking now. ”
Harry’s face was pale now, horror creeping up his expression. But I kept going, not because I wanted to hurt him, but because he needed to hear it.
“You had a choice. And I’m not blaming you for the vision, or for being scared, or for wanting to help Sirius. I get that .”
I stepped back slightly, but not away.
“I’m blaming you for not listening. For refusing to wait. For thinking you had to do it alone, again, like none of us mattered. Like the rest of us were just… pieces on the board you could ignore.”
I swallowed hard.
“You say nobody died,” I said again, quieter now. “But someone almost did. My brother. And that is on you.”
Silence.
Heavy and awful.
I didn’t wait for an answer. I just turned away.
Away from Harry.
Madam Pomfrey was the first to move. Not a word, just a sharp inhale through her nose, and then her hand on my arm.
“Mr. Weasley,” she said quietly. “Come with me. Now.”
I didn’t resist. My whole body felt like it had cracked open, leaking heat and fury and dread. I followed her back to the bed like a wind-up toy losing steam. She drew the curtains tight around us and had me sit.
“Lie back,” she ordered. “Let’s check what damage you’ve just done.”
I winced as I lowered myself. My shoulder throbbed like it had a pulse of its own. I wasn’t sure if it was the slap or the memories or the whole bloody night finally catching up to me.
She peeled back the gauze gently and muttered something under her breath.
“One stitch popped. Just the one, thank Merlin. I’ll redo it.”
She didn’t ask why I’d gotten up. Didn’t scold me for it, either. I was grateful.
Her hands were efficient and firm.
“You’ve been limping. Don’t deny it—I watched you stomp across the room like you were dragging a dead leg.”
I sighed.
“I think I twisted my ankle when I fell off a bench. Or maybe it was when I got hexed. It’s a blur.”
“Let me see.”
I pulled my trouser leg up. She ran her wand over my shin and ankle, eyes narrowing at the diagnostic shimmer.
“Sprained. Bruised. Mild nerve flare. Nothing broken, but it’s going to swell like a puffskein in heat if I don’t treat it now.”
She flicked her wand again and cold blue light swept over my ankle. It felt blissfully numb for a second, then horribly itchy, then nothing.
“Done,” she said crisply.
But she wasn’t finished.
“Now,” she said, her voice softer, “let’s have a look at that scapula. You landed hard.”
I hesitated.
“The Healer said that it’s fractured.”
She didn’t reply. She conjured a diagnostic charm with practised grace and held the shimmering results in front of her like a judge reading a sentence.
“Hairline fracture,” she confirmed. “You’ll need Skele-Gro.”
My stomach turned. She poured a single shot of the vile liquid and handed it to me without ceremony.
“Bottoms up.”
I gagged it down. It burned. I could already feel the slow, hideous knitting of bone inside my shoulder like fire curling through marrow.
I shut my eyes and leaned back against the pillow, breath hissing out between my teeth.
But all I could see behind my eyelids was Percy’s body, limp at the foot of the veil. And Harry’s face after I slapped him. And the expression he wore when I told him the truth.
I couldn’t reach the clouds.
Not yet.
Madam Pomfrey cleaned up in silence. She Vanished the used gauze and set the empty Skele-Gro vial aside like she didn’t want to look at it—or me. Then she drew back the curtains with a swish, letting the light and the room pour back in.
I didn’t look up. I heard her footsteps moving away, and I knew where she was going. To Harry.
She didn’t say anything sharp, but her voice when she spoke to him was tight and clipped, all business. She was checking him over. Asking questions in a tone that brooked no protest.
I let it all blur.
My shoulder felt like it was full of fire ants, crawling and gnawing and multiplying every time I so much as twitched. I leaned back into the pillows, cold with sweat, heart still hammering like I’d just left the battle minutes ago.
I closed my eyes.
Breathed in.
Clouds. Come on.
White, drifting clouds. Pale sky. Calm wind.
I tried to reach it. I tried so hard. But every time a cloud started to form, Percy’s face came instead. Pale and slack, bloody. The Veil. So close to taking Percy. So close.
Clouds shattered.
I swallowed, jaw tight. The pain was dull and deep, anchored in my ribs and shoulder and spine—but it was nothing compared to what was clawing through my chest.
I stayed still. Let them all fade around me. Let the world move on without me for a few more minutes.
Then I heard the footsteps.
Not heavy like Sirius’s. Not steady like Lupin’s. Not anxious like Pomfrey’s.
Controlled. Measured. Quiet, but deliberate.
I didn’t open my eyes—not right away. I knew who it was.
The air changed when he entered my space, like the weight of him pressed into the room even when he didn’t speak.
I took a few more seconds. Just a few. Letting the burn in my shoulder settle into background noise. Letting the storm in my chest shrink just enough to be boxed up for later.
Then I opened my eyes and looked up.
He stood beside my bed, arms crossed, eyes on me. Focused. Searching. Waiting.
Snape didn’t speak right away.
He just stood there, face blank in that particular way that meant he was thinking too many things at once and not letting any of them slip through.
I forced myself to sit up straighter, even though every part of me groaned.
“You can say it,” I said with a sigh. “You told us to stay. I know.”
His eyes narrowed, but not in anger. Something colder.
“And yet you went anyway.”
I didn’t argue.
“There wasn’t a choice,” I said, low. “Not really.”
I leaned back into the pillows, not from exhaustion—though that was there too—but from something heavier.
“I tried to stop him. I really did. But he wouldn’t listen. He… he looked at me like I was the enemy. Like I was keeping him from saving Sirius. And maybe I was. Maybe that’s what it felt like to him.”
I stared past Snape’s shoulder, at nothing. I let the silence sit between us for a second before continuing.
“I knew what was happening. I knew. I thought I was ready to stop it. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t fast enough or loud enough or… whatever enough.”
I shrugged with my good shoulder.
“So I went after him. Because I couldn’t let him go alone. If something had happened to him—if Sirius or Percy or anyone had died—I couldn’t have just sat there knowing I’d let him walk into it.”
My voice cracked a little, but I didn’t care.
“I didn’t go because I disagreed with you. I went because I failed.”
Snape closed the curtains around the side where the others were being checked over. Then, he sat.
Not like someone casually settling in. No, it was deliberate—controlled—like he’d made a choice and couldn’t take it back.
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
“You didn’t fail,” he said.
Just like that.
I blinked, staring straight ahead at nothing.
“You tried to stop him,” he continued, tone flat but unwavering. “You warned him. You restrained him. You appealed to logic, emotion, authority. Nothing worked.”
He paused.
“And when he refused to listen, you followed—not to indulge him, but to contain the damage. You stayed calm under pressure. You avoided reckless confrontation. You made tactical decisions and got people out alive.”
I turned my head toward him slowly.
Snape didn’t meet my eyes at first. He was watching the blanket, his fingers curled tight against his knee.
He exhaled through his nose.
“I’ve seen students freeze under far less.”
I swallowed.
“I—”
“You didn’t fail,” he repeated. “You were placed in an impossible situation by someone utterly convinced of his own righteousness. You navigated it better than most adults would have.”
That landed. Sharp and deep and too heavy to carry, almost.
Snape looked up at me then, his eyes dark and tired and—something else. Something like... fury, dulled only by exhaustion.
“Don’t ever call that failure again, Mr. Weasley.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight.
But I nodded.
Because I believed him.
For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The quiet pressed in, broken only by the faint shuffle of Madam Pomfrey somewhere beyond the curtain, and the low murmur of Sirius’ voice trying to calm Harry again.
Then Snape spoke, quieter now.
“The fallout will be… extensive.”
I let out a breath.
“I figured.”
Snape’s expression tightened.
“The Department of Mysteries was never meant to be a battleground. The damage alone—structural, magical—will take weeks to assess. Possibly months.”
“Is that what they’ll focus on?” I asked. “The damage?”
“No,” he said. “But they’ll start there. Because it’s easier than facing the rest.”
He paused. I waited.
“The fact that the Dark Lord was seen. That he engaged in open combat against Ministry officials. That a prophecy was destroyed in the process. That he almost took a prisoner from right under their noses.”
He shook his head once, jaw tight.
“They’ll try to spin it. Contain the panic. Fudge may deny it entirely, if he hasn’t already started.”
“But the Aurors saw him,” I said.
“Yes,” Snape replied, “but the Aurors report to the Ministry. And the Ministry reports to the press.”
“They’ll want someone to blame. They always do.”
Snape nodded. I swallowed.
“Dumbledore?” I asked.
“Dumbledore, yes. Black, certainly. Perhaps the Order in general. And Potter.”
He said Harry’s name like it left a sour taste in his mouth. But then again, it probably did.
“And me,” I added with a sigh.
Snape looked at me, hard.
“If they do come after you, it will be quietly. Your name may not appear in the Prophet, but they’ll remember. Bureaucrats have long memories.” He narrowed his eyes. “You won’t face formal charges. Dumbledore will see to that.”
“But Sirius might,” I said. “He’s a free man now, but he still broke into the Department.”
“Black may be reprimanded, perhaps even temporarily detained. But after tonight, the Ministry can’t afford to look incompetent and vindictive. They’ll have to offer some concessions. Public trust will demand it.”
I watched him, taking it in.
“And the public?” I asked. “What’ll they say?”
Snape snorted once, the sound grim.
“They’ll panic. Then they’ll argue. Then they’ll pick sides.”
“And when do things go back to normal?”
Snape looked me in the eye.
“They don’t.”
The weight of it settled in my chest like stone. I didn’t argue. What would be the point?
He studied me for a moment longer, then finally spoke, quieter now.
“You’ll be given news about your brother as soon as it arrives. You need rest in the meantime.”
I nodded, slow and tired.
“I know you won’t sleep,” he added, tone clipped, “but try.”
I gave a dry little huff.
“Was that an order?”
He tilted his head, not quite a nod.
“A recommendation. Healers don’t stitch bone and blood just for you to undo it pacing the floor.”
There was something close to dry exasperation in his voice. Close—but not quite. Underneath it was something steadier. Something more like concern.
Snape stood.
For a second, I thought he might say something else, but he just looked at me one last time, gave a very slight incline of his head, and turned away.
His robes whispered behind him as he left, disappearing through the curtains like he’d never been there at all.
And I was alone again.
Alone, but not adrift.
Snape was right. Of course, he was.
There was no sleep in me.
So I did the next best thing. I went to the clouds.
Not the peaceful ones, not today. These weren’t gentle drifting thoughts or soft quiet skies. This was war.
Every time Percy’s name tried to form behind my eyes, I pushed it away. Swatted it like a fly, then chased it with a broom, then with pitchforks. Harry’s face, Harry’s words—gone. Lucius. Bellatrix. Voldemort. Gone. I wouldn’t let them land. I kept the sky clear by sheer force of will.
I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t dreaming.
So when the quiet shuffle of footsteps came near my bed, I opened my eyes at once.
Lupin stood there, lit only by the soft lanterns Pomfrey had dimmed earlier. His face was drawn, but his eyes—warm, always—met mine and held.
“We got a message from St Mungo’s,” he said in a low, careful voice. “Percy is stable. He’s going to make a full recovery, eventually.”
My breath left me in one long exhale. I didn’t even realise how tightly I’d been holding it.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, letting my head fall back onto the pillow.
He nodded.
“Your parents asked after you as well. Now that Percy’s out of danger, one of them should be here soon.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
But he didn’t leave.
Instead, Lupin looked at me a moment longer, then lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the bed, just near my feet.
“I saw what happened with Harry,” he said gently.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t look at him, either.
“You were angry. Understandably so.”
Still nothing from me.
“But it wasn’t just anger,” he said. “You told him the truth, Ron. And not many people do that—especially not when it’s hard to hear.”
I looked away, jaw tight.
“I’m not ashamed of what I said,” I muttered. “It was the truth.”
“I know,” Lupin said. “That’s why I’m not here to lecture you.”
I finally glanced at him, cautious.
“I think Harry needed to hear it,” Lupin continued. “You were the only one who could have reached him like that tonight. And it wasn’t cruel. It was painful—but not cruel.”
I said nothing.
I didn’t feel proud. Not really. The slap still stung my fingers. And the disappointment—still there, simmering. Not just at Harry. At everything. The chaos. The way we nearly lost Percy. The way I hadn’t been able to stop any of it.
Lupin must’ve read something on my face, because he added, quietly,
“You did right by your brother. And by Harry, too, whether he knows it or not.”
He gave me a faint, tired smile and stood again.
“Get some rest, Ron. You’ve earned it.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Just walked off into the low light, his footsteps soft, and left me in silence again.
And still, I couldn’t sleep. But for the first time since the battle… I could breathe again.
I went back to my clouds.
It was easier now. The urgency had bled out of me, leaving only the echo. I didn’t need pitchforks or broomsticks this time—just one long breath and the promise that the battle was truly behind us. The air inside me wasn’t full of fire anymore.
I could breathe.
Now there was only the anger. At Harry. The disappointment that fed the anger. And the anger that fed the disappointment. A loop I couldn’t break. I told myself I didn’t want to feel it, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all myself.
A storm was forming again. I saw it on the horizon—black and mean, roiling with unspoken things—and I was trying to blow it away when someone cleared their throat.
The clouds vanished.
I opened my eyes.
Sirius stood at the foot of my bed, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.
“I’m not here to have a go at you,” he said before I could say anything. “Harry asked me to check on you.”
I looked at him. Didn’t speak. I didn’t trust my voice not to crack into something childish or vicious.
Sirius shifted his weight. He didn’t sit.
“I saw the slap,” he said evenly. “And the rest of it. What you said.”
I swallowed. My mouth was dry.
“He needed to hear it,” Sirius said. “And no one else said it.”
He looked at me, properly then, and his voice dropped.
“You were right. It’s hard for him to hear that, but you were right. He was reckless. He did endanger people. He did put you and your brother and half the bloody Order in danger tonight. Because he didn’t stop to ask for help.”
Sirius’s voice caught—just a little.
“And I’m angry, too. At him. At myself. Because maybe if I hadn’t been so… me, he wouldn’t have thought he had to save me.”
He breathed out through his nose and dragged a hand through his hair.
“But I know Harry. And I know guilt is going to eat him alive over this. And what you said—it’s going to stick. Not because you were cruel, but because it came from you. You’re not just his friend, Ron. You’re his person. ”
He met my eyes again.
“So thank you. For telling him the truth. And for keeping him alive. Even when he didn’t make it easy.”
Then, quieter:
“How’s your shoulder?”
It took me a moment to find my voice.
“Stitched. And Skelegro. Hurts like hell.”
He gave a tired, rueful smile.
“Yeah. That tracks.”
Silence stretched for a beat.
“I’ll let you sleep,” Sirius said. Then, with a glance back before walking away: “When you’re ready to talk to him… he’ll listen. I think you’re the only one he really hears right now.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
I watched him go. Then let the clouds come back. Quieter this time. Softer.
And I let myself drift.
Chapter 73: BOOK FIVE - LETTING THE DUST SETTLE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
LETTING THE DUST SETTLE
The curtains rustled open again. I thought it might be Pomfrey with more potions or maybe Lupin checking in—but it wasn’t.
It was Mum. And Bill, right behind her. Her face was pinched and pale, and Bill looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
I sat up a little straighter in the bed, suddenly tense.
I thought—just for a second—that they might shout. That they might scold me for going. For following Harry into the Ministry. For nearly getting myself killed.
But Mum didn’t scold.
She crossed the room in three long steps and wrapped me in the tightest hug I’d had since Christmas.
“Oh, my boy,” she whispered. “My brave, stupid boy.”
I didn’t say anything at first. Just let her hold me. Her hands shook a little.
Bill came to the other side of the bed and gave me that look, somewhere between a wince and a smirk.
“Don’t mind her. She’s cried three times since Percy woke up, and all three involved hugging.”
I gave a short laugh.
“Sounds about right.”
Mum finally pulled back, still keeping a hand on my cheek.
“How bad is it? What did Pomfrey say?”
I shrugged a little, careful not to jar my shoulder.
“Not too bad, really. Just some stitches, they’ll come out today or tomorrow. Concussion, but nothing serious. Pomfrey’s keeping me for peace and quiet more than anything else.”
Bill let out a breath.
“Thank Merlin.”
Mum’s hand curled tighter on mine.
“And… your shoulder?”
“Fracture. Had Skele-Gro. It’s fine now.”
They both looked at me, like they were trying to read between the lines. But I wasn’t lying. Not this time.
“You gave us quite a scare,” Bill said finally, dragging a hand through his hair. “They told us, in the debrief, what you did.”
I blinked.
“What I—?”
“You saved him,” Mum said, voice soft. “You pulled Percy back. They said… if you hadn’t, if your spell had been even a second later—”
“He’d be gone,” Bill finished, jaw tight.
I swallowed hard, throat catching.
Mum sat on the edge of the bed.
“You saved your brother’s life, Ronald.”
I didn’t know what to say. There weren’t words for that. Not really.
So I just nodded.
“I wasn’t going to let him fall.”
Bill stepped forward and, without warning, pulled me into a hug too. Fierce. Warm. His palm clapped the back of my head like when I was little.
“I’m proud of you,” he said into my hair.
And then Mum was there again too, arms around both of us, holding us tight.
I hadn’t cried during the battle. Hadn’t let myself. But I felt something sting behind my eyes now, sharp and sudden.
I closed them and let myself breathe.
Just breathe.
“You said that Percy is awake?” I asked, voice scratchy.
Mum nodded immediately, wiping at her nose.
“Yes, love. They’re monitoring his magic and watching for any delayed curse effects, but he’s out of danger. The healers said… he’ll make a full recovery.”
I let out a long breath.
Bill added,
“They’ll keep him for a few more days, just to be sure. Then he’ll come home. Rest. Recover properly.”
“Good,” I murmured. “Tell him… tell him to listen to the damn Healers. And not to go charging back into the Ministry like a bloody idiot the second he can stand.”
Bill grinned.
“We’ll tie him to the bed if we have to.”
I snorted, a weak laugh breaking through the tension in my chest.
“That’s the spirit.”
Mum smiled faintly, her eyes still red.
“You can tell him yourself soon.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t feel empty.
Then Mum looked across the room, to the bed opposite mine.
“And Harry?” she asked softly. “Is he hurt?”
I didn’t look. My gaze dropped instead to the sheets bunched around my knees.
“I don’t know,” I said.
There was a pause.
“But… he’s right across from you, isn’t he?” Mum asked, confused.
I didn’t answer. Just kept glaring at the fabric like it had personally wronged me.
“I need a bit of space,” I said eventually. “Just until I’m not angry anymore.”
Bill frowned.
“Angry?”
Mum touched my arm.
“Why, Ron? What happened?”
I hesitated. The words were right there, and I could have told them everything—Harry’s recklessness, his dismissal of what Percy had done, the way he’d nearly gotten himself killed and dragged the rest of us into it with him.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk turning them against him, not now. Not ever.
“I just… need time to process a few things,” I said, keeping my voice even. “That’s all.”
They didn’t press. Not really.
Mum just nodded slowly, though her eyes were still full of worry.
“Alright, love. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
She tucked a bit of hair behind my ear.
“Do you need anything, sweetheart?”
I shook my head.
“Just… be with Percy. Make sure he’s alright. That’s all I need right now.”
Mum didn’t look entirely convinced, worry still pinched around her eyes.
“I’ll have plenty of visitors soon anyway,” I added, voice quieter. “The twins and Ginny don’t even know yet. It’s still early. But once they’re told what happened—once they wake up—they’ll be here. You know they will.”
That seemed to land.
Her mouth wobbled slightly, but she nodded.
“Yes. Yes, they’ll want to see you right away.”
Bill glanced toward the corridor.
“We should get back to Percy. He might be waking up again soon.”
Mum looked back at me once more.
“You’re sure, sweetheart? You’re really alright?”
“I’m alright,” I said. “Really. Pomfrey’s got me for the concussion and the stitches. I’ve had worse scrapes playing Quidditch in the garden.”
She didn’t laugh at that. But she finally nodded, and her eyes filled up again. She gave me one more kiss on the forehead, then wrapped me in another hug. I clung to her a second longer this time.
“We’ll be back soon,” she promised.
“I know,” I said.
And then they were gone.
The bubble felt quieter. But not empty. Just quiet enough for me to hear the sound of my own breathing again.
I was sitting against the pillows, the sting of the Skele-Gro still ebbing and flowing down my shoulder like slow, hot tar, when I heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching, soft but deliberate. Then, the subtle shiver of magic as privacy wards settled around the curtains around me. I opened my eyes and looked up.
Dumbledore stood at the foot of my bed, his face tired but composed, and then—without a word—he pulled the chair beside me and sat.
“I believe it is time we debrief,” he said, his voice quiet.
I nodded slowly. Right. Time to face the reality. I rubbed the heel of my palm over my eye and stared down at the creased blanket on my lap.
“I failed,” I said.
Dumbledore said nothing.
“I knew it was coming. I had all that knowledge… and it all went sideways. Sirius got taken hostage for real and I didn’t see it coming. And I didn’t stop Harry from going. I thought… I thought he trusted me more than that.”
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp but kind.
“You attempted to stop him. That is more than most would have done.”
“I wasn’t enough,” I said. “I tried to talk him down. I tried to hold him back. He still left. And I followed him. And then it all happened anyway.”
“You followed him because you knew he’d be alone otherwise,” Dumbledore said simply. “You knew the risk of letting him go alone outweighed the risk of going yourself.”
“It doesn’t feel like that was a smart call,” I muttered.
“It was a necessary call,” he said. “And you showed presence of mind I would not expect from most adults, let alone a student. Moody himself commented on your conduct during the battle.”
I blinked.
“He did?”
Dumbledore gave the barest smile.
“Something about how you were the only one who wasn’t shouting, flailing, or doing something idiotic with their wand.”
I snorted. Then I slumped again.
“Doesn’t matter. The whole night was a disaster.”
“I disagree,” he said quietly. “Because, by your own account, Sirius Black was meant to die last night.”
I froze.
“But he didn’t,” Dumbledore continued. “Nor did your brother Percy. And by the reports I have read, it is only thanks to you that he is still alive.”
I stared at the blanket again.
“Voldemort failed to retrieve the prophecy,” he went on. “He was exposed, publicly. The Ministry has acknowledged his return. No one is still pretending he is gone. That is not failure, Mr. Weasley. Not by any stretch.”
I nodded, slowly.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly.
“What was different, in the end? What deviated from what you knew?”
I thought about it in silence. My thoughts dragged like mud.
“Bellatrix was supposed to escape,” I said eventually. “She didn’t. Voldemort was supposed to possess Harry. He didn’t.” I frowned. “And… Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville—they were supposed to be there. But they weren’t. No students were. It was just Harry and me. And the Order.”
I paused.
“No one got injured. At least, not them.”
Dumbledore’s voice was gentler now.
“Except you.”
I said nothing.
He went on,
“I’ve noticed something, Ron. You speak about the war, the battle, even your own actions as if you’re not an important piece on the board.”
I winced.
“You downplay your role,” he said. “Even to yourself. Even now. It’s as though you’ve decided you’re not meant to matter.”
I didn’t want to talk about that. So I gave a tight smile.
“Well, I’m a supporting character, sir. It’s just life’s story. I’m not the hero.”
“I see no reason why there should be only one,” Dumbledore said. “And your life is not a story where you are secondary. Certainly not to those who know you. And not to me.”
That was too much. I looked away.
Silence settled again, not heavy—just tired.
I cleared my throat.
“Is the Ministry going to arrest us?”
Dumbledore shook his head.
“All charges have been dropped. No one will face consequences for last night—not Sirius, not you or Harry, not even Remus. It is, at last, a truth they cannot afford to bury.”
I let out a breath.
“At least there’s that.”
I tilted my head back and stared at the white hangings above.
“Will the press wait until tomorrow to break the news?”
Dumbledore’s expression darkened slightly.
“No, they will not.”
“Of course not.”
I let out a bitter breath of laughter. I looked at him.
“Fate always gets what it wants, doesn’t it? We didn’t give the interview about the graveyard. We thought… maybe if we stayed quiet, people would let us live. But now, the ball’s not in our court anymore. We’re not telling the story. We are the story. Whether we like it or not.”
Dumbledore looked at me, and there was something like regret in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s true.”
A pause. Dumbledore didn’t move. Just watched me for a moment with that unreadable expression of his, equal parts weight and weariness. Then he spoke.
“There is another conversation we must have, Ron. About fate—and prophecy.”
I looked at him, waiting.
“The prophecy was destroyed,” he went on, his tone quiet. “No one at the Ministry heard its full content. No one but two people knows what it truly said. Myself… and you.”
My mouth went dry.
He didn’t say anything for a moment longer. Then:
“I would like your advice. Should I tell Harry?”
I stared at him.
“Haven’t you already decided?”
He tilted his head, calm and open.
“No. I have not.”
I squinted, trying to figure out whether that was a trick question or not. But he looked sincere. Not pushing, not testing—just genuinely asking.
So I took the question seriously.
I looked down at my lap, picked at the edge of the blanket a little.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I mean—I haven’t even talked to Harry yet. Not properly. I needed… space. And time. I was angry. Still am, a bit.”
Dumbledore didn’t interrupt, so I kept going.
“I don’t know how he’s doing, not really. But I know how he looked last night. He’s not had time to process anything. He’s still raw. Reactive. Probably feels guilty as hell. And we both know how he gets when he’s like that—he spirals. He blames himself. He pushes people away.”
I took a breath.
“He needs at least a day. Maybe more. Just… time. And I need to talk to him first. Mend things. Let him know he’s not alone. That the prophecy—whatever it means—it’s not something he’s got to shoulder by himself.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly, as if weighing each word.
“If you tell him now,” I said, “he’ll fold inward. He’ll think it’s all on him. Like usual. And if you do that while he’s still raw, you’ll just make it worse. You’ll feed the martyr complex, not heal it. He needs to feel like he’s part of a team. That we’re here to help him. That he’s allowed to need help. To ask for it.”
I rubbed my good shoulder. The other still ached like hell.
“And Voldemort didn’t possess him,” I added. “Which means he hasn’t been pushed hard enough to never try again. Harry’s still vulnerable. He hasn’t mastered Occlumency. Not even close.”
Dumbledore folded his hands and leaned forward slightly.
“I just—look, I know waiting might take too long. We don’t exactly have time. He’s probably never going to be ready to hear what’s in that prophecy. Nobody would. But at the very least… wait until the dust from last night has settled. That’s the bare minimum.”
I met his eyes then.
“I’ll talk to him today. Now that I’ve had time to cool down. Now that he’s had time to think about what I said.”
Dumbledore was silent again for a beat.
Then he gave a single, slow nod.
“That,” he said softly, “sounds like wisdom.”
Dumbledore stood slowly, the lines around his eyes deep with thought, but not weariness. He looked down at me for a moment longer, something unreadable crossing his face—something close to pride, but quieter, sadder.
“I will speak to Professor Snape about the Occlumency lessons,” he said at last. “And I will delay telling Harry until the time feels right. You’ve given me much to consider, Mr. Weasley. Thank you.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He just touched his wand to the edge of the privacy ward, dissolving it with a shimmer, then walked away into the dim quiet of the Hospital Wing. I heard the doors click shut behind him.
I let myself breathe.
I’d said it. All of it. Everything I meant to say.
And now… now I had to follow through.
I slid my legs off the side of the bed, letting the cold floor press into the soles of my feet. My shoulder throbbed dully. The freshly healed scapula ached in protest. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered compared to what I had to do next.
I walked to the curtains with a grim sort of determination, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. It was time to stop licking my own wounds.
It was time to lick Harry’s.
I paused, grimaced.
“Ugh,” I muttered under my breath. “Terrible metaphor.”
Then I shook my head, pulled the curtains open—
—and stopped.
Harry was on the bed opposite mine, curled up sideways, awake but unmoving. His eyes were open, dull, staring ahead at nothing. Sirius was beside him in his Animagus form, the great black dog curled tightly against Harry’s side like a silent guardian. His massive head rested on Harry’s thigh, unmoving but alert.
For a moment, I just… stared.
I hadn’t expected that.
“Right,” I said softly to myself. “Sure. Why not.”
I looked at Harry.
And then I took a slow breath, squared my shoulders, and started walking. I crossed the room slowly, each step echoing too loudly in the quiet. My bare feet were cold on the stone floor, but I barely felt it. Just the weight of the moment. Just the pressure in my chest.
Harry didn’t move when I got close—but I saw the way his shoulders tensed. The slight shift in his breathing. Like he was bracing for something. Or maybe trying not to.
I reached the chair beside his bed and sat. Not with a sigh. Not dramatically. Just… sat. The metal legs scraped slightly against the floor. I didn’t say anything straight away. Neither did he.
He kept his eyes on the far wall like it held some great secret he hadn’t cracked yet. Like if he looked at me, it might break something.
I let the silence stretch between us. Not because I didn’t know what to say.
Because I needed to mean it.
And because I didn’t want to say anything I’d regret.
Finally, I leaned forward a little, rested my elbows on my knees, and looked at the side of his face.
He still didn’t look back.
His hands clenched slightly in the blanket. I saw it.
He still didn’t meet my eyes.
But he didn’t run either.
I stayed quiet for a moment, just watching him. His hands were twisted in the hospital blanket, white-knuckled. He wasn’t looking at me—wasn’t even breathing right, like he couldn’t decide whether to speak or bolt.
So I spoke first.
“I’m still angry,” I said quietly. “But not like before. And I’m ready to talk. If you are.”
Harry’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. He nodded once, almost like he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, everything would come out wrong again.
“Okay,” he said finally, voice rough.
I gave him a bit of silence. Enough space for him to think. Then I asked,
“You remember what you said? Right before I…?”
He winced.
“Yeah.”
I didn’t say it again. I didn’t need to. It had hit its mark already.
“I meant it to be a joke,” he added quickly. “A bad one. I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t,” I said, and I didn’t soften it. “You were trying to keep things light. But there’s a time for jokes, Harry. That wasn’t one of them.”
Harry looked up then, something frustrated in his eyes.
“You do it all the time,” he said, not accusing—just stating. “You joke when things are serious. When things are bad. That’s what you do.”
I nodded, not denying it.
“Yeah. I do.”
He blinked, surprised I didn’t argue.
“But when I do it,” I added quietly, “I’m joking about me. About my own mess. My own wounds. I don’t make light of someone else’s pain—not when they might be dying. That’s the difference.”
Harry flinched, just a little.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t say anything to that. Just let the silence stretch, thick and tired between us.
I waited. When he didn’t say anything for a while, I spoke again.
“You scared the hell out of me. You scared everyone. And I’m not just talking about the battle. I mean the second you ran.”
His fingers curled tighter.
“I told you to wait,” I said. “Snape told you. Dumbledore had a plan. And you just—you bolted. Like we didn’t matter. Like what we said didn’t matter.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry said quickly. “I just—I saw Sirius, I thought—”
“I know,” I cut in, not angry now—just tired. “I know why. But that doesn’t make it okay.”
He closed his eyes.
“I thought he was going to die.”
“And you thought you were the only one who could save him,” I said.
That stung. I saw it land. He winced.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
“Look. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have gone. I did go. You know that. But you didn’t give anyone a choice, Harry. Not me. Not Dumbledore. Not Sirius. You didn’t trust us enough to tell us. You just left.”
Silence. Long, and heavy.
Then, finally, he whispered,
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded once.
“Okay.”
“I know I messed up. I know I put people in danger. I—if Percy had died—”
“He didn’t,” I said quickly. “But he could have. And if he had, I don’t know if I’d ever have forgiven you.”
His eyes snapped to mine then. Wide. Wounded. But I didn’t look away.
“But he didn’t,” I repeated, softer. “Because he’s a stubborn git. And because the Order showed up. And because I was there.”
He didn’t speak.
“I didn’t go to save Sirius,” I added. “I went to save you .”
He blinked hard at that. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
I sat back in the chair, suddenly exhausted.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just… needed you to hear that.”
He swallowed.
“I’m glad you came.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I let my gaze drift toward the ceiling. “Even if my shoulder disagrees.”
That earned the barest twitch of a smile. Just for a second.
Then he said, quiet and small,
“You were right, you know.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“About everything,” he said. “I’m not good at asking for help. I do think it all has to fall on me. And maybe I needed to hear someone actually say it. Even if it hurt.”
I gave him a long look.
“Good. Then maybe next time, you’ll bloody listen. If you ever pull something like that again, I will hex you. Right through the bloody Floo.”
Harry huffed a breath that was half a laugh and half a sob.
“I mean it,” I said seriously.
“I know,” he answered with a crooked and sheepish smile. “You’re terrifying when you’re mad.”
I didn’t smile back. Not yet. But I did nudge his knee with mine. There was a pause. Then, softly, he asked,
“Are we okay?”
I exhaled.
“We will be,” I said.
Harry nodded once, but his shoulders were still tight, like he was bracing for something. So I leaned back in the chair, stretched my leg a bit, and looked at him properly. Pale. Exhausted. Guilt still clinging to every line of his face.
“You’re my friend, Harry,” I said, quietly but firmly. “You’re a right pain in the arse sometimes, and you made a mistake—yeah. But I still love you.”
His head jerked slightly, eyes wide.
I shrugged.
“Doesn’t go away just because I’m furious. Or disappointed. Or hurt. You’re still Harry. And I’m still me. And I still bloody love you.”
Harry looked like he might cry. He didn’t, of course, but I saw the way his throat moved when he swallowed. Saw the shine in his eyes.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
I just nodded.
We sat there for a bit, not talking, not needing to. Just… breathing. Together.
We didn’t say anything else for a while.
We just sat there, side by side. Breathing in the silence that, for the first time since the battle, didn’t feel broken. And for the first time since the battle, since the vision, since the slap—I felt something settle. Not peace, exactly. But maybe something close to it.
Just quiet.
Just us.
The door creaked open mid-bite.
I looked up and froze, a bit of toast halfway to my mouth. Not that I needed the toast—Madam Pomfrey had forced breakfast on me already—but it was something to do with my hands.
Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and the twins had just walked in, clutching a bundle of snacks and a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. They looked pale and confused—and definitely worried.
“You’re alive!” Fred announced, and then, in a quieter voice, “We were told you were here, but no one said why .”
“We came as soon as McGonagall told us,” Hermione said quickly, rushing to us.
Harry and I were still sitting where Pomfrey had left us—he on the bed, me in the chair beside him, both of us sharing the tray of breakfast she’d insisted we eat before she let anyone else in. I’d passed on the porridge, he’d skipped the toast, so it worked out. The crusts sat abandoned on the tray between us like we’d both given up halfway through pretending we were fine.
Sirius hadn’t moved. He was still curled at the foot of Harry’s bed in his dog form, tail flicking once as the new arrivals crowded in, but otherwise silent. Watching.
“Are you alright?” Ginny asked quietly, her eyes darting over us like she was checking for missing limbs.
Neither Harry nor I spoke.
The silence stretched.
Harry glanced at me, then at his own hands. His shoulders sank. I sighed. Guess I was taking the lead, then.
I rubbed my forehead and started.
“Sirius was taken hostage last night. Voldemort sent Harry a vision of it. We went to tell Dumbledore. The Order intervened and saved Sirius. There was a fight. The Death Eaters were arrested. Voldemort escaped when the Aurors arrived.”
Another long silence followed that. Not a single crunch from any of the snacks they’d brought.
“That’s your summary ?” Luna said at last, blinking at me. “Feels like something’s missing.”
“Yeah,” Ginny added, arms folded. “Like the fact that you’re both in the hospital wing and injured .”
I shrugged.
“Who says we’re injured?”
I thought I sounded convincing. My shoulder didn’t hurt anymore, and my leg only twinged when I moved too fast. The stitches were coming out later today. I was fine.
But they all stared at me like I’d grown a second head. Even Harry.
“You haven’t seen your face, have you?” George said.
“Mate, have you even looked in a mirror?” Fred asked, eyes wide. “You’ve got a bruise the size of Belgium on your temple.”
“Ah,” I said, and left it at that.
Hermione wasn’t amused.
“What happened? What were you two even—”
But then Sirius stirred.
I glanced toward Harry’s bed. The big black dog beside him shifted, stretched, and with a soft pop, transformed back into Sirius Black, human-shaped and bleary-eyed, scratching at his hair.
Hermione stumbled backwards.
“Can I borrow that copy of the Prophet ?” Sirius asked, motioning toward the bundle in Hermione’s hand.
She blinked.
“You—what? Are you okay?”
He waved a hand, already taking the paper from her.
“I’m fine. Tonks and Percy have it worse.”
He flipped the paper open casually, scanning the front page, but before any of us could register what he was reading, the twins and Ginny all spoke at once.
“Wait—what happened to Percy?” Fred demanded.
“Is he alright?” George said, eyes narrowing.
“He’s at St Mungo’s now,” I said, sitting straighter. “With Mum, Dad, and Bill. He’ll make a full recovery.”
“What happened?” Ginny asked, voice sharp with worry.
“He took a curse,” I said. “From Bellatrix.”
Ginny blinked.
“ Bellatrix? As in Bellatrix Lestrange ?”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“Bloody hell,” George muttered.
Fred gave a low whistle of his own.
“And he survived that?”
I shrugged, but there was a tug in my chest that I couldn’t hide.
“You lot should have more faith in Percy. He’s braver than you think. And more reckless, too.” I sighed. “A real Gryffindor.”
The word came with a roll of my eyes, but none of them laughed. Even they looked impressed.
That was when Sirius let out a low scoff.
It cut through the noise in an instant. We all turned to look at him. He was staring at the front page.
“What?” I asked, already bracing myself. “What does it say?”
Sirius didn’t look up. He flipped the page, muttering under his breath:
“Make me sound like some bloody damsel in distress.”
Chapter 74: BOOK FIVE - A FATHER'S FOOTSTEPS
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
A FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS
By the time Harry and I left the Hospital Wing, everyone already knew.
We didn’t need to tell them. They’d read it in the Prophet, they’d whispered it through the corridors, they’d seen the headlines pass from hand to hand like contraband; Voldemort had returned, Dumbledore had duelled him. The Ministry had no choice but to confirm it.
So when we stepped back into the halls, it wasn’t surprise that we saw in their faces. It was something colder.
Everyone looked at us.
Some with fear. Some with something like respect. But almost no one looked at us like we were students anymore. It was like we’d stepped over some invisible line in the sand, crossed into a different category entirely. Untouchable. Unknowable. Something to keep at arm’s length.
People whispered. They didn’t even try to hide it most of the time.
We were the story now. Everyone wanted to know what had really happened that night, beyond what the Prophet said. What spells we used. What Voldemort looked like. Who we’d fought. How we’d survived. Some were even bold enough to ask. Harry and I didn’t answer. We kept walking.
The ones who’d always believed us were careful. They didn’t crowd us. Luna brought chocolate one morning and just sat with me at breakfast in silence. Ginny offered to hex someone after they asked too many questions. Hermione, bless her, tried to make everyone leave us alone, but even she knew it wouldn’t work.
There were students who avoided us now. I saw it in the common areas and corridors—people stepping aside like they didn’t want to breathe the same air. There were students who wouldn’t sit at the same table anymore. They weren’t angry, exactly. Just... unnerved. Like standing too close might make them a target, too.
And then there were the ones who were angry. A small group, mostly Slytherins, who glared and muttered behind our backs—people whose parents or uncles or godfathers had just been arrested and exposed. I caught one of them hissing the word traitor under their breath in my direction. Harry got a few murderer s too, even though no one died that night.
Let them talk.
What struck me most was what didn’t happen. I expected Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco to be a tight unit after their fathers got carted off to Azkaban. A united front. But that didn’t happen at all.
They didn’t walk together in the corridors anymore. Barely spoke in class. Crabbe and Goyle gave Harry dirty looks like clockwork, but Draco kept his eyes on his desk. Or sometimes, flicked toward me when he didn’t think I’d notice.
I did notice.
Something had shifted there. Quietly, but deeply.
He wasn’t with us. But he wasn’t entirely with them anymore, either.
That unease stayed with me all week. Through the polite silences, the painful stares, the shouts we tried to ignore. Through meals we barely touched and classes where professors gave us a wide berth. The world had changed that night. And so had we.
We weren’t going to blend back in.
Not after this.
I’d always known the Ministry was useless. But watching the fallout these past few days… it was worse than even I expected.
The public lost it when the Prophet confirmed who’d been arrested at the Department of Mysteries. Not just Death Eaters, but Death Eaters who’d been cleared. Twice. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott. All of them walked free just months ago, waved off by Fudge’s precious task force like their records were spotless. Now? Shackled and exposed for the liars and murderers they were.
People weren’t just angry—they were furious. All that smug dismissal of Dumbledore. All the smear campaigns against Harry. The Ministry hadn’t just lied—they’d let the enemy walk straight through their front doors.
The headlines practically screamed for blood. There were calls for investigations, resignations, and reckonings. Fudge was at the heart of it all, scrambling to hold his government together with desperate press releases and panicked meetings. But no one was listening anymore. He built a house out of lies, and it collapsed the second Voldemort stepped out of the shadows and into the light of public truth.
Even the Prophet turned its back on Fudge. One day it’s calling us deluded, the next we’re brave heroes fighting Death Eaters in the heart of the Ministry. Hypocrites, all of them. But at least the truth was out now.
And the worst of it? The pureblood names falling one by one. No one was pretending anymore that blood status meant innocence. Even the kids who still clung to old loyalties couldn’t look us in the eye. Draco didn’t even try. He was too busy pretending he hadn’t ever stood with them. Or maybe trying to figure out if he still had a side at all.
Some people started looking at the sons of those Death Eaters differently: with pity or contempt. Or fear. Or both. I could see it in the halls. People wanted to ask them something, or to accuse them of being like their fathers. And none of them —Theo, Draco, Gregory or Vincent— answered anything. What could they even say?
The war wasn’t coming. It was already here. And the Ministry’s lies had only made it stronger.
At least now… everyone knew the truth.
It was late, and the dorm was quiet, just the soft rustle of pages as I turned another one in my book, curled up sideways on my bed. Harry was off with Snape for Occlumency again, like every night. I wasn’t sure which one I pitied more.
The lanterns were burning low, painting long shadows across the floor, and I’d just started rereading a paragraph for the third time when I heard the door creak open. I looked up.
Draco stepped inside.
He didn’t say anything. Just walked past without meeting my eye, his expression blank and tight. He crossed to Blaise’s bed—empty tonight, Blaise was probably still down in the common room—and sat at the foot of it. Facing me. But not really. His eyes were locked somewhere over my shoulder.
I stayed still. Watched him.
His hands were folded too tightly in his lap. Like he was holding something in. Something sharp.
He sat like that for nearly a full minute. Then:
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I blinked.
“That night?”
He nodded. Still not looking at me.
I lowered my book slowly. Let it rest against my chest.
“Why?” I asked. Not suspicious. Just... careful.
He hesitated. His jaw tightened.
“Because I want to know,” he said, voice quiet and strange. “No—because I need to.”
I studied him. Trying to figure out if this was some kind of trap, or if someone had dared him to ask. But no. There was no smugness. No sarcasm. Just tension—tight and strained like something inside him might snap if I said no.
I set the book aside.
Shifted to sit cross-legged on my bed, facing him properly.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t lift his head. So I started talking. Not dramatically. Just the facts. Just what happened.
“Bellatrix tried to kill Harry.”
That made his head twitch slightly—just a fraction, but I saw it.
“Percy—my brother—got between them. He took the curse. We thought he was gone. He was barely breathing.”
Draco still didn’t look at me, but I saw his fingers curl tighter in his lap.
I went on.
“Your father was there. He and Bellatrix were the last ones standing, right before Dumbledore arrived. I tried to hit him with a Stunning Spell from above. He hit me with something nastier. I fell and broke my shoulder.”
The room felt colder somehow. Or maybe that was just in my head.
I didn’t embellish. Didn’t dramatise. Just told him what happened.
And when I finished, I let the silence come.
Draco said nothing.
He still hadn’t looked at me.
But something about his posture—his rigid spine, the way his head dipped slightly forward—told me he’d heard every word.
I let a few more seconds pass. Then I spoke again, quieter now.
“You’re not him.”
He didn’t flinch, but something in the set of his shoulders shifted.
“You’re not your father. You don’t have to become him.”
Still nothing.
I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees. I wasn’t trying to convince him, I just wanted him to hear it.
“You’ve still got time. To choose. To walk away. You and your mum—you could leave, if you had to. Before he tries to trap you. Because he will, Draco. Voldemort’s going to want to punish your dad, and he’ll use you to do it. That’s how he works.”
Draco’s hands had gone still in his lap. No fidgeting. No movement at all.
“You don’t have to fight,” I added. “Not for him. Not even against him. Just… survive. Get out before it’s too late. There’s still a path that’s yours. Not his. Not the Voldemort’s. Yours. ”
I stopped there. Not because I didn’t have more to say—I did—but because I knew the rest had to come from him.
I leaned back a little, giving him space to take the words in or shove them away.
For now, it was enough that he hadn’t walked out. Enough that he’d asked. Enough that he’d listened.
Draco still hadn’t looked at me. But after a long moment, he gave a small nod.
“Thanks,” he said. Quiet. Barely more than breath.
Then he stood.
Didn’t rush, didn’t flee—just… got to his feet, like he wasn’t quite sure what his legs were doing. He didn’t meet my eyes as he turned, but he didn’t slam the door behind him either. Just walked out of the dormitory in silence.
The door clicked shut, and the room felt hollow again.
I stayed where I was, staring at the spot where he’d sat on Blaise’s bed. The sheets were still rumpled. Like proof that it hadn’t all been in my head.
I wasn’t sure how long I stayed like that.
Long enough to start second-guessing everything I’d said. Long enough to wonder if it had helped at all. If it could help. If anything could.
I didn’t like Draco Malfoy. I barely tolerated him. At least—I hadn’t. Not until this year. Not until things started shifting under our feet. But I also wasn’t the kind of person who could watch someone walk straight into a fire and say nothing.
I didn’t owe him kindness. But maybe that was the point.
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bedframe.
There was a time—not so long ago—when I’d have celebrated seeing the Malfoys brought low.
But Draco wasn’t Lucius. Not yet. And maybe he didn’t want to be.
Maybe he didn’t know how not to be.
I didn’t know if I could help him. If I should. But part of me wanted to try. Not for redemption or forgiveness. Just… because.
Because he’d asked.
Because he’d listened.
Because someone bloody had to.
And maybe that was enough to start with.
By the time I stepped into Snape’s office for our first tutoring session since the battle, I’d half convinced myself he wouldn’t mention it. Maybe we’d go straight into shield counters or silent counters to silent spells, and pretend I hadn’t nearly died, or followed Harry into a war zone.
But he looked up from his desk the second I closed the door, and his eyes pinned me like a specimen under glass.
“Sit,” he said.
I did.
There was a pause, long enough for me to start wondering if I’d misread the tone. Then he spoke again, quieter this time.
“I have been told,” he said slowly, “by several Order members who were present, that your actions during the battle were… unexpected.”
I kept my mouth shut. I had no idea what to say. Was it good unexpected? Or bad unexpected?
Snape folded his hands together.
“You remained disillusioned. Mobile. Untraceable. Moody mentioned you dropped one of the Death Eaters cleanly from behind—Mulciber, I believe.”
“That was luck,” I muttered.
“Was it?” Snape tilted his head. “Is it also luck that you got Percy out alive? Or that you held your ground when others scattered? Or that you took initiative when most adults were still trying to catch their breath?”
I felt my ears heat.
“I didn’t lead. I just… did what needed doing.”
Snape stared at me for a moment like I’d just said something profoundly stupid.
“That’s what leadership is.”
I blinked. He said it so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t even find a joke to deflect with.
He stood then, and crossed to the shelves at the far side of the room, fingers tracing lazily across a row of ancient duelling texts. As he searched, he asked, almost absently,
“Have you spoken to Draco Malfoy recently?”
That caught me off guard.
“Yes,” I said. “He came to me a few nights ago. Wanted to know what really happened.”
Snape said nothing, still scanning the shelf. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or not. So I kept going.
“I told him the truth. Not all the details—just enough. He didn’t say much. Just listened.”
Snape finally pulled a book from the shelf.
“And what do you think he wanted from that conversation?”
I hesitated.
“I think he needed to hear what his father really is. What his aunt really is. I think… he’s scared. And he doesn’t know what his choices are.”
Snape didn’t respond right away. He returned to the desk and laid the book on the surface. Then he looked at me, inquisitive.
“And what do you want, Mr. Weasley?”
“I want to help him,” I said honestly. “I don’t know how, or if I even can. But if there’s a way to… give him a path out before he gets branded like cattle—” I stopped myself. My tone had gone a bit sharper than intended.
Snape’s expression didn’t change. But something in his posture shifted. Just slightly.
“He has choices,” I said, quieter now. “But they’re shrinking by the day.”
Snape studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded once.
“I will see what can be done.”
That was all he said. No promise. No explanation. Just that.
But from Snape, that meant more than most people’s vows.
Then he opened the book and snapped it to a page covered in tight, old-fashioned handwriting.
“Now. Show me the stance you would use to block an upward slashing curse. With your off-hand.”
And just like that, we were back to work. But my mind wasn’t on the forms. Not fully.
Because for the first time, I didn’t just want to be good at duelling for Harry’s sake. I wanted to be good enough to protect even people like Draco.
Even the ones who didn’t know how to ask for it yet.
By the time I climbed the steps to the dormitory, I was half-dead on my feet. My arms ached from blocking spells and dodging hexes for hours, and my legs felt like I’d walked to Hogsmeade and back twice in full gear. Snape hadn’t gone easy on me. Not that I’d expected him to.
The room was dark when I opened the door, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight through the window. Everyone else was asleep. I moved carefully, quietly, not wanting to wake them. I grabbed my pyjama bottoms and a towel from my trunk and tiptoed across the floor, weaving between beds like I was still dodging spells.
The bathroom door creaked faintly as I eased it shut behind me.
I flipped the light on.
And stopped.
Theo was sitting on the floor, hunched against the tiled wall like someone had cut the strings holding him up. His face was pale, but streaked with drying tears. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed. He squinted against the sudden light, and when he saw me, he flinched—just a little—but it was enough to make the guilt twist in my gut.
I’d interrupted something. Not something private exactly, but something raw.
“Sorry,” I said gently, not moving from the doorway. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I can leave, if you want.”
He didn’t say anything. Just wiped at his face with the heel of his hand and looked away.
I hesitated. I could’ve taken the out, told him to take his time and come back later. But I didn’t like the look of him sitting there alone, like the weight of the world had dropped squarely on his chest and he didn’t know how to breathe around it.
I walked in, quieter this time, and sat down across from him on the opposite side of the bathroom. Not too close.
“Want to talk about it?”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he let out a long, shuddery breath and spoke all at once, like the words had been backing up in his throat and finally found a crack to spill through.
“I hate him,” he said. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “My father. I’ve always hated him. But I’m not supposed to, am I? Not when I’ve got his name, his face, his house. But I do. I hate him.”
He swiped at his face again, more out of frustration than shame now.
“He keeps making these bloody decisions and ruining everything. Everything he believes in—the Dark Lord, blood purity, all of it—it’s garbage. It always has been. And now people look at me like I’m him. Like I’m going to turn into him the second no one’s looking. But I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
“I know,” I said softly. “You’re not him, Theo.”
He looked at me then, just for a moment, like he wanted to believe me.
“Harry knows that too,” I added. “So does Blaise.”
Theo sniffed.
“Doesn’t stop everyone else from staring. Whispering. Avoiding me like I’m contagious.”
“No,” I admitted. “But it means something, knowing who you are. Even when they don’t.”
Another silence settled, this one slightly less suffocating.
After a minute, I asked,
“Do you think he’ll try to force you into it? The war?”
Theo let out a harsh, bitter laugh.
“No. I’m a disappointment. Always have been. He wouldn’t parade a failure in front of his Master, not unless he wants to be punished for it.”
The way he said it chilled me.
“At least,” I said lightly, “you’re not going to be forced into it. That’s something.”
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t argue either.
“I’m glad you don’t think like him,” I said.
He scoffed faintly.
“Doesn’t change whose son I am.”
“No,” I agreed. “But it changes who you are.”
Theo didn’t answer. But his posture eased, just a little. His shoulders weren’t quite as hunched. And for once, he wasn’t trying to pretend he hadn’t been crying.
That was enough for now.
I sat with him for a while, towel forgotten in my lap, the bathroom warm and still around us.
Neither of us spoke again. We didn’t need to.
It was the last day of school, and everything felt like it was winding down except my brain. The others were packing or talking about summer plans, but I couldn’t sit still in the dormitory. Couldn’t handle the Gryffindor table either, where every one of my siblings was buzzing with too much noise and not enough space to think.
So I met Luna near the edge of the Forest.
The sun was low, and the grass near the thestral paddock was golden, swaying in soft waves. Luna was already there, a small bucket of raw meat in her hands, humming something tuneless. She didn’t greet me like I was late or anything—just looked up and smiled like she’d known I’d come.
We didn’t talk straightaway. She handed me a smaller bucket and guided my hand to the edge of where the thestrals waited.
“I still don’t see them,” I said quietly.
Luna just nodded, her fingers brushing mine as she adjusted the grip on the bucket.
“That’s alright. They’re here anyway.”
I tried not to flinch when something invisible brushed against my arm. I fed it carefully, slowly. The meat vanished from the bucket piece by piece, even though I couldn’t see the mouths it went into. Just warm breath and the soft crunch of bones.
The paddock hadn’t changed since last time. Still quiet, shadowed by the trees. But I had. Or I thought I had.
I thought… maybe after the Department of Mysteries—after Percy—I might finally see them. I had braced myself for it. But no. Nothing. I’d seen Percy fall. Heard the breath rattle in his lungs. Thought it was over. But he’d lived. Thank Merlin.
And apparently, that made all the difference.
I let out a breath, crouching near the fence, watching the dust stir where something unseen shifted its hooves.
“I needed this,” I said. “Somewhere quiet. Away from Harry’s guilt and Hermione’s questions and my siblings trying to pretend like I’m made of glass.”
Luna didn’t answer right away. She finished her own bucket and set it down gently, then walked over to where I sat and crouched beside me.
“I’m worried too, you know,” she said softly.
That caught me off guard.
I turned to look at her.
“You?”
She nodded, hair catching the breeze like it wasn’t tethered to the laws of gravity.
“Everyone thinks I don’t feel things the same way. But I do.”
I didn’t say anything. Just watched her.
“I was worried when I heard what happened,” she said. “Not just because you were hurt. Though I was, of course. But because it keeps happening. You keep nearly dying. Harry too. And no one stops to ask if you’re alright afterwards. Not really. They just… carry on.”
Her voice was steady, but something in it was raw. Honest in the way Luna always was when no one else dared to be.
“I was angry,” she continued. “When I heard about what Harry saw, what he believed. That he ran off. That he brought you with him. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t ready. And neither were you.”
I stared at the dirt.
I hadn’t expected this from her. Not Luna. She always seemed like she floated above everything. Like the world couldn’t really touch her.
But it had. And she’d felt it all.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice low.
She blinked at me.
“What for?”
“For not seeing it. For not seeing how much it scared you. For letting myself believe you were always… alright.”
She tilted her head a little.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Still.” I swallowed. “I should’ve. I should’ve checked.”
She didn’t smile. Just nodded, accepting it in that quiet, Luna way of hers.
“You’re still here,” she said. “That’s what matters. But one day… You might not be. And that frightens me more than anything.”
The thestrals shuffled somewhere behind us. I still couldn’t see them. But I could feel them.
And I could feel her, too. Sitting beside me, speaking with more weight than I’d expected, her honesty cutting through the summer air like the cool breeze off the lake.
I didn’t have the right words, not really. So I just said,
“I’ll try not to die.”
Luna looked at me then, properly, her eyes serious.
“Please do.”
We stayed there until the buckets were long empty and the shadows stretched deep across the grass. No more words. Just silence. Just thestrals. Just… peace. The kind I hadn’t felt since before everything fell apart.
The Great Hall was buzzing with noise—laughter, cheers, clapping, the scrape of cutlery against plates as the final feast of the year got underway. Green and silver banners hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the torchlight, and a massive emerald-coloured cup floated beside the staff table, proudly emblazoned with the Slytherin crest.
Slytherin had taken the Quidditch Cup. And the House Cup.
We’d done it. Again. And I should have been thrilled.
A few years ago, I would’ve been bouncing in my seat, elbowing Harry and smirking at the Gryffindors, stuffing myself with steak and treacle tart like we’d just won the war. The Slytherin table was doing all of that. Blaise had even stood on the bench at one point to cheer for Montague, who looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Even Draco had smiled—small and tired, but real.
But me? I couldn’t bring myself to care much.
It all felt so… small.
A few shiny trophies. A title. A bragging right or two. And outside these stone walls, the world was breaking.
I found myself glancing down the table, toward the Hufflepuffs. Susan Bones was sitting there with a faint smile, clapping politely. I thought of her aunt. Amelia Bones.
I’d warned Dumbledore. Told him what I remembered—that she’d be targeted. That she’d die, murdered in her own home. I told him everything I could remember. Gave him a full bloody list. Of names. Of places. Of people who wouldn’t make it through another year.
He’d thanked me. Said he’d see to it. That he’d try to prevent it.
But even he might fail.
We all might fail.
I’d tried. I’d done my best. Written every scrap of knowledge I had, every vague half-memory of what was coming. Kidnappings. Murders. Betrayals. And now, sitting here surrounded by roast chicken and floating candles, I felt like I was watching it all slip through my fingers.
The applause was starting to quiet down as Dumbledore rose from his seat.
His face looked more tired than usual. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there last year, and even the twinkle that usually lived in them had dimmed.
His right hand rested gently on the podium—thin, blackened, and shrivelled. He still hadn’t told anyone what had happened to it. I wasn’t sure he would. But I knew. Every time he raised a goblet or pushed back a sleeve, it slapped me in the face. A reminder that not even he was invincible.
The Hall settled into silence.
“This year,” he began, “has not been like the others.”
No one laughed. No one shifted.
“This year, we were reminded that darkness does not sleep. That truth is not always welcome. That bravery takes many forms.”
He looked over the Hall, and for a brief moment, his gaze met mine.
“But we were also reminded,” he continued, “that even in the face of great danger, unity is not beyond us. That strength can be found in compassion, in loyalty, and in the smallest acts of courage. And that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”
My throat felt tight.
Around me, students were still. Even the first-years were sitting straight and quiet, staring at him.
“We now face a time of great uncertainty,” Dumbledore said, voice clear but solemn. “There will be losses. There will be fear. And there will be moments when it feels as though hope has abandoned us.”
He paused.
“But hope, like light, does not vanish. It may flicker. It may waver. But it is never truly gone. Not while we choose to believe in each other. Not while we choose to keep going. Not while we remember that the future is not yet written, and our choices still matter.”
I looked at his hand again.
That ruined hand, resting on the wood like a warning.
And then I looked at Harry—at his clenched jaw, his tense shoulders. I looked down the table at Theo, at Blaise, even at Draco, who stared at his plate like it might tell him something. I looked across the Hall at Susan Bones.
We were all choosing, every day. To keep going. To stay. To fight. To try.
Even me.
Even if I failed. Even if I’d already failed. I had to believe it still meant something.
Maybe that was the only thing keeping any of us together.
Hope.
Not in the trophies, or the points, or the House Cup.
But in each other.
The trunks were half-packed. The beds were stripped. The windows let in grey, drowsy light from the lake above, casting pale green ripples across the floor. It was the last morning of the year, and the dormitory had the sluggish, half-hollow feel of a place already saying goodbye.
Blaise was muttering to himself as he folded dress robes. Theo was quietly charming his ink bottle shut with a flick of his wand. Gregory and Vincent were stuffing snacks into their bags like they expected to be starved all summer.
And Draco sat on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing.
His trunk was open, but untouched. His wand sat across his lap like it weighed more than it should. He hadn’t said a word since we all started packing.
No one commented.
I watched him.
Not openly—just in the way you glance at someone when they’re on the verge of falling and you’re not sure if you’re meant to catch them. I kept folding my jumpers. Kept pretending I wasn’t thinking the worst.
But I was.
I was thinking about how this might be the last summer Draco ever spends unmarked. How this might be his last few days before the Dark Lord calls on the Malfoys to pay their price. How this might be the end of any chance he had at a normal life.
He was sixteen in a few weeks. Just old enough to be branded. Old enough to be used.
And I’d read the books. I knew what came next.
An order. A punishment. A death sentence dressed up as an honour.
Dumbledore.
The word made my stomach turn.
Would Voldemort really give him that order? Probably. Lucius had failed. Someone had to be made an example. And what better way to remind the pureblood families that failure had consequences than to offer their son up as collateral?
I wanted to believe things had changed. That maybe my interference had bent fate enough. That my presence here—my warnings, my choices, my differences—had shifted the future just far enough off course.
But the truth was: I didn’t know.
I didn’t know if Draco would flee. I didn’t know if Narcissa would take him and run, or if she’d try to stay loyal to a cause that didn’t value her family’s lives. I didn’t know if Snape could protect him. I didn’t even know if Draco wanted to run.
Maybe he still thought he could survive it. Earn something from it. Rebuild what his father had lost.
Or maybe he knew exactly what was coming, and he just didn’t see a way out.
Either way, he had no place to hide. No safehouse. No sanctuary. Not even Hogwarts could protect him forever.
And as I watched him sit there, so still it was like he was carved from stone, all I could feel was this deep, aching pity.
No… Compassion.
Because I didn’t pity him the way I used to. I didn’t look down on him anymore.
He wasn’t the boy who sneered at me on the train, or laughed when I stumbled in class, or tried to get under Harry’s skin just for fun.
Not now. Not after everything.
He was just a boy. A boy with no good options. A boy who’d been born into the fire, and was only just starting to feel the burn.
I looked at my wand lying beside my cloak. At the list in my trunk, still buried under spare parchment—names, dates, warnings. All the things I’d told Dumbledore. All the ways I’d tried to change the tide.
But I couldn’t stop this, could I?
I couldn’t promise Draco a safe summer. I couldn’t promise he’d come back unmarked.
All I could do was hope.
Hope that his mother would do something. Hope that Snape had a plan. Hope that fate, or luck, or something I didn’t understand, would spare him.
Hope.
Just that.
Because sometimes, that’s all we’ve got.
I glanced over one more time. He still hadn’t moved. But his fingers twitched on his wand like he wanted to.
I didn’t say anything.
I just watched.
And I hoped.
Notes:
I don’t know what to do with myself, now that I’ve finished writing this story. I'm so sad that I have to let the characters go...
Chapter 75: BOOK SIX - LIFE GOES ON
Chapter Text
BOOK SIX: RON WEASLEY AND THE HEADMASTER’S LEGACY
CHAPTER SEVENTY
LIFE GOES ON
The moment we stepped through the door of the Burrow, I dropped my trunk with a loud thud in the corner of the kitchen and didn’t bother saying a word to anyone. Mum was already fussing at the twins about tracking soot in from the Floo. Ginny was mid-complaint about someone’s elbow to the ribs. I didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.
I just climbed the stairs two at a time.
The hallway was cooler on the second floor, the heavy silence of a mostly-empty house settling around me like a weight. I paused outside Percy’s room, heart suddenly pounding too fast in my chest. I didn’t knock. I just opened the door.
He was in bed, propped up against pillows with a book open in his lap. Glasses on. Still pale, still thinner than usual, but upright and breathing and here.
“Ron?” he asked, surprised. He started to sit up straighter, but I was already across the room.
I hugged him. Hard.
No words. No awkward patting. Just arms wrapped around him like I was afraid he’d disappear if I let go.
He hugged me back. Not like it was an obligation, or something polite. But real. Solid. One hand gripping the back of my jumper like he needed the contact as much as I did.
We stayed like that for a long moment.
When we pulled apart, I looked at his face, and suddenly, I wasn’t in that room anymore.
I was back at the Department of Mysteries. Percy on the ground. His body limp. His chest barely moving. The blood soaking through his robes.
For a terrifying second, he’d looked already gone.
“Ron.”
His voice, quiet and steady, brought me back. His hand was on my forearm, grounding me.
I blinked. Swallowed.
“How—how are you feeling?” I asked, voice rough. “How’s the wound?”
He gave me a faint smile and adjusted his glasses.
“Healing just as it should. The Healers say I might even have full mobility again. Eventually.”
I sat on the edge of his bed and frowned at the splint still wrapped around his ribs.
“You should’ve stayed at St Mungo’s longer.”
He raised a brow.
“I’ve had enough of hospitals, thanks. I preferred recovering at home.”
“Still.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “You shouldn’t push it.”
“Ron,” he said, tone dry but warm, “I’m not planning to duel anyone from this bed.”
I huffed, but before I could nag him more, he looked at me seriously.
“Thank you,” he said. Quiet. Intent. “For what you did. You saved my life.”
I shrugged, eyes darting away, suddenly unsure what to do with all that sincerity.
“I wasn’t about to let my favourite brother die.”
There was a beat of silence. I looked back, and Percy had frozen.
His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Like the words caught in his throat before they could form.
“…Don’t be ridiculous,” he said eventually. “I’m hardly the most popular choice.”
He didn’t sound offended. Or sarcastic. Just… fragile. Like he didn’t believe it. Like he couldn’t.
And something in me twisted, tight and aching, because he really didn’t know. He didn’t know how much he meant. How much he always had.
I leaned in again, my voice lower now.
“I love you, you know.”
His eyes widened behind his glasses.
“I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear about that. If I ever made you think you weren’t important. You are. You always were. You’re—” I shook my head, searching for the words. “You’re smart, and steady, and so bloody brave. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t enough just because I was too stubborn to say it properly.”
Percy swallowed hard. His book slid off his lap without him noticing.
“I love you too,” he said, voice barely above a whisper and breaking on the last word.
I pulled him into another hug. Slower this time. Less frantic.
He didn’t pull away. Neither did I.
No one cried. Not really.
But my eyes stung, and his breath hitched, and it was enough.
Enough to know we were here. Still here. And that, for now, we’d said what needed saying.
The day the twins announced that they were moving out, Mum took it hard.
She hovered around the kitchen like a storm about to break. She kept rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging—moving the sugar jar three times, wiping the already-clean counters, checking the biscuits in the oven like they were cursed.
“I just don’t understand how you can afford it,” she said for what had to be the fifth time. “You’re not taking loans, are you? Or something… dodgy?”
Fred slung an arm around her shoulders.
“Mum, would we ever do something dodgy?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
George grinned.
“Fair point. But this time, everything’s above board. Just… a bit of creative budgeting.”
She didn’t look convinced. Especially not when she glanced at the family clock, where every single hand, from Bill to Ginny, hovered over “mortal peril.” That thing hadn’t moved off it since the Department of Mysteries. I wasn’t sure it ever would again.
“You’re leaving when the world’s more dangerous than it’s been in years,” she whispered, more to herself than to them. “And I can’t stop you.”
Fred’s face softened, and George reached for her hand.
“You didn’t raise us to be cowards, Mum,” he said gently. “You raised us to do something worthwhile.”
That only made her cry harder.
Dad came in midway through the goodbye speech, looking torn between pride and stress. He hugged them both, clapped their backs, and then asked about security wards like they were setting up a Ministry outpost instead of a joke shop.
“You’ll need layered enchantments. Anti-Apparition, of course. Shield charms. Muggle-repelling. Have you spoken to Bill?”
“First thing Monday,” George promised. “He said he’d pop by and check everything himself.”
“Good,” Dad said, nodding, though his mouth was tight. “Very good.”
Ginny was practically vibrating with excitement.
“You’ve got to give me free samples. All the good stuff. Otherwise, I’ll tell everyone you cried when Mum hugged you.”
Fred looked scandalised.
“That was a tactical eye leak.”
“Oh, sod off,” Ginny laughed. “Now I have to pull all the pranks by myself. Don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous.”
“Never, baby sister,” George said grandly. “You’re our first and most dangerous test subject.”
Then there was Percy. He stood off to the side, stiff and awkward. When the goodbyes started, he stepped forward, shook their hands like they were business associates, and said, “Congratulations.”
The twins blinked.
“I admit,” he added. “I didn’t think you’d make it this far. I’m glad you proved me wrong.”
It wasn’t effusive, but it meant something coming from him. I saw George’s face twitch with something too real to be teasing.
Later, when the house had gone quiet and they were packing the last of their stuff, I found them in their old room. I lingered at the doorway for a second before stepping inside.
“Hey,” I said.
“Oi, prefect,” Fred grinned. “Come to arrest us for excessive charm use?”
“Or unlawful rug-burning,” George added, pointing to the scorched corner under their bunk beds.
“Neither,” I said, grinning a little. “Just came to say congratulations.”
They straightened slightly, surprised by the tone.
“You two deserve it. The shop. All of it. I mean that.”
For once, they didn’t crack a joke. Fred clapped my shoulder.
“Wouldn’t have happened without you, Ronnie. That Room you showed us? A goldmine.”
“You’ve got free lifetime access to anything in the shop,” George added. “Minus bodily-harm-level items. Can’t have you getting kicked out of school.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, hesitating.
“Actually… there is one thing I wanted to ask.”
Fred raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
George leaned forward conspiratorially.
“If it’s about our secret to perfect hair, it’s coconut oil.”
“No,” I said dryly. “It’s about… love potions.”
That made them blink.
“Love potions?” Fred repeated.
“Yeah. I wanted to ask if you’d consider not selling them.”
George frowned.
“Why?”
I shrugged, tried to keep my voice even.
“I just think they’re… unethical. Messy. Dangerous. You know?”
They exchanged a glance. For once, neither looked like they were about to argue.
“I’m not saying you can’t make things to help people be confident,” I added quickly. “I just… I don’t know. Maybe you could do something else. Like a breath spray or sweets that give you courage. Something harmless.”
Fred’s eyes lit up.
“Courage sweets. That’s actually brilliant.”
George nodded slowly.
“Takes all the creep factor out. Leaves the fun.”
I smiled.
“Exactly.”
“Alright,” Fred said. “No love potions. Cross our hearts, swear on our wands, and all that.”
“Thanks,” I said. I meant it.
I paused, glanced around at the mess of boxes and jokes and lost socks.
“Just… take care of yourselves, yeah? Don’t do anything mental. And come back on Sundays. Mum’s going to be unbearable otherwise.”
George grinned.
“Yes, boss.”
Fred threw a lazy salute.
“See you at Sunday lunch, little brother.”
And just like that, they were out of childhood and into whatever came next.
The room already felt too quiet without them.
And yet, for once, I didn’t feel like I was being left behind. Just… growing alongside them.
Like we all were. Whether we wanted to or not.
The smell of rosemary chicken was already thick in the air when I stepped into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, ready to help Mum finish the last bits before the whole mob arrived.
She didn’t look up as I entered, just kept attacking the potatoes like they’d offended her personally, muttering under her breath all the while.
“Need a hand?” I offered, stepping beside her to grab a peeler.
“Hmph,” was all I got in return.
I started on a carrot, casting her a sideways glance. Her jaw was tight, her chopping vicious. After the third muttered “honestly” in less than two minutes, I set the peeler down.
“What’s wrong?”
Her mouth pressed thin.
“Bill’s bringing her again.”
I blinked.
“Her ?”
She gave me a look like I should’ve known. But unless I missed a whole episode in one of the letters from home, there was no way for me to know. Except for my foreknowledge. But Mum didn’t know about that.
“Fleur,” She said through her teeth.
So Fate had them together again. That was romantic. I liked it.
“Fleur?” I echoed, feigning confusion. “As in... Fleur Delacour?”
“Yes,” she hissed, flicking the knife at a pile of onions. “Miss Part-Veela, Miss I’m-Too-Good-for-Everything. Honestly, the way she carries on…”
I watched as she diced like she was auditioning for a murder trial.
“No one told me Bill was dating anyone,” I said slowly.
“No one told me either. Not until suddenly he was bringing her over for tea, just like that.” She sniffed, loud and judgmental. “And now she’s here every other week, swanning in like she owns the place, criticising my cooking and wearing perfume strong enough to stun a Hippogriff.”
I tried not to laugh. Failed a bit.
“She’s French, Mum. Maybe that’s just how they are?”
“ We are not talking about France, Ronald! We are talking about a woman who thinks my scones are too dry!”
“…Were they dry?”
She turned a glare on me so sharp I winced.
“That’s beside the point.”
I held up my hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright.”
But I kept thinking. Because Mum, for all her fussing, wasn’t usually this rattled. Not unless something had properly got under her skin.
I dried my hands and leaned against the counter, watching her stir the gravy with more force than strictly necessary.
“You always taught us not to judge people on where they’re from or how they talk,” I said, voice gentle. “Isn’t it a bit unfair to judge Fleur before really knowing her?”
She faltered slightly. Just for a second. Then huffed and slammed the pot lid shut.
“She’s got no manners.”
“Maybe she’s nervous,” I suggested. “Or maybe she doesn’t know how to act around a big family yet.”
Mum didn’t respond.
I tried again.
“Bill’s the best of us, isn’t he?”
Her stirring stopped.
“He is,” I continued. “He’s smart, grounded, got his head screwed on right. If he says she’s the one, I believe him. I think you should too.”
She pursed her lips. I pressed on, quietly.
“You remember what you always say about Weasley men?” I said. “That when they meet their One and Only, they just know. That they’ll do everything they can to win them over. Even if it takes years. Even if they don’t make sense on paper.”
She didn’t look at me, but she stopped attacking the vegetables.
“That’s what happened with you and Dad, right?” I added, more softly. “Maybe that’s what’s happening with Bill.”
Mum’s hands stilled. Her shoulders dropped a little.
I reached for the salad bowl and said, like it was just a passing thought,
“Wouldn’t you want to know her? Really know her? Before deciding she’s not worth it?”
That finally got her.
She looked up, eyes searching mine, and I didn’t say anything else. Just held her gaze.
A breath left her slowly.
“…She’s very pretty,” Mum muttered. “And she knows it.”
I cracked a little smile.
“You’re very pretty, and you knew it.”
She gave a reluctant snort, then shook her head and reached for the pepper.
“I’ll be watching her,” she said.
“Of course you will,” I said. “You’re Mum.”
“Don’t you dare tell her I made treacle tart. She’s bound to say it’s too sweet.”
I winked.
“I’ll make sure she eats two slices, just to be safe.”
She huffed. But she wasn’t muttering anymore.
Progress.
Ginny came downstairs a few minutes later, barefoot and yawning like she hadn’t slept properly since last summer. Mum immediately latched onto her.
“Ginny, go help your father set the table outside. The cloth is in the airing cupboard—don’t forget the nice one.”
Ginny grumbled something under her breath, but didn’t argue. She caught my eye as she passed and rolled hers so dramatically I nearly snorted.
Through the kitchen window, I could see Percy already outside, propped in a deck chair in the sun like some overcooked pudding. Mum had insisted he not lift a finger, even though he was healing well. He looked like he hated every second of resting. His shirt was buttoned all the way up despite the heat.
Then came the knock at the door.
I turned instinctively, but Mum had already gone stiff beside me. Her hands were clenched around the salad tongs like she might snap them in two.
“I’ll get it,” I said quickly, wiping my hands on a tea towel and hurrying out of the kitchen before the air could get any heavier.
I opened the front door to see Bill standing there with a woman who could only be Fleur Delacour. I’d seen her before, of course—during the Tournament—but she looked different out of school robes. Taller than I remembered. All sleek blonde hair and expensive perfume and a smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes.
“Ron,” Bill grinned. “There he is. How’s our war hero?”
“I’m not a—” I started, but Fleur was already stepping forward.
“Ah,” she said with a soft intake of breath. “You are ze one who was taken—beneath the lake. You were ‘arry’s hostage, yes?”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking. “That was me.”
“You were very brave,” she said, her voice smooth as cream. “And you did not even faint. I remember.”
I held back a snort. I could understand now why Mum was a little miffed. But she wasn’t less tactful than the twins, so I let it slide and nodded to her with an amused smile. Bill clapped me on the back and laughed.
“Come on. Introduce you to everyone properly.”
We stepped out into the sun-drenched garden. Ginny had just finished helping Dad with the chairs. Bill turned to her.
“Ginny, this is Fleur.”
Fleur gave a dazzling smile.
“So you are the leetle sister. Eet is good to finally meet you.”
Ginny smiled tightly.
“Likewise.”
There was something off in the way Fleur said it—like she was talking to a child at a formal dinner party. I could tell it rubbed Ginny the wrong way, but she didn’t say anything. Just folded her arms and watched Fleur with narrowed eyes as she moved on to greet Percy.
The twins arrived next, loud and sunburnt, practically dragging half their shop with them. Bill introduced them too, and they shook Fleur’s hand, exchanging a look that promised future mischief. Fleur either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
Mum, Ginny, and I brought out the food to the table. Cold chicken, potato salad, bread rolls still warm from the oven. Mum didn’t speak much—just gave Fleur a tight-lipped smile and made a pointed show of rearranging the place settings to make sure Fleur didn’t sit too close to her.
The lunch itself was… mostly civil. There were jokes from the twins, polite questions from Dad, and a lot of tense silences whenever Fleur said something a bit too perfect or let her laugh go just a second too long. Percy was on his best behaviour, but even he kept glancing at Mum like he was waiting for her to say something biting.
Fleur, for her part, didn’t seem to notice the undercurrents. Or maybe she just didn’t care.
I watched it all quietly, chewing my roll and trying to decide whether Mum’s issue with Fleur was really about manners or something deeper. A kind of protectiveness, maybe. Bill was the golden one, after all.
Then dessert came out—treacle tart with whipped cream—and Bill cleared his throat.
“I’ve got something to tell you all,” he said, looking around the table.
Mum stiffened beside me. I felt it before I saw it.
Fleur placed her hand on his.
“We’re engaged,” Bill said, grinning.
The silence that followed was thick as the treacle on my plate.
“Oh,” Dad said first, his voice warm. “Well—congratulations, you two.”
“Yes, congratulations,” Percy added stiffly, his tone just shy of formal. “I admit… I didn’t think you’d make it this far. I’m glad you proved me wrong.”
“Brilliant,” said Fred.
“Excellent,” said George. “We’ll plan the stag night.”
Ginny didn’t speak. She was chewing very slowly, like she was trying to kill the tart with her teeth.
Then Mum said, “Congratulations,” very quietly.
I looked at her. Her expression was tight, and her mouth didn’t quite move with the word.
But she’d said it.
“Do you know when you’ll do it?” I asked quickly, trying to cut the tension. “The wedding, I mean.”
“We are thinking next summer,” Fleur said. “After the school year.”
I nodded.
“Hope it’s here. In the UK, I mean. No offence,” I added quickly. “I just don’t think the Burrow’s ever hosted a proper wedding before.”
Fleur smiled, and Bill chuckled.
“That’s the plan. Mum and Dad’s garden is big enough. Assuming Mum agrees.”
Mum made a noncommittal noise and took a sip of water.
I watched her closely, then looked at Bill and Fleur again.
They were in love. I could see it, even if Mum couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
And if there was anything I’d learned this year, it was that you had to hold on to love where you could find it. Even if it wasn’t perfect. Even if it was hard.
Even if your mum hated her accent.
One day, Mum, Dad, and Percy left for Grimmauld Place in the afternoon, off to some Order meeting they wouldn’t tell us much about. Ginny had stopped asking—there were things we weren’t allowed to know yet, and things we probably already knew too much of.
They came back hours later, worn and tight-faced. But it was Tonks who really drew my attention.
She looked… faded. Her hair was brown, dull and mousey, and it didn’t shift or flicker like usual. No bubblegum pink. No electric blue. Her eyes looked heavier than I remembered them ever being. She smiled, of course, when she greeted us, but it didn’t reach very far. Not past her cheeks.
Mum fussed over her, like she’d just brought home a stray kneazle in a thunderstorm. Got her to stay for dinner, sat her down with a cup of tea and biscuits before she even got her coat off.
She stayed late. Dinner passed in a haze—Tonks mostly quiet, Mum gently steering the conversation around her like she was trying not to poke a bruise. Dad said little, Percy looked tired but not unkind. Tonks only really smiled when Ginny told a terrible joke and the twins weren’t there to ruin the punchline.
Afterwards, the house drifted apart. Percy retreated upstairs to his room to read. Dad vanished into his shed to tinker with Muggle fuses. Mum stayed in the kitchen with Tonks, chatting softly over tea. The smell of peppermint and lemon balm floated into the sitting room.
Ginny flopped onto the sofa like she’d been cursed.
“I’m bored,” she announced.
I didn’t look up from the Defence notes Snape had given me. Complex curse reversals and hex disarming techniques. Useful. Challenging. Just dry enough to keep my brain working and not wandering off somewhere darker.
“Mm,” I said.
“Ron,” she tried again, dragging out my name like I was the one keeping her from excitement.
“Hm?”
“I said I’m bored. You’re supposed to entertain me.”
I glanced over.
“Thought you said I was boring?”
“You are. That doesn’t mean you get out of entertaining me.”
I smirked, just a little, then turned a page.
“What do you want me to do, juggle textbooks?”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “This house is so dull. Tonks is sad, Mum’s busy, Percy’s hiding, and I don’t even have anyone to argue with.”
“Sorry I’m not more argumentative.”
“You’re infuriating, not argumentative. Entirely different.”
I chuckled under my breath. She sat up a little straighter, kicking her legs over the arm of the chair. Her tone shifted.
“Do you like Fleur?”
That caught me off guard. I looked up from the diagram I’d been squinting at.
“What?”
“Fleur,” she said. “Bill’s girlfriend. Fiancée, I guess.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “Do you like her?”
I considered.
“She’s fine. I don’t really know her.”
Ginny huffed.
“I don’t like her.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “She just… I don’t know. There’s something.”
“Is it because she treats you like a kid?”
Ginny crossed her arms.
“No.”
I waited.
She scowled.
“Maybe.”
I shrugged.
“I get it. But maybe she just doesn’t know you yet.”
“She acts like we’re beneath her,” Ginny said, quieter now. “Like we’re not worth her time.”
“Maybe that’s just how she is,” I said. “Maybe it’s just an impression. You could prove her wrong.”
“Prove her wrong?”
“Yeah. Be you. She’ll learn.”
Ginny was quiet for a beat. Then she smirked.
“Well. If she breaks Bill’s heart, we hex her.”
“Of course, darling,” I murmured, eyes already back on the next page. “We’ll make it look like an accident.”
She laughed, the sound warm and sharp. Then she leaned forward and lobbed a cushion at my head.
“You’re not even listening.”
“I am!” I caught the cushion with one hand. “Mostly.”
Ginny flopped back into her chair with a huff and a grin.
“You’re the worst.”
“Love you too,” I said without thinking.
The grin softened on her face. She didn’t say anything else, and neither did I. Somehow, the silence didn’t feel boring anymore.
Or that’s what I thought.
Five minutes later, Ginny sighed. Again. With the kind of theatrical weight that suggested she expected the world to rearrange itself around her boredom.
“I still don’t like her,” she muttered, not even pretending she’d moved on.
I didn’t look up.
“Merlin, Ginny, give it a rest.”
“I’m just saying,” she said, sitting up straighter like she was ready to go into a full rant. “There’s something off about her. She’s too perfect. All that hair and the gliding about and the way she talks like everyone else is a bit slow—”
“You’re making a fixation out of it,” I cut in. “She’s fine.”
“She’s not fine.”
“She is, actually.”
“You only think that because she’s pretty.”
That made me pause.
Slowly, I lowered the page I’d been reading and looked up at her. I gave her the flattest, driest look I could muster and raised one unimpressed eyebrow.
“Ginny,” I drawled, “surely you realise Fleur is the opposite of my type.”
She blinked. The corner of her mouth twitched—halfway between a smirk and a grimace.
Right. That shut her up.
I tilted my head at her, still watching.
She didn’t say anything else. Just blinked again, and then looked away like she was trying to remember if she’d ever actually thought about it before.
Internally, I was still stuck on her remark. Because seriously? Pretty? She thought that’s what swayed me?
It wasn’t like I was subtle. Between all the jokes the twins made, Hermione’s knowing looks, and Harry never asking about girls the way he does with Blaise and Theo, I’d assumed it was common knowledge by now. Especially Ginny. She lived with me. She’d walked in on me waxing poetic about Snape’s cloak once when I thought no one was home.
And yeah, Fleur was objectively beautiful—but she was all hair and sparkle and open confidence. Nothing like the people I actually found myself drawn to. Give me someone biting and guarded and impossibly difficult, thanks.
Still, it wasn’t worth arguing. I let the silence settle again and turned my eyes back to the page.
Ginny didn’t press the Fleur thing any further either.
Small mercies.
The next morning, Mum sent Ginny and me to the hen coop to collect eggs and clean out the straw. It was humid and smelled faintly of old feathers and compost, but at least it didn’t involve flinging gnomes over hedges. I figured I’d gotten off lightly.
I was elbow-deep in hay, trying to convince a particularly grumpy hen that I didn’t deserve to lose a finger, when Ginny cleared her throat behind me.
“So…” she said, drawing the word out.
I didn’t look up.
“What.”
“That thing you said yesterday.” She crouched to grab an egg from under a lazy-looking speckled hen.
“About Fleur not being your type.”
I glanced over.
“Yeah?”
Ginny raised an eyebrow.
“You meant it, didn’t you.”
“Of course I meant it,” I said. “You thought I was just—what, writing her poetry in secret or something?”
“No.” She cradled the egg carefully in her palm. “But I thought the whole ‘Snape crush’ thing was just a weird joke we didn’t talk about.”
I froze, one hand still buried in straw.
Ginny’s eyes lit up.
“Oh. Oh, it’s real.”
I groaned and yanked my hand free.
“Can we not do this while I’m literally covered in bird crap?”
“You actually fancy Snape.”
“I do not want to have this conversation with a chicken watching me.”
She ignored that entirely.
“This explains so much. Like that time you defended his grading scale and said it encouraged ‘discipline.’ I thought you were hexed.”
“I just said it wasn’t completely unfair.”
“And you’ve been ironing your uniform more since third year.”
“I iron everything. I’m organised.”
“And the time you asked Mum to get you that dark green jumper because ‘it was subtle and sophisticated’—”
“I’m a Slytherin. That’s all .”
Ginny sat back on a crate of feed with a wide grin, shaking her head.
“Honestly, I thought the twins were just messing around when they teased you about it.”
“They are. Constantly. I figured it was obvious. I mean... Fred called me ‘Snape’s pet’ in front of you last year.”
“I thought he was making it up.” She tilted her head. “So. Is it… serious?”
I paused, brushing hay off my sleeves.
“It’s... complicated.”
She nodded, then looked at me sideways.
“You know I don’t care, right? I mean—not in a bad way. I care about you. I just don’t care who you like. Even if it’s someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon.”
“That’s harsh,” I said. “And inaccurate. Teaspoons are very emotionally complex.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—do you want me to be nicer to your dark, brooding Defence mentor?”
“Can we not call him that.”
Ginny snorted, clearly enjoying herself.
“Just saying. If you ever end up snogging him, I’m hexing you both.”
“Fantastic. Threats. That’ll really put me at ease.”
We finished up gathering the eggs and shooing the hens back into place. Ginny carried the basket as we walked back to the house, her shoulder bumping mine now and again.
And honestly? For a conversation about that, it hadn’t been half bad.
But I was still completely confused about her utter obliviousness.
Chapter 76: BOOK SIX - PRAISE-WORTHY
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
PRAISE-WORTHY
Mum had decided we needed a proper lunch that Friday—a real one, with roasted chicken, treacle tart, and enough potatoes to feed a small battalion. She claimed it was just to lift everyone’s spirits, but the truth sat heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable. Emmeline Vance had been killed two nights ago. Death Eaters. No one said it outright at the table, but we all knew. She was part of the Order. She was one of ours.
Mum had been quietly shaken since the news arrived. I’d heard her crying in the kitchen late that night, when she thought everyone else was asleep. Now, she was trying to fill the Burrow with warmth and noise, as if she could chase away the grief by feeding it a second helping of treacle tart.
Dad was at work still, but Percy was still on medical leave, and Mum had all but chained him to a chaise longue and forbidden him from lifting a finger. Bill had taken time off for the afternoon, slipping away from Gringotts just long enough to join us for the meal before he had to Floo back to work. That left me, Ginny, and the guests Mum had invited: Lupin, Tonks, Sirius, and Moody—most of them looking more worn than usual, as if the shadows under their eyes had been carved deeper overnight.
Tonks in particular arrived looking subdued again—no bright pink hair today, just a muted brown that made her seem like someone entirely different. She smiled politely but didn’t bounce or crack a joke. Sirius was the opposite: laughing loudly, animated, and throwing winks at me across the table whenever Mum scolded him for putting his boots on the furniture.
But I kept sneaking glances at Tonks, and not because she was unusually quiet.
It was the way she looked at Remus.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t hover or cling. But she kept glancing at him when she thought no one would notice. Soft, warm looks that stayed a moment too long. He never looked back. He was polite, kind, careful as ever. But it made something twist in my chest, watching her try not to want more than he was offering.
I knew what they could become. And I wanted to help it, play matchmaker, but it would surely be weird coming from me.
Lunch was lively. Percy talked politics with Bill. Sirius teased Mum until she threatened to “hex some manners into him.” I mostly listened. Until Moody, halfway through helping himself to more Yorkshire pudding, pointed his fork at me.
“That one,” he said, loud enough to cut through the chatter. “Kid moved like a bloody shadow. Knew how to disappear. Clever use of terrain. Took down Mulciber without blinking. If more Aurors had half that presence of mind, we’d have fewer body bags.”
I froze. Fork halfway to my mouth.
Everyone had gone quiet. Even Mum paused mid-gravy-pour. Percy blinked at me. Sirius raised his eyebrows. Bill just looked impressed.
I cleared my throat.
“I… it wasn’t that big a deal.”
Moody's magical eye whirled and locked onto me with unnerving precision.
“Don’t downplay competence, boy. You earned that praise.”
I blinked again, uncertain if I was more embarrassed or proud.
Then Moody leaned back in his chair, eye still fixed on me.
“Who taught you to fight like that? Certainly not the fools who taught you at Hogwarts.”
Sirius barked a laugh.
“Oi! Remus was one of those teachers.”
Moody waved it off.
“You were the exception. But I doubt this one learned to vanish like that from Lupin’s third-year syllabus.”
Everyone looked at me.
I hesitated. I knew Moody didn’t trust Snape. Most people didn’t. But I didn’t want to lie. I was curious about what Moody would say.
“Snape,” I said finally, with a defiant gleam in my eye. “He’s been tutoring me. Since third year.”
The silence that followed was thick. Sirius looked like someone had just offered him vinegar for tea. Percy frowned, confused. Bill’s expression didn’t change. And Moody?
Moody grunted.
“Huh.”
That was it.
No explosion. No furious rant about double agents.
Just a grunt. Then:
“Didn’t think he had it in him. But if that’s what he’s teaching, then I might owe him a bloody thank-you.”
That shocked even Sirius into silence.
I shifted in my seat, flustered again.
“It’s not like—I mean—I just listen. It’s not—”
“Don’t downplay it,” Moody repeated. “Competence isn’t an accident. You worked for it. Own it.”
My ears went hot. I didn’t know what to do with the praise, honestly. I muttered something about needing more potatoes and reached for the serving bowl like it might save me from further compliments.
Across the table, Tonks was smiling faintly now, eyes still on her plate. And when I glanced at Remus, he was watching me with a strange softness—pride, maybe.
Maybe.
Lunch carried on. Sirius started poking fun at Moody’s table manners, Percy offered a polite but stiff opinion on counter-hex policies, and Mum finally managed to get Tonks laughing with an absolutely awful pun about cauldron bottoms.
At some point, Sirius was halfway through a snide comment about Bellatrix—something about how Azkaban wouldn’t hold her for long with a brain like a cracked teacup—when I pushed back my chair and stood to fetch the dessert. Mum had made tarts and something cold with custard, and I figured she’d want it brought out all proper, not levitated and sloshed onto the carpet.
“I’ll get pudding,” I said, brushing crumbs off my hands.
“I’ll help,” Tonks said quickly, almost too quickly, and stood up before anyone else could offer.
I blinked at her.
“All right.”
We walked back toward the house. She was a half-step ahead of me, and as we reached the door, I caught it—just a flicker out of the corner of my eye. Her hand moved quickly to swipe at her cheek. Subtle. Almost.
But not quite.
She didn’t say anything until we reached the kitchen. I headed for the sideboard where Mum had left the desserts, laying out plates and spoons. The silence stretched a bit too long behind me.
I turned, gently, and said,
“Tonks? You all right?”
She paused, one hand braced on the counter. Her other curled into a loose fist. Her shoulders were tight.
“Just a headache,” she muttered.
I waited. Just stood there, not pushing, letting the quiet be an invitation instead of a challenge.
After a few beats, I said,
“If there’s anything I can do… tell me.”
Maybe it was the way I said it. Or maybe she just needed someone to ask.
Tonks let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for hours.
“It was the Bellatrix joke,” she said, voice low. “Caught me off guard.”
I nodded, not interrupting.
“She—” Tonks swallowed hard. “She got me. Last time. With a curse. Not even the worst one, but it… it could’ve done real damage. And she’s my aunt. My mum’s sister.” She gave a bitter little laugh, eyes on the floor. “Some bloody family, right?”
“She’s a monster,” I said. “Being related doesn’t mean you have to make excuses for her.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked slightly. “But I still hate it. That I’m connected to that. That she’s part of me in some horrible, twisted way. And I’m scared that next time… if I ever see her again… I’ll freeze. And she won’t.”
There it was. The part underneath everything else. The real fear.
I set the tart down and leaned against the counter beside her, arms crossed loosely.
“I know that fear.”
She looked up, surprised.
I shrugged.
“Lucius Malfoy tried to kill me last year.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“I was saved. Just in time.” I looked down at the counter, picking at a scratch in the wood. “But I still see it. That moment. The wand in his hand, the curse coming. I didn’t think I’d have to face him again, but… I did. When the governors came to Hogwarts to investigate Umbridge. He was there. And I had to stand there in front of him and pretend I wasn’t remembering all of it.”
Tonks said nothing, just listened.
“I was shaking,” I admitted. “Didn’t show it, I don’t think. But I felt it. Right down to my bones.”
“Sounds familiar,” she whispered.
“And then…” I looked at her. “At the Ministry. When it all went to hell—when he was there, duelling Harry—I didn’t even think. I just moved. I threw everything I had at him. Because I wasn’t going to let him hurt anyone else. Not again.”
Her expression shifted—something fragile settling into something steadier. Not strong, exactly, but ready to try.
“You won’t freeze,” I told her. “You’re a bloody good Auror, Tonks. One of the best. I’ve seen it. And if she ever gets out again—if you ever have to face her—you’ll do what needs doing.”
She sniffed, then gave me a tired smile.
“You’re awfully good at speeches, Weasley.”
I gave a half-grin.
“That’s because I’ve had to give a lot of them. Comes with being best mate to Harry Bloody Potter.”
She let out a real laugh at that—short, but grateful.
“Thanks, Ron.”
“Anytime,” I said. “Now help me carry this tart or Mum’ll have my head.”
We left the kitchen together, and she looked steadier than when she’d come in. That was enough for now.
But as we crossed the threshold back into the warm afternoon light, and I caught the way her eyes flicked towards Lupin—soft and aching, like she didn’t even mean for it—I knew I had one more thing to say.
Maybe I was putting my nose where it didn’t belong. Maybe I’d regret it. But this was the kind of quiet, in-between moment you didn’t get very often. A rare second without noise, without everyone else listening in. Just long enough to say something that mattered.
So I slowed my steps just a little, kept my voice low, and said quietly,
“He’s probably got a dozen reasons why he thinks he shouldn’t be happy. He seems to have a tragic habit of self-sabotage. Someone ought to tell him that’s a bit daft.”
She blinked, startled. Looked at me sideways.
I didn’t look back—just added,
“Don’t worry, he will come around eventually. I’m rooting for you.”
She didn’t say anything right away. But she touched my elbow, just for a second. A silent thank you.
We stepped out into the garden, carrying the plates between us. And for the first time all day, her shoulders weren’t hunched like she was bracing for impact.
It was nearly dinnertime when I heard the front door creak open and close again, followed by the familiar sound of Dad’s footsteps—slightly uneven, one heavier than the other—as he kicked his boots off in the entryway. I looked up from where I was cutting onions at the counter.
“Evening!” Dad called out, sounding... buoyant.
That was odd.
A moment later, he stepped in, slightly flushed from the walk home and grinning like he’d just won a duel with one of his plug collections.
“I’ve got news,” he said, undoing his tie with one hand and loosening the top button of his shirt. “Rather good news, actually.”
Mum turned from the stove with a curious look.
“What sort of news?”
“I’ve been promoted,” Dad beamed.
The peeler clattered out of my hand and hit the floor with a thud. I blinked.
“Wait—what?”
“I’ve been asked to head the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects,” Dad said, and I could hear the capital letters in every word. “It’s a new division. There’s a lot of panic in the public now that You-Know-Who is back, and the Ministry is finally trying to crack down on all the shady magical items being peddled in Diagon Alley.”
Mum stared for a second, pie dish forgotten in her hands.
“That’s a huge department, Arthur.”
Dad nodded, still smiling.
“Ten witches and wizards reporting to me. They want me to get it up and running immediately.”
“Ten?” Percy’s voice came from the doorway—he must’ve heard from the sitting room. “You’ll be managing a team of ten?”
“I will,” Dad said, a bit sheepish now. “Only officially starting Monday, but they’ve already given me the desk and the office.”
Percy looked like Christmas had come early.
“That’s brilliant, Dad. Really. That department’s going to be crucial. And you’re exactly the sort of person who should be running it.”
“Congratulations!” Mum said, finally setting the pie down and walking up to hug him properly. “Arthur, this is—oh, this is wonderful.”
Ginny barrelled in at the smell of pie and immediately joined in with whoops of “Well done, Dad!” and “Does this mean we’re finally respectable?”
“It means we’re celebrating,” Mum said, patting Dad on the cheek and then bustling to slice up the pie with more enthusiasm than I’d seen all day. “We’ve still got that blackberry trifle, haven’t we?”
“We do now,” I said, already setting out bowls. Ginny dashed into the kitchen to get the good spoons—usually reserved for guests—and even Percy joined in laying out plates without needing to be asked.
Dad cleared his throat as we were all sitting down to dinner.
“There’s one more thing,” he added, reaching for the breadbasket. “You lot will be hearing about it in the Prophet tomorrow, I expect.”
That got everyone’s attention again.
“Fudge,” he said, pausing to spread butter on his roll, “has been sacked.”
“You’re kidding,” Ginny gasped.
“No joke,” Dad said, clearly relishing this second announcement. “Effective immediately. The Wizengamot pushed it through this morning. Rufus Scrimgeour is the new Minister for Magic.”
“That’s… wow,” I said, blinking. “Fudge is really out? Finally? ”
“He should’ve been out a year ago,” Percy muttered, but not unkindly.
Mum still looked stunned.
“Scrimgeour? Isn’t he head of the Auror Office?”
“He was,” Dad confirmed. “They wanted someone with a firmer grip. Less… denial.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the table. I glanced at Dad.
“What’s he like? Scrimgeour?”
“Hard-nosed,” Dad said. “Tough. Pragmatic. He won’t be easy to work for, but he knows how to move quickly. That’s something.”
“He’ll need to,” Mum said. “With how things are going.”
There was a short silence then. Not uncomfortable—just thoughtful. Hopeful. Like maybe, finally, things were shifting in the right direction.
After dinner, Mum brought out the trifle and insisted Dad have the biggest bowl. We toasted with butterbeer and pumpkin juice and whatever we had left from the last market run. It wasn’t a grand celebration—just us, crowded around the scrubbed wooden table, warm light from the kitchen lamps, the familiar clatter of spoons and low laughter.
But it felt like something real. A tiny, bright flicker of pride and hope in a world that hadn’t offered much of either lately.
Dad’s cheeks flushed from the praise more than the drink. He waved off the idea of speeches, but I could tell he was happy, really happy.
And as I watched him lean in to listen to something Percy was saying about departmental structure, I thought… maybe this was what we needed.
Just a little good news.
Even if the war was still coming.
Even if we didn’t know what the next week would bring.
Tonight, Dad had been recognised for everything he was: clever, kind, steady as a rock. And for once, the Ministry had finally gotten something right.
The Sunday sun streamed in, warm and steady, as we all crowded around the table in the garden. It was a good turnout—Mum and Dad, the twins, Ginny, Percy, Bill and Fleur, Hermione, Sirius, and finally, Harry, who’d arrived from the Dursleys just this morning, looking pale and tired, but glad to be free.
The twins were loud, of course, going on about their shop’s success like they’d just discovered capitalism. Fred waved his fork like it was a wand.
“We had a queue stretching down Knockturn Alley! Knockturn Alley, Ron!”
“I think that’s more a security concern than a point of pride,” Percy muttered, but no one paid him any mind.
“Yeah, we’re basically local celebrities now,” George added. “People kept asking for our autographs. Or if we had love potions.” He waggled his eyebrows and gave me a meaningful look.
I ignored that, stabbed a carrot, and turned to Sirius.
“So—are you and Harry going back to your house this summer, or staying at Grimmauld Place?”
Sirius, who had been buttering a roll with the focus of a man trying not to explode from cheerful Weasley energy, looked up.
“Talked to Dumbledore. Decided it’s safer to stay at Grimmauld Place again. Not ideal, but… safest option for now.”
“It is ze best choice, really,” Fleur said brightly. “To stay at ze… ze quartier général?”
“Headquarters,” I said automatically.
The entire table fell silent.
I looked up and saw every single person staring at me like I’d grown another head.
“Since when do you speak French?” Hermione asked, blinking.
I froze. Bloody brilliant, Weasley. Reflexes of a bloody Ravenclaw.
“I—uh.” I cleared my throat and tried for nonchalance. “Hidden depths, that’s all. Multitalented.”
Percy adjusted his glasses and gave me a slow nod.
“Good to see you taking some initiative with language acquisition, Ron. It’ll serve you well in diplomatic circles.”
Fred’s eyes gleamed.
“But why French? Why not a more useful language?”
“Oh là là!” George added. “Our ickle Ronniekins, fluent in the language of love! Got a secret French girlfriend we don’t know about?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Maybe I just sniffed out that I’d have a French sister-in-law one day.”
They stared at me again, baffled and mildly unsettled by the idea that I’d successfully hidden anything from them for this long.
Before I could escape further commentary, Fleur turned to me with delight.
“Tu parles français vraiment bien, Ron! C’est merveilleux! On peut parler ensemble maintenant?”
“Euh—oui?” I offered.
And just like that, I was in a conversation about wine, weather charms, and French Ministry bureaucracy. I did my best to keep up, while every so often sneaking glances at the others, who were still watching like I’d suddenly revealed I could turn into a phoenix.
Bill eventually joined us too, fluent and easy, chatting in his smooth French, which I found both impressive and deeply irritating.
Then I turned to Sirius.
“Hey, your family motto’s in French, right? Do you speak it too?”
Sirius chuckled, shaking his head.
“Only enough to translate the motto and swear at my cousins. My French is rusty.”
Eventually, Fleur moved on to help Mum with something in the kitchen, and Hermione, predictably, pounced.
“You never told me you spoke French!” she said, eyes shining. “Why didn’t you ever practice with me? Ron, that’s actually—really impressive!”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Didn’t think it was a big deal.”
She narrowed her eyes and said something in French I barely heard before launching straight into magical term translation.
I played along, but inside, I was trying not to combust from embarrassment. Merlin help me, I’d become the summer’s unexpected main attraction.
Not for fighting Death Eaters. Not for surviving the Department of Mysteries.
No. For being fluent in bloody French.
What the hell.
It arrived with the morning post.
The owl was grumpy and damp, clearly annoyed to have flown through a summer drizzle, and nearly dropped the letters into the butter dish before Mum shooed it off and handed me and Hermione our envelopes.
“Go on, then,” she said, watching us both like a hawk.
Hermione had already sliced hers open with her wand. I opened mine more carefully—my hands were suddenly a bit clammy.
Ginny leaned over to look, but I tilted it away.
“Let me see first, nosy.”
Across the table, Hermione was staring at her parchment, frowning.
“What did you get?” Mum asked.
Hermione didn’t answer at first. Then, in a voice that tried and failed to sound calm, she said,
“All Os. Except Defence.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh, Hermione, that’s wonderful!” Mum said, beaming. “One E—just one! That’s nothing to be upset about!”
Hermione pressed her lips together tightly.
I figured I ought to get mine over with before she spiralled into a guilt-ridden breakdown. I cleared my throat.
“Er… alright. Let’s see.”
Percy, who was reading nearby, looked up with mild interest.
“Well?” he asked.
I read them off:
“Ancient Runes—EE. Astronomy—A. Care of Magical Creatures—O. Charms—O. Defence Against the Dark Arts—O. Divination—O. Herbology—A. History of Magic—A. Potions—O. Transfiguration—O.”
There was a pause. Then Ginny let out a low whistle.
“Bloody hell, Ron.”
“Language,” Mum said absently—but her eyes were wide. “Ron… you passed everything. And you got six Outstandings!”
Percy looked pleasantly surprised.
“That’s impressive. Really impressive.”
I shrugged, trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal, though I could feel my ears warming.
“Bit surprised I passed Herbology, to be honest. I spent more time fending off that fanged geranium than actually tending it.”
Mum laughed and put a hand over her heart.
“Oh, I’m so proud of you, love. Both of you. I’ll make Hermione’s favourite for lunch, and your favourite dessert, Ron.”
Hermione finally looked up, blinking like she’d only just returned to the room.
“What? Oh—no, you don’t need to do that, Mrs Weasley.”
“Nonsense. You’ve earned it.”
She looked touched, though still clearly stuck on that single E.
I folded my parchment and tucked it back into the envelope, feeling lighter than I’d expected. I’d done it. I’d actually done well. That... wasn’t how these things usually went.
Mum was still talking, mostly to herself now as she gathered up dishes.
“I wonder what the twins got for their NEWTs... probably won’t tell us. They’ll either burn them the second they arrive or claim they didn’t get them at all.”
Percy sniffed.
“They might surprise you.”
Mum gave him a look that said she wasn’t holding her breath.
I leaned back in my chair, still holding on to that small, strange feeling in my chest—something like pride. Maybe I’d earned it. Maybe.
Mum decided Grimmauld Place was too depressing for a birthday, so we celebrated Harry’s at the Burrow.
The weather was decent enough—sunny with a breeze—and even if most of the grown-ups were off at work, Mum made a proper effort. She baked one of her massive triple-decker chocolate cakes, and we had cold lemonade, warm pasties, and a picnic spread that could've fed an entire Quidditch team.
It was just the right mix of quiet and comfortable: Harry, me, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Percy, plus Sirius and Mum at the table. Sirius had shown up in Muggle jeans and sunglasses, trying very hard to look like a “cool uncle,” which was both ridiculous and sort of endearing. Mum barely rolled her eyes at him.
After lunch, we sprawled out in the back garden like cats in the sun. The adults stayed at the table, sipping whatever cold drink Mum had poured them and murmuring low about something Order-related. I caught a few words—surveillance, recruitment, safehouses—but nothing clear.
I was lying on my back in the grass, one knee bent, lazily drawing shapes in the air with my wand when Harry said,
“Had another Occlumency lesson this morning.”
Hermione, who was plaiting grass into a little chain, looked up.
“What? You’re still doing them over the summer?”
“Yeah.” Harry squinted at the clouds above him. “Dumbledore says they’re important now. After the Department of Mysteries…”
Hermione frowned.
“I suppose that makes sense. Especially since—you know. The connection.”
“The connection,” Ginny echoed, rolling onto her stomach. “You mean the dreams. The visions.”
Harry didn’t answer right away, which probably meant yeah.
Luna had gone very still, staring up at the sky like she was trying to find a constellation in broad daylight.
“Do you think,” she said dreamily, “that the prophecy really was about you?”
“The Prophet seems to think so,” Harry muttered.
He sounded fed up, which was fair. The papers hadn’t shut up about it for weeks now. The Ministry was refusing to confirm anything, obviously, but they’d admitted there’d been a break-in and a battle in the Department of Mysteries, and people had started connecting dots.
Hermione sat up, brushing grass off her skirt.
“I read the article. They said the Death Eaters were after a prophecy stored in the Hall of Prophecy—which, mind you, the Ministry has never officially admitted exists—but now they’re confirming it because too many people were there to cover it up properly.”
Ginny nodded.
“And they think it was about Harry.”
“They’re calling him the Chosen One,” Luna added.
Harry made a noise that sounded halfway between a laugh and a groan.
“Which would be great, if I actually knew what the bloody prophecy said. But it broke. So I don’t. So now I get to read five different theories a day in the paper about how I’m the next Merlin.”
Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful.
“I wonder what it really said. Maybe it was about you defeating Voldemort. Or… maybe it said you’d die. Or that you’d save someone.”
“Maybe it said he was Voldemort’s long-lost cousin,” Ginny said, grinning.
“I hope not,” Harry muttered.
They all turned to me next.
“Well, what do you think, Ron?”
I blinked. My stomach twisted. I didn’t have a fake theory prepared.
My mind scrambled. Say something vague. Safe.
I cleared my throat and sat up a little straighter.
“I reckon… with prophecies, sometimes it’s better not to know. They’ve got a way of getting in your head. Making you act different. Sometimes they only come true because people try too hard to avoid them.”
That quieted them a bit.
Hermione tilted her head.
“That’s… kind of wise.”
“Blimey, did Snape put that in a textbook somewhere?” Ginny teased.
I smirked.
“Hidden depths, remember.”
Harry huffed a small laugh, but I could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t laughing on the inside.
None of them really knew what the prophecy said. But if it was anything close to what I remembered… then maybe, just maybe, ignorance really was mercy.
I lay back again and let the sun warm my face. The world was changing fast. But at least, for now, Harry had cake, and we had each other.
The rest of the summer passed far too quickly.
Outside the protective bubble of the Burrow, the world was changing fast. Darkly. The Prophet reported new disappearances every few days. Murders were no longer rare—they were expected. Some political figure or Muggle-born or someone who’d “known too much.” Sometimes, someone who’d known nothing at all.
Speculations about Harry ran rampant. “The Chosen One”, they called him now. Mum tried to keep the paper out of sight, but I always found it. Percy went back to work two weeks before the end of summer, still not allowed back on full rotation, but the fact that he could even work was a miracle in itself. We celebrated Ginny’s birthday with an enormous treacle tart, and Percy’s with an over-decorated chocolate gateau that Mum had fussed over all day. Neither wanted a party, just family and quiet. So we gave them that.
And we all went to Diagon Alley together. To pick up our school things, to restock on spell ink and cauldron polish and to visit the twins’ shop, which was booming, practically bursting at the seams with customers and colour. I half-expected someone to set off a firework in the middle of the floor just for the fun of it. We left with bags full of joke sweets, new prank items, and for once, even Mum didn’t complain.
But the days slipped past faster than we realised.
Before we could brace ourselves, it was September again, and the Hogwarts Express loomed before us on the platform, flanked by Aurors. Uniformed ones, standing straight and unsmiling. Mum cried, of course. She always does. I boarded last, after making sure Mum wouldn’t follow us onto the train for “one last chat.”
Once aboard, we grabbed a compartment near the end of the train. The usual chaos buzzed in the corridors, but we managed to sink into our seats, bags shoved overhead and snacks already cracked open.
But not for long.
“Prefect meeting,” Hermione said, nudging me with her elbow. “You coming?”
I groaned under my breath and stood.
“Be back soon.”
The meeting dragged on far longer than it needed to. Half the room was too focused on the Prophet articles to concentrate, and the other half had no idea what they were doing. When it finally ended, I nearly sprinted out of the prefect carriage and made my way back to the others.
Near the last car, I hit a crowd.
I frowned. A traffic jam on the Hogwarts Express could only mean one thing: trouble. Or a celebrity sighting.
Pushing my way through a gaggle of third years, I caught sight of exactly what I feared: Harry, cornered in his compartment, being harassed by a group of girls asking about the prophecy, the battle, and his “destiny.”
“Alright, show's over,” I said dryly, stepping inside and closing the door behind me with a firm snap.
“Thanks,” Harry muttered. “Your timing’s getting uncanny.”
I flopped into the seat next to Luna, who was reading The Quibbler.
“Always here to rescue damsels in distress.”
“Very funny.”
I glanced around.
“Where’s Ginny?”
Harry shrugged.
“Said she promised to meet Dean.”
I blinked.
“Dean Thomas?”
“Only Dean I know.”
I paused. Processing.
“Huh.”
I felt something twist slightly in my chest. Not anger. Just… surprise. She hadn’t told me. I guess I’d missed it. Then again, I’d been busy prepping for war and dodging Death Eaters. Still.
I reminded myself not everything was my business.
Just then, Luna put on enormous, multi-coloured Spectrespecs that made her look like a bug-eyed dragonfly. I gave her a fond look.
“Seeing wrackspurts?” I asked lightly.
“Oh yes,” she said seriously, then launched into a long explanation—hands moving wildly, gestures sharp and excited. I didn’t understand half of it, but I listened anyway. Her enthusiasm was oddly calming.
Harry and I soon found ourselves peppering her with questions, trading theories like it was a chess game.
Chapter 77: BOOK SIX - ONE DOWN
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
ONE DOWN
By lunch time, Hermione arrived in our compartment, scrolls in hand.
“These are for you,” she said, holding out two violet-ribboned messages. “A third year girl gave them to me. Said they’re for Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.”
I raised an eyebrow. Had a feeling I knew what this was.
Opening mine, I read:
“Ronald,
I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.
Sincerely, Professor H.E.F. Slughorn”
“Slughorn?” Luna asked, reading over my shoulder. “Isn’t he the professor the Headmaster brought Harry over to bribe into taking back his teaching job?”
Harry confirmed it with a nod, looking mildly annoyed.
“He’s famous for collecting students,” I said, leaning back. “Favourites. He’s got this club—likes to gather promising young witches and wizards. And sometimes, anyone related to someone famous. Likes to name-drop.”
All eyes turned to me.
Hermione frowned.
“Ron, you can’t talk like that about a teacher.”
“Oh come on. You know it’s true,” I said, standing and smoothing my jumper. “Wish us luck.”
“You’ll be fine,” Luna said dreamily. “Just don’t let the wrackspurts cloud your judgment.”
I gave her a small salute, then Harry and I made our way toward the Slug Club lunch, not really nervous, but a little curious.
I hadn’t spoken to Dumbledore in a while, and now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure we’d ever properly discussed Slughorn. I wasn’t sure if Dumbledore still needed Slughorn’s memories about Voldemort or if that plan had been scrapped now that he had me and everything I remembered. Maybe the whole thing had just come down to logistics. No one wanted the cursed Defence position again, so Dumbledore had finally given it to Snape and looked elsewhere for a Potions professor. Maybe Slughorn was simply the only one willing to return, despite the castle swarming with Aurors and the Headmaster looking like he was halfway to a tomb.
Either way… I was going to make this lunch work. If Dumbledore still had a master plan, I’d help it along. And if he didn’t, well—Slughorn had a hell of a Rolodex. With my name, and now my reputation, getting a good job after school wouldn’t be simple. If I could sweet-talk this man into sticking my name in the right ear... that’d be enough.
We reached compartment C and slid the door open. Inside, Blaise was already lounging in a seat, looking like he owned the place. Neville was there too, fidgeting with a glass of pumpkin juice. Slughorn beamed when he saw Harry, then extended the same wide smile to me, until his eyes flicked to the scar on my throat.
Just for a second, his expression faltered. Cringed. Then smoothed itself over, like butter on warm toast.
I pretended not to notice.
Slughorn was already ploughing ahead.
“So glad you both could come,” he said, lowering himself into a wide seat. “Now, Harry, Ron—such a pair. The heroes of the Ministry skirmish! I dare say you’re being modest, but the Prophet has been rather breathless on the subject, eh?”
Harry looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. I tried instead for mysterious—lowered my voice just enough to pique interest without seeming dramatic.
“It was chaos,” I said. “I think everyone saw a different version of what happened. No two accounts match.”
“Oh, but surely—” Slughorn leaned forward, “you must’ve had a clear sense of it, being there. There was talk of… a prophecy?”
I watched Harry stiffen, his fingers curling slightly against his knees. Time to steer the conversation.
“The prophecy was destroyed,” I said smoothly. “Shattered in the confusion. So no one will ever know what it actually said.”
Slughorn blinked at me, intrigued. I gave a small, thoughtful shrug, as if it wasn’t that important.
“Well,” I added, “except for the person who heard the prophecy when it was made.”
That got him. Slughorn’s eyes lit up, delighted.
“Quite right, quite right, Ronald,” he said, tapping the air with one finger. “Of course, it would’ve been stored, yes, but if it was broken… then indeed! Only the original hearer would know. Fascinating.”
Harry was staring at me. Not angry—just startled. Like I’d said something he hadn’t expected. I kept my expression mild and reached over to pile more greens on his plate. He scowled at the broccoli.
Slughorn, thankfully, had already veered off into a tangent about a former student of his who’d had a touch of Seer blood and now worked as a weather anchor for the Wireless.
The conversation drifted away from us, and Harry leaned toward me a little.
“What was that about?” he muttered.
“Just steering the ship,” I murmured back. “You’re welcome.”
He rolled his eyes—but he didn’t look annoyed. Which meant I’d done something right.
The first day back was… strange. Not bad, exactly—just off. I’d known my timetable would be lighter this year, but it hadn’t really hit me until I held the parchment in my hands and saw it spelled out in black ink: only half my classes with Harry and Hermione, one with just Hermione, and two where I’d be completely on my own. No familiar elbows knocking into mine. No shared glances. No whispered jokes. It felt like someone had cut one corner off our triangle.
I didn’t know how I felt about it yet. A bit lonely, I supposed. A bit out of place. Studying wouldn’t be the same without them. I’d have to find a new rhythm.
Hagrid definitely knew how he felt, though—judging by the look on his face when he saw I was the only one from our trio coming back to Care of Magical Creatures. He looked gutted. Like I’d turned up just to personally disappoint him.
“Where’s Harry and Hermione?” he asked, blinking down at me with far too much hope for my comfort.
So I spent the entire break awkwardly explaining it to him. Told him Harry had kept his class list short because he wasn’t sure he could juggle everything, and Hermione had dropped a few to keep from cracking under the pressure. I tried to sound casual about it, as if it were all perfectly reasonable and not at all a slight against his class.
Didn’t feel like it helped much. He nodded and grunted and muttered “understandable” in the tone of someone very much not understanding. Honestly, I felt a bit crap. The class was just four students now, including me. No Slytherins besides me. Not a single Gryffindor. So much for all that Gryffindor bravery we go on about.
As I left Hagrid’s hut and trudged back up the hill, my bag thumping against my side, I couldn’t help thinking that this year was already different. Not just the classes. Everything. It was going to take some getting used to.
By the time I got to the Great Hall for lunch, I was more than a little miffed. Harry was already there, looking relaxed and perfectly unbothered, chatting idly with Blaise and Theo like his biggest challenge all morning had been choosing between toast and eggs. Meanwhile, I’d spent the last hour up to my ankles in dung and hay, learning how to care for a Fwooper Hagrid had —most likely illegally— smuggled in over the summer.
Harry barely had time to greet me before a younger prefect bolted toward our table, out of breath and red-faced, waving a scroll of parchment like it might burn his hand off. He shoved it at me, gasped, “Urgent,” and then sprinted off without waiting for a reply.
I raised an eyebrow but unrolled it anyway.
“Dear Ron,
I would like to continue our discussions this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 p.m.
I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.”
I stared at the signature for half a second, then folded the note and slid it into the inside pocket of my robes. Harry, Theo, and Blaise were all staring at me now, expressions ranging from curiosity to barely disguised glee.
“Well?” Blaise asked, propping his chin on one hand. “Was it a love letter? From a secret admirer? Daring. Bold. A little forward, honestly.”
Harry snorted.
“Nah, it’s a reprimand. He probably gave out too many prefect detentions last year and the staff are reining him in.”
Theo tilted his head, thoughtful.
“Maybe it’s from an underground duelling club that meets in the dungeons at midnight.”
I didn’t dignify any of it with a response. Just rolled my eyes and started filling my plate. Piled it high with roasted potatoes and ham, then spooned peas on top.
“So,” I said through a mouthful of potato, “what subjects are you two taking this year?”
Both Theo and Blaise shook their heads—Divination was off their list. Neither had the patience for what they called “floaty nonsense” or “Trelawney’s candle-scented melodrama.”
I swallowed, trying not to let my disappointment show. I loved Divination. Always had. Something about the patterns, the symbols, the strange certainty buried inside uncertainty—it spoke to me. It was the only class, besides Defence, where I felt like I could breathe. But it wasn’t nearly as fun when you had no one to share the excitement with. No one to laugh with when the tea leaves claimed you’d marry into goblin royalty or be struck by a flying harpsichord.
I took another bite of potato and tried to shake it off. I’d manage.
“Guess I’ll be predicting all of your gruesome deaths this year,” I said haughtily. “All alone.”
“Very on brand,” Theo said, nodding solemnly. “You’ve always struck me as a lone, tortured prophet.”
I flipped a pea at his forehead.
The moment lunch ended, Harry and I crossed the Hall to the Gryffindor table to fetch Hermione, who had just stood up with her bag slung over one shoulder. Together, we made our way down to the dungeons for Potions.
Harry had his new book already—brand new, fresh off the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. So did I, technically. But that didn’t stop my mind from drifting to a particular battered old copy of the same book. Snape’s copy. The one Harry had in the other timeline. The one filled with half-legible annotations, shortcuts, and spellwork good enough to slice your eyebrows clean off.
I wasn’t sure why I wanted it so badly. Maybe it was just curiosity. Maybe it was the sheer unfairness of not having it when I knew it existed. Or maybe it was because it belonged to him, and I was far more interested in that than I wanted to admit.
Hermione was chatting with Harry about some advanced Arithmancy paper she was considering writing—bless her—and I just hummed thoughtfully, mulling over my plan.
Pretend you lost your book? Claimed it got soaked? Misplaced during summer? No—accident. Accidents were easier. No one questioned a teenage boy who couldn’t keep ink off his robes, let alone keep a textbook intact.
When we reached the door, Slughorn was just opening it.
“Come in, come in!” he beamed. “Settle down, everyone.”
I hung back for a second.
“Professor? Sorry, I had a bit of an accident with my Potions book over the summer. Ink spill. Total disaster. Could I borrow one from the cupboard?”
“Of course, my boy, of course!” Slughorn waved cheerfully toward the old wooden cabinet in the corner. “Help yourself. I always keep a few spares.”
“Cheers,” I said, and strolled over, trying to act casual as I opened the creaking doors. Three copies lay inside, stacked unevenly. Two of them looked perfectly fine. The third one—wedged at the back, spine nearly broken, cover peeling—was the one I wanted. Jackpot.
I grinned to myself, pulled it free, and joined Harry and Hermione at a workstation.
Hermione eyed the shabby book in my hand with visible confusion.
“What happened to yours?” she asked, already pulling out her sleek new copy.
I shrugged and turned my attention to the front of the classroom as Slughorn began speaking.
“Now, welcome, welcome to NEWT-level Potions! This year we’ll be tackling brews most adult wizards never touch. And by the end of it, you’ll be able to brew concoctions that can kill, heal, or enchant. Some of these,” he gestured to a line of delicate vials at the front of the classroom, “you’ll learn to brew this year. Others, by end of next year. But let’s start simple.”
He held up a clear, pearly potion that shimmered faintly.
“Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in the world. Recognisable by its mother-of-pearl sheen and spiralling steam. Smells different to each of us, depending on what attracts us most.”
I leaned forward, sniffed cautiously. It hit me like a brick: a faint trace of parchment, a wisp of raspberries, and something sharper, darker—like clove and cedar and cold stone. Snape. Bloody hell. I blinked and leaned back immediately. Absolutely no one needed to know that.
Slughorn set the vial back down.
“Of course, Amortentia is banned at Hogwarts,” he chuckled, “though you’d be amazed how many students try to smuggle it in. Today, however, we’ll be brewing something far more… soporific. The Draught of Living Death. Whoever brews it best today,” he held up a small golden vial, “will win this: a single dose of Felix Felicis. Liquid luck.”
My ears perked up. I glanced at Harry, who gave me a look of mild panic. I, on the other hand, felt confident. I had a bloody genius in my pocket.
“Off you go!”
I flipped open the battered book and scanned the margin notes in Snape’s unmistakable hand—sharp, precise, no-nonsense scrawls correcting the printed instructions. Cut the valerian root after crushing. Stir clockwise seven times, not six. Crush, don’t slice. I copied his every move and went to fetch the ingredients, smirking a little as I passed some of my competitors.
Each instruction I followed gave flawless results. The colour deepened at just the right time. The consistency shifted with the perfect stir. Honestly, it felt like I was brewing with Snape leaning over my shoulder.
I only snapped back to the room when I noticed Hermione looking increasingly frazzled, biting her lip and casting worried glances at my potion. Her cauldron had a faintly wrong shade, and she looked downright betrayed by it.
I winced a little. I knew that expression. Hermione didn’t mind losing… unless it was to me. I didn’t dare say anything, though. Just returned to my own lovely little cauldron of tranquillity.
“Time’s up! Stop stirring, please,” Slughorn called, clapping his hands.
Everyone stepped back. I admired my potion—clear, smooth, pale as mist. I brushed my fingers against the cracked spine of the book and felt… proud. Really proud.
Slughorn walked the room, inspecting each potion with great theatrical flair. But when he reached mine, he beamed.
“Well, well, Mr Weasley! This is textbook perfect. Better than textbook, if I’m honest.” He reached into his robe and held up the vial of Felix Felicis. “No question about it. Congratulations!”
I smiled, quietly, and tucked the golden vial into my inner pocket—right next to Dumbledore’s parchment. Merlin knew I might need both sooner rather than later.
During dinner, I got another roll of parchment from the same new Hufflepuff prefect doing the delivery. He handed it to me without a word, then hurried off.
Harry leaned over immediately, trying to peek. I slapped my palm across his face without looking, and he let out a muffled protest, flailing a bit. Blaise and Theo snorted into their pumpkin juice, clearly enjoying the show.
With my free hand, I unrolled the parchment.
“The Room. After dinner.”
No signature. Didn’t need one.
I folded it up and tucked it into my inner pocket, alongside Dumbledore’s summons and the little vial of Felix Felicis. My growing pile of secrets. Then I let Harry go. He sat back, flushed and huffy.
“You’re unnaturally strong for someone who lives on toast and nerves,” he muttered.
Blaise and Theo were laughing outright now.
“Your secret lover’s very demanding,” Blaise said dryly, raising an eyebrow.
I turned bright red.
“It’s not—”
“Ohhh,” Theo interrupted in a sing-song voice, “he’s blushing. Must be serious.”
I rolled my eyes and started shovelling food onto my plate just to have something to do with my hands. Thankfully, they let up after a bit—Harry because he was sulking, Theo and Blaise because their teasing had sufficiently wrecked my dignity for the day.
After dinner, I leaned close to Harry and muttered,
“Tutoring. Don’t wait up.”
He just smirked.
“So that’s why I’m occlumency-free tonight. Thanks for your sacrifice, mate.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, I made for the dormitory, grabbed the Map, and cast a quick Disillusionment Charm on myself. Partly for stealth. Mostly for practice.
On my way up to the seventh floor, I double-checked the Map. No Parkinson tailing me. No students lurking. Clean.
Snape arrived a moment after I did, his pace smooth and confident. No words. No nod. Just turned, and the door to the Room of Requirement appeared. We went in.
Tonight, the Room looked stark—no desks, no chairs, no soft ambient lighting. Just open space, stone floor, and a duelling ring.
“Your programme this year,” Snape said, voice as clipped and precise as ever, “will be considerably more rigorous.”
I didn’t blink. Just nodded.
“You will duel me directly now. No more target dummies. No more staged scenarios. All casting will be nonverbal unless I grant permission. You will learn to counter advanced curses—including the one Lucius Malfoy used on you last June.”
I felt a chill at that. I remembered the blood. The floor. I clenched my fist.
“You will train your mind under pressure—recognising when to press, when to fall back, when sacrifice is necessary. You will learn to make those calculations quickly.”
I nodded again.
“Outside these sessions, you will begin wandless magic training. By Christmas, I expect you to summon your wand from across a room. It may one day save your life.”
I swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Next term,” he added, “you’ll begin basic wandless shielding. Questions?”
A lot, actually. About why he was still doing this—still teaching me when everything was darkening around us. But I just shook my head.
“No, sir.”
His eyes scanned me for a beat, and something in his expression almost softened. Then he gestured to the duelling ring.
“Then we begin.”
Snape didn’t waste time.
The moment I stepped into the duelling ring, he flicked his wand, and I barely got my shield up in time to block a curse I couldn’t name. It rebounded in a flash of blue light and scorched a black mark on the stone behind me. My heart stuttered, but I forced my feet to stay planted.
He didn’t pause.
Another curse—faster than I could think, and I barely twisted out of the way. My shoulder grazed the edge of it, and I felt the unpleasant tingle of raw magic skimming my skin.
He was on me. Relentless. Unspoken hexes sliced through the air like arrows. I parried with everything I had, instinct doing most of the work because my brain couldn’t keep up.
It wasn’t a duel. It was survival.
I knew Snape was powerful—of course I knew. But I hadn’t realised just how impossible it was to find an opening when he wasn’t holding back. His spellwork was elegant and brutal. Everything about him was composed except the magic itself, which felt like a storm bearing down on me.
There was no chance to attack. Every time I tried to shift my stance forward, another jinx flew at my legs or a silent curse twisted the air.
So I changed tactics.
I waited—waited until I saw the flick of his wrist that usually preceded an offensive spell, and I cast my shield a heartbeat early.
“Protego!”
The barrier snapped up.
For a split second, I felt clever. Smug, even. I’d beaten him to it—preempted his rhythm.
Then—
Everything twisted.
It wasn’t a curse that hit my shield. It wasn’t even physical. Snape wasn’t in front of me anymore—he was in me. Inside my head.
I staggered back, but it was too late.
He was pulling. Digging.
My Occlumency shields weren’t ready. My clouds weren’t there. I hadn’t expected this. I’d been focused on his wand, not his mind.
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
The Death Room.
Percy bleeding. Collapsing. My scream tearing from my throat as I Accio’d his robes. The panic, the certainty that he was dead.
And then—Snape was out.
My knees almost buckled from the release. I barely registered the wand flying out of my grip and clattering to the ground ten feet away. I blinked hard, panting, the cold sweat clinging to my spine.
Snape stood across from me, wand still raised, breathing steady.
I looked at him—openly now, no point pretending otherwise—and felt a flood of something halfway between awe and complete frustration.
“How—?” I started, but my voice cracked. I swallowed. “Bloody hell.”
Snape lowered his wand at last, his face unreadable.
“You anticipated an attack. You laid a shield before the spell was cast. Good.”
My chest rose and fell, still trying to match the rhythm of breathing.
“But you assumed it would be physical,” he said, walking toward me slowly. “You dropped your mental barriers in preparation to retaliate. You handed me access.”
I grimaced, biting down on a wave of irritation at myself.
Snape’s gaze narrowed.
“You overestimate your stamina. You are reactionary, not strategic. You panic when control slips, and you think too much like a duellist and not enough like a survivor.”
I opened my mouth, unsure what I meant to say—maybe to argue, maybe to agree.
But he wasn’t finished.
“That said,” he went on, his voice like iron, “your shielding spells held longer than I expected. The strength was impressive, even if your technique was unrefined. And your mental resistance—raw, but resilient.”
I blinked.
Was that a compliment?
Snape turned his back to retrieve my wand from the far side of the room, then handed it back to me, hilt first. I took it numbly.
“We will try again,” he said. “You are not here to be coddled, Mr. Weasley. War does not care about fairness.”
I nodded slowly, still breathless.
“I know,” I said.
And I did.
He still trounced me again twice before he let me go so that I could lick my wounds in the dungeons.
For the rest of the week, I threw myself into my free periods, using the time to get ahead on homework before it buried me. Whenever I wasn’t in class or with Harry and Hermione, I took out Snape’s potion textbook and studied it like it was a sacred artefact. I made a neat list of his annotations for improved uses of ingredients—things like when to crush root instead of slicing it, when to stir counter-clockwise even if the book said otherwise. All of it, I wanted to memorise. Especially in case I ever had to brew without the book. Just in case.
Then I started another list. This one was harder: spells. The ones Snape had invented, scrawled in the margins or tucked beside ingredients like he’d just thought them up between potion steps. They were clever, some of them a bit nasty, but brilliant all the same. I couldn’t help but think he was a proper genius, in both Potions and Defence. No wonder he could duel circles around most people. I caught myself wondering how I’d ever beat him in a duel.
But then, that wasn’t the point, was it?
The point was surviving. Learning to think faster, fight smarter, and hold my own long enough to win, or retreat. And I didn’t want to disappoint him. Not after all he’d taught me, not after everything he’d risked.
So in the slivers of time that used to be for doing nothing, I trained. I stood in empty classrooms or my dormitory, holding my hand out, whispering “Accio wand” without my wand actually in it. Every time, it did nothing. The wand just lay there, stubborn. But I wasn’t frustrated yet. Not after a week. I knew this part would be slow. Very slow.
What did frustrate me—genuinely, awfully—was Friday night’s Occlumency session. Snape had decided I was ready for only high-intensity attacks. That meant every mental intrusion hit hard, focused on memories I barely wanted to think about, let alone relive. Percy in the Death Room. The blood. The fear. The screaming.
I’d lost my clouds. I couldn’t find them fast enough.
Snape didn’t say much afterwards, but I could feel the disappointment even in his silence. I was disappointed too. I’d trained all summer, doing those mental exercises every night like clockwork. And I still couldn’t hold him out.
Saturday came, and I shook the frustration off the best I could. At 8 p.m. sharp, I slipped out of the Slytherin common room, disillusioned myself, and crept silently through the corridors. When I reached the gargoyle, I said, “Acid Pops,” and rode the spiral staircase up to Dumbledore’s office.
He greeted me warmly, offered me a seat, and asked how my summer had been.
“Not much happened,” I said casually, before adding, “—on my end.”
That made his eyes twinkle. He could tell I wanted to get straight to business, and to his credit, he didn’t drag things out.
“I’ve been wondering… did you have a plan with Slughorn? Like, before the year started?”
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair.
“I entertained the idea of recovering a certain memory, yes. One related to Tom Riddle. But I eventually judged it… unlikely to provide anything we do not already know.”
“It wouldn’t,” I confirmed thoughtfully. “He only asked Slughorn about doing multiple Horcruxes. I’m not even sure he told the exact number.”
Dumbledore gave a soft hum.
“Then I was right not to expect too much. Still, his return has been useful in other ways.”
“Because Dawlish refused the job?”
He nodded.
“Quite decisively.”
“And Snape wanted Defence.” I looked up at him. “You don’t think the curse will affect him?”
Dumbledore tilted his head, watching me closely.
“Do you believe the curse is real, Ronald?”
That caught me off guard.
“I… yeah. Tom cursed it. After you turned him down for the job. Didn’t he?”
A long pause. Then, with a small, reflective smile, he said,
“You continue to surprise me, Ronald. Even now.”
I shrugged.
“That makes two of us.”
He smiled at that but let the silence stretch for a moment before I asked,
“And Draco?”
The smile faded.
“It still happened, then?” I said. “He’s been given the mission?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Draco Malfoy has been tasked with killing me before the end of this year.”
I stared at the floor. I’d known—of course I had. But hearing it out loud still made my stomach twist.
“He’s just a kid,” I muttered. “He was scared out of his mind last year. He’s not ready for this.”
“No,” Dumbledore agreed, voice heavy, “he is not.”
“He’s going to break apart,” I said. “I could already see the cracks. Before the summer even started.” I looked up. “Did you… tell Snape to refuse the Vow?”
“I did,” Dumbledore said. “He did not take it.”
“So Narcissa asked?”
“She did. In secret. Without the Dark Lord’s permission.”
My mind raced.
“Then Snape refusing won’t ruin his cover?”
“On the contrary,” Dumbledore said. “His refusal paints him as obedient. A loyal Death Eater who would not risk disobeying Voldemort’s chain of command—not even for family.”
I nodded slowly.
“That’s… good. That’s really good.”
There was another pause, the air thick with things we weren’t saying. I rubbed at the side of my neck and glanced toward the fireplace.
“Harry’s still getting visions,” I said, switching gears. “Not as bad as last year, but they’re still happening.”
“I feared as much,” Dumbledore said. “His Occlumency has not progressed as I hoped.”
“What’ll we do if he can’t learn it?” I asked. “About the prophecy?”
“I will give him—and Severus—until Christmas,” he said firmly. “If Harry cannot secure his mind by then, I will tell him the contents of the prophecy myself.”
I nodded.
“That sounds fair.”
“Many things cannot wait any longer,” Dumbledore said after a pause. He folded his hands together. “This summer, with the assistance of your brothers, I acquired basilisk venom.”
I sat up straight. That must have cost a fortune.
“We now have the means to destroy what we possess,” He added. “But we will proceed cautiously—one at a time.”
“Afraid Voldemort might feel it?”
He inclined his head.
“It is unclear whether he would. There is evidence for both outcomes, depending on the source. So we must act with care.”
“Snape will watch him?”
“Yes. If there is any behaviour change, we will know.”
I let out a breath. It was the best way. I recalled the movies alright, with Voldemort feeling the destruction of the Horcruxes at the very end. But the books were… fuzzier in my mind. I couldn’t remember whether Voldemort felt the destruction or not.
Without further ado, Dumbledore conjured the Sword of Gryffindor from thin air, along with a warded silver box the size of a small book. Both lay gently on the table. He took the warded box and put it in his pocket.
“I’ve already coated the blade with basilisk venom,” he said calmly, as if we weren’t about to destroy a piece of a madman’s soul. “It’s ready for use.”
My stomach flipped. I nodded anyway.
“We’ll use a secure room for the destruction,” Dumbledore added, taking the sword in his uncursed hand. “Magically warded and isolated, far beneath the school.”
Then he looked at me over his half-moon spectacles.
“Disillusion yourself, please.”
I did as told, murmuring the charm under my breath and feeling the cool sensation sweep over me like a bucket of icy water. Hidden now, I followed Dumbledore out of his office and down through the winding staircases. We passed only a few straggling students—upper years and prefects—none of whom paid us much attention. I kept a few steps behind him, careful not to jostle anyone or trip.
We descended deep into the dungeons, further than I ever went during regular classes. Except once. I recognised the corridor—this was close to where Snape’s quarters were, the place Harry and I visited last June after everything fell apart. The air down here was colder, heavier. No portraits lined the walls. Just damp stone and the echo of our footsteps.
At the very end of a deserted corridor, Dumbledore stopped. He lifted his wand and with a flick, a door shimmered into view where there had been nothing but a wall.
“You are keyed into the wards now,” he said without turning. “You’ll be able to enter, even without me.”
I nodded invisibly. When he opened the door, I dropped the Disillusionment Charm. The moment I stepped inside, I felt it — like stepping into a storm held back by glass. The pressure in the air. The static. The power.
The room wasn’t large —smaller than a classroom— but completely bare, save for the intricate web of runes etched into the floor. Layer after layer of them, spiralling inward in perfect geometry, inked in deep reds and silvers that shimmered faintly under the enchanted torchlight. Containment circles, shielding glyphs, binding wards… It was more magic than I’d ever seen in one place. And definitely beyond N.E.W.T. level.
I couldn’t help but stare.
“Don’t let the runes distract you,” Dumbledore said gently, following my gaze. “Fascinating, yes. But we have work to do.”
I pulled my eyes away and looked at him. He looked calm, but his right hand —still hidden in his sleeve— reminded me he couldn’t do this himself.
He turned to me, more solemn now.
“I must ask you to wield the sword, Ron,” he said quietly. “My hand… is not capable. And I trust you.”
That last part settled something in my chest. I straightened up.
“I’ll do it.”
He nodded once, approving.
“Good. I will maintain the protective wards. If there is any… magical backlash, I will contain it.”
“Shouldn’t be much,” I said. “Not unless we activate it first. Parseltongue, I mean.”
“Still,” Dumbledore said, raising a brow. “I prefer to prepare for every eventuality.”
He handed me the Sword of Gryffindor, the hilt still gleaming, the blade already slick with the faint shimmer of venom. It felt heavier than I expected. Not just physically, but in meaning. In purpose. Holding it made everything feel real.
Dumbledore knelt beside the warded box, tapping it with a murmured spell. It opened with a hiss, like air escaping. From within, he levitated the locket.
It rose slowly, glinting gold, completely innocuous-looking. It didn’t squirm or pulse or scream. It just hovered there, motionless, as if it were any old heirloom and not one of the foulest things in the world.
He placed it at the exact centre of the runes. It dropped to the stone with a faint click.
“Stay within the outer circle,” he instructed. “It is the safest place. And remember to strike fast. Decisively.”
I nodded. Swallowed hard. Then took position on the outer ring, feet shoulder-width apart. I gripped the sword in both hands, the metal cool against my palms.
I thought of clouds —thick, soft, safe— just to centre myself. Then I raised the blade over my head.
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered.
And I struck.
The sword came down hard and true. The blade hit the locket with a clean, vicious clang—and the world imploded.
The magic burst outward like a scream made of pressure and darkness, but the containment runes held. The air shimmered black, rippling violently against the warded edges. I couldn’t see the locket anymore. Just a ball of pitch and shadow, writhing like it wanted to escape.
Dumbledore moved quickly, casting a spell I didn’t recognise. It sucked in the black mist like a vacuum, silent and merciless, until it vanished entirely.
And there, on the stone floor, was the locket. Cracked straight down the centre.
It didn’t look alive anymore.
Just a piece of metal now. Empty.
I lowered the sword slowly, my breath uneven.
Dumbledore looked at me, and then at the ruined locket.
“Well done, Ronald,” he said softly.
I wasn’t sure what to say. So I just nodded. Still gripping the sword a little too tightly.
One down.
Two to go.
Chapter 78: BOOK SIX - PROVEN WRONG
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
PROVEN WRONG
Potion-making with the Prince’s help was a breeze.
I’d never loved the subject this much before—loved, mind you, not just liked. For once, I felt truly comfortable, not sometimes floundering to understand the textbook logic behind a recipe. Now, I understood the recipes. Fully. With every annotated margin and slashed-out ingredient, the Half-Blood Prince was guiding me with a steady, sarcastic hand. I was learning more from his scribbles than I’d ever learnt from the official instructions, and it wasn’t just about the Draught of Living Death either. I kept thinking back to all the old potions we’d brewed in earlier years, wondering how many we’d done wrong—or just inefficiently—when there were so many smarter ways of doing things.
If I had the time or the supplies, I’d have happily gone back through the entire curriculum and brewed the lot from scratch, just to see how much better they could be. But I didn’t have time or supplies. What I had was homework. A lot of it. So instead, I absorbed the knowledge greedily, one clever trick at a time, scribbling my own summaries and diagrams in a spare roll of parchment I kept folded in my potions book.
Hermione never brought up the fact that I’d brewed a better potion than her on the first day. I was grateful. She hadn’t even given me a sideways glance. Truth was, it wasn’t the first time I’d outdone her in Potions. It didn’t happen often, but it happened enough that she didn’t pester me for explanations—or worse, interrogate me about how.
Maybe it helped that she was too swamped to care.
All of us were.
Our so-called free periods weren’t exactly the hours of blissful relaxation Harry had pictured over the summer. They were just windows of time to desperately try and claw our way back on top of the mountain of work being dumped on us. It felt like we were preparing for exams every single day.
And it wasn’t just the assignments. The lessons themselves had cranked the difficulty knob up to eleven. Nonverbal spells were now expected in Defence, Charms, and Transfiguration. No more waving your wand with a little flourish and saying the incantation loudly and clearly. Now it was all about subtle movements and sheer intent. The others were struggling.
I wasn’t.
Thanks to Snape, I’d been working on nonverbal casting for two years already. What had started as awkward stammering and clenched-jaw failures in third year had turned into something fluid. Controlled. I was ahead of the curve now. First in Defence, then in Charms, then even in Transfiguration. It was rare, these days, for me to be ahead of the rest of the class. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it.
Not that it made the rest of the work any easier.
Care of Magical Creatures and Divination remained the most manageable subjects this year, thank Merlin. Hagrid had warned us that this year’s creatures would be “real interesting,” which, coming from him, meant at least one trip to the Hospital Wing and possibly a singed eyebrow or two. Still, I didn’t mind. There were only four of us in the class, so we got plenty of time to muck about with the creatures and talk through the theory at our own pace.
Divination was a different kind of chaos. Trelawney had announced that this term would be focused entirely on tarot. “Mastery of the deck,” she’d called it. I wasn’t sure about ‘mastery,’ but I drew my cards every day dutifully. My battered old deck was starting to curl at the corners, but I liked it. Still couldn’t remember what every card meant off the top of my head—something about reversed towers and upright moons always tripped me up—but I kept trying.
Better than Arithmancy, anyway. I’d caught a glimpse of Hermione’s homework the other day and nearly had a nosebleed just looking at the equations.
No thank you. I’d take confusing visions and possibly carnivorous creatures over magical trigonometry any day.
And not only were my official classes hard, but my unofficial ones were just as brutal. Occlumency gave me a constant headache these days—same as Harry, who still complained about his sessions like clockwork. I couldn’t really blame him.
We were outside now, taking a quick walk before diving back into the stale, musty air of the Library. It was barely autumn, but the air had that crispness to it, sharp enough to keep you alert but soft enough to make you linger.
“I’m at the stage,” Harry said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “where I’m ready to tell Dumbledore to stuff it. Occlumency, I mean. It’s rubbish. Doesn’t work. I’m done.”
Hermione gasped like he’d just insulted every Hogwarts founder personally.
“Harry!”
He didn’t look at her, and I didn’t either. We both ignored her scandalised horror like pros.
“I get it,” I said, kicking a pebble off the path. “It’s not going great for me either, not since term started.”
Harry turned to look at me, surprised.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck, a little sheepish. “I can hold him off, redirect him sometimes, but I haven’t managed to push him out once. Not once. It’s maddening.”
Harry blinked.
“But… Snape keeps saying you’re miles better at it than I am. He uses you like some sort of golden standard. Says I’ve had twice your hours and half your control.”
I felt myself flush in pride despite everything. My ears went hot.
“He said that?”
“Multiple times,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Usually right after calling me thick.”
Hermione made a disapproving noise, but I was still grinning. I couldn’t help it. That felt… well. Brilliant.
Harry huffed.
“Glad my suffering boosts your self-esteem.”
“Sorry,” I said, not meaning it. Then I forced myself back to earth. “But he’s probably exaggerating a bit. I mean, yeah, I can steer him away from the worst bits, but I can’t kick him out. Not even close.”
Harry looked at me curiously.
“So why does he say that, then?”
I shrugged.
“Dunno. Maybe to get under your skin. Or maybe he thinks it’ll make you try harder.”
“Great,” Harry muttered. “More manipulation.”
“But,” I added, more quietly now, “even if I can’t push him out, it’s still doing something. The memories—it’s like they don’t sting as bad now. I can look at them without panicking. Or crumbling.”
That gave them both pause.
Hermione looked uneasy.
“I still don’t know how I feel about that. About Snape forcing you to relive trauma just to train your mind. That feels… wrong.”
Harry nodded quickly, but I could tell it was less about ethics and more about wanting any excuse to quit.
“Maybe it is,” I admitted. “But Voldemort’s not going to care about what’s ethical, is he? And he’s already in Harry’s head.” I turned to Harry. “You still getting visions?”
Harry shrugged, noncommittal.
“Sometimes. When he’s angry. It’s like they slip through then. But not often anymore.”
Hermione perked up at that.
“See? That must mean you’re better than you think. If Voldemort’s not slipping in as often, maybe you are blocking him.”
“Or,” Harry said dryly, “he’s just not trying anymore. Maybe I’m not worth the bait.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been.
I nudged him with my elbow.
“Or maybe you’re just harder to manipulate now. That’s got to count for something.”
He gave me a long look, then sighed.
“Still feels like I’m failing every lesson.”
“We all are,” I said. “That’s why it’s called learning.”
Turns out, I was proven wrong the next week during Occlumency lesson.
It happened on the last Friday of September. I didn’t expect it, not really. I’d gotten used to treading water in Occlumency, to surviving rather than winning. But that night… something changed.
The session had started like the others. I stood still, feet braced, wand at my side, eyes locked with Snape’s. I could feel the tension in my shoulders, my head already aching faintly from the effort it took to keep the clouds steady. Still, something was different. My heart was racing, yeah, but my mind felt clearer. Stronger.
Snape didn’t waste time.
“Legilimens.”
It came like always—swift, cold, sharp. My memories pulled loose like stones from a riverbed.
He started with the usual. The Department of Mysteries. Percy bleeding. A scream—Bill’s or someone else’s—I didn’t care. I breathed through it. Breathe in. Clouds. Breathe out. Clouds.
Dismissed.
Umbridge’s glowing quill. My blood on the parchment. Her syrupy voice. Dismissed.
Lucius Malfoy’s wand pointed at my face. His sneer. The burn of fear. Dismissed.
The images didn’t claw the way they used to. They came and went, like flickers on a screen. My clouds held. Snape was clawing for a foothold, I could feel it. A scratching presence—frustrated, cornered. He pushed deeper.
New approach.
Anger.
He pulled the same memory he liked to use when he was trying to get a rise out of me—Mum accusing Snape of awful things. Me, furious, defending him. The raw ache of not being understood.
But that argument was old now. Dusty. I’d moved past it.
Dismissed.
Another flash—Sirius, sneering, saying “Snivellus” with that cocky drawl. Old news—dismissed.
Then—
Something deeper.
Something new.
A sharp twist behind my eyes. I staggered back a step, teeth gritted, hand trembling around my wand.
Dumbledore’s office.
Dumbledore’s fingers steepled together, his eyes shadowed.
“And do you think Severus… would refuse?”
“I think he’d agree,” I said. “Because it’s you. Because he’d do anything you asked. That’s the worst part.”
“How important is this to you, Ron? For you to plead like this?”
Then another snippet.
“I can tell you this, Ron: I will not choose to damn Severus if there is another way.”
I felt myself fracture.
My legs buckled.
The walls of my mind cracked, and Snape was there. Seeing. Knowing.
NO.
I couldn’t force him out. He was too strong. My clouds scattered under the pressure. I couldn’t push him away, but—I could redirect.
I seized the next memory, forced it forward, shoved it between us like a shield:
“I will speak to Professor Snape myself,” Dumbledore said. “I will make it clear which memories must remain untouched. You may trust that he will respect those boundaries. I will see to it.”
“... He will respect those boundaries.”
“I will speak to Professor Snape myself…”
“... Those boundaries…”
I clenched my fists, dragging the memory closer and closer, forcing it to flood my mind, louder than the rest.
Suddenly, the pressure vanished.
I stumbled forward, breath catching hard in my throat. My skin was clammy, my heart hammering like it wanted to escape my ribs. I bent over, hands on my knees, and exhaled shakily. My wand arm shook.
Had I done it?
Had I pushed him out?
Or did my warning make him stop?
I lifted my head slowly to look at him, still panting, not sure what I’d see on his face.
Across from me, Snape lowered his hand, the air between us heavy with something unsaid.
“I presume,” he said slowly, voice level but cold, “that the memory I saw was one of those Professor Dumbledore instructed me to avoid.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to.
He gave a curt nod, the movement stiff.
“Noted.”
Then, after a pause,
“You’ve improved.”
That startled me more than it should’ve. I blinked, still trying to find my balance again.
Snape didn’t soften. Of course, he didn’t.
“Your mental redirection was efficient. Controlled.” Another pause. “And your endurance has grown. You held me off for longer than you’ve ever managed.”
It sounded like praise. In Snape’s language, it probably was. And yet, he didn’t look pleased.
He looked… rattled.
His eyes flicked to mine again, sharp and unreadable.
“It was about me.”
I froze.
My instinct screamed not to answer. So I didn’t.
I held his gaze instead, steady as I could manage.
“It was personal,” I said quietly. “That’s all I’ll say.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded once, clipped and precise.
“Very well.”
He turned away from me, robe swirling faintly as he moved to the side of the room.
“You are dismissed,” he said, still not facing me.
I didn’t move at first. My legs were stiff, my throat dry. But I gathered myself, turned, and walked toward the door. My hand was on the knob when his voice stopped me.
“…You defended me.”
I turned, startled.
He was still facing away, but his head had dipped slightly.
“In that memory. You were pleading. For my sake.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to.
Snape turned toward me then, and the look in his eyes made me stop breathing. Not suspicion. Not anger.
Just a strange, tentative sort of awe.
He studied me like he was seeing me properly for the first time.
Then he said, very softly, almost to himself,
“I won’t ask why. Not yet.”
I gave a single nod.
Then I slipped out of the room, heart still hammering against my ribs.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I just… stood there.
The corridor was dim and silent, the kind of silence that presses at your ears like water. My heart hadn’t quite settled yet. I could still feel it thudding somewhere between my throat and my wand hand. I took a breath. Then another.
Then I started walking.
My footsteps echoed down the stone hallway, uneven and strange, like I wasn’t quite grounded. My mind was racing, tangled in a dozen thoughts at once. But one thing kept circling back like a cursed snitch:
You defended me.
I didn’t expect him to say it. Didn’t expect him to notice, or—Merlin help me— care. But he had. And not just noticed, either. He’d looked… I don’t know. Stunned. Shaken. Like I’d hit him with a spell he didn’t see coming.
Which, fair enough. I guess I had.
I didn’t want him to see that memory. Not because I was embarrassed about what I said—because I wasn’t. I meant every word. I’d do it again. But because he wasn’t meant to know. Not yet. Not like that.
It was supposed to be quiet. Private. Something I did because it was right, not because I wanted recognition. And now he knew, or at least guessed, and everything felt a little off-kilter.
But at the same time…
There was something oddly comforting about the way he said it. Like he’d filed it away. Like it mattered to him. Not in some dramatic way—but just… registered.
I didn’t know what to make of that.
I rubbed a hand over my face as I turned the corner, trying to shake the echo of his voice from my head. I won’t ask why. Not yet. That was very Snape. The “not yet” was doing most of the heavy lifting. He’d ask eventually. Of course, he would. The man couldn’t leave a mystery alone if it tried to bite his leg off.
And when he did, I’d have to decide what to tell him. How much to say. Whether I’d be honest about how terrified I’d been that he’d be forced to do something unforgivable. That I trusted him. That I didn’t want him ruined. That I cared.
I slowed near the turn toward the common room. A couple of Hufflepuff prefects passed me, laughing about something. I offered a nod and kept walking.
It was weird. I felt lighter and heavier at the same time. Like I’d lost something and gained something else, and I wasn’t quite sure what either of them were yet.
One thing was certain, though—he hadn’t pushed farther. He could’ve. He wanted to. I saw it. But he stopped himself.
That meant something. I didn’t know what. But it did.
I muttered the password to the common room and stepped inside, blinking at the sudden warmth and light.
No one noticed me right away, which was good. I wasn’t ready to be noticed.
I headed for the dorms, still lost in thought.
He said, You defended me.
And for the first time in a long while, I let myself think:
Yeah. And I’d do it again.
When our next duelling lesson arrived, Snape was already waiting in the Room when I showed up. The door swung open as I approached, but he didn’t speak. Just turned, and stalked deeper into the space.
The duelling arena was already set. Ward lines shimmered faintly around the edges. I took a breath and followed him in, wand already in hand. I’d been preparing for this all day—mentally, physically—but something felt… off.
Snape didn’t look angry. That was the first clue. He looked… distant. Studying me with a gaze so sharp it made me want to check if I had ink on my face or something.
He didn’t comment on my lateness, not that I was late. He didn’t ask about my weekend, or throw in some cryptic critique. No sarcastic dig about my hair or posture or breathing.
Just a curt, “Ready yourself.”
We didn’t even go over tactics or new spells. He just raised his wand, and before I could blink—
“Incarcerous!”
I deflected on instinct and stumbled back, already sweating. He was fast tonight. And relentless.
Spell after spell. No gaps. I blocked, dodged, ducked, trying to counter, but there was no opening. If he was holding back, I couldn’t tell. My legs were burning, and my wand arm ached, and he was standing there like he was just enjoying a light breeze.
We went again. I tried clever feints, but they didn’t work. He adapted instantly. My shield charms cracked. I started slipping. My hair stuck to my forehead. My breath rasped. I missed a step and nearly went down, caught myself on the ward edge.
“Again,” he said flatly.
So we did.
The second round ended when I lost my wand. Again. He caught it midair and handed it back without a word.
I sat down hard on the edge of the ward, head hanging, gulping air.
Snape circled once. Stopped.
Then he said, in that same clinical voice:
“You’re still leaving your left side open when you counterattack.”
I nodded, still catching my breath.
“I know. I can’t help it when I pivot—”
“I didn’t ask for an explanation.”
Right. Of course.
He stood still. Too still.
“You performed adequately tonight,” he said, after a long pause. “You still rush your blocks. Your reaction time is better than average, but your footwork falters under pressure.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.
Another pause.
Snape stood very still, the silence between us stretching long and taut.
Then, in a tone carefully devoid of curiosity, he said,
“I spoke with the Headmaster.”
My stomach did something unpleasant.
Snape’s gaze was unreadable.
“He confirmed the memory is among those I was instructed to avoid. I will not press you about it again.”
I nodded slowly, unsure if I should thank him, apologise, or just shut up.
He added, more quietly,
“Even if I now understand far less than I wish I did.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. My tongue felt too thick for words.
Snape straightened. The pause ended.
“Ready yourself,” he said, cool and clipped. “Again.”
That was it.
No more talk. No more questions. Just Snape already raising his wand.
I wiped the sweat from my face, stood up, re-centred my stance, and nodded.
Business as usual. The memory was gone. The duel had returned.
Before we even reached the room, I pulled Hermione and Harry aside and gave myself one last once-over. Robes: freshly pressed. Hair: in place. No cat hair, ink stains, or exploded potion residue.
Hermione raised a brow at me.
“What, trying to impress Slughorn?”
“Trying not to look like a disaster,” I muttered, brushing an imaginary wrinkle off my sleeve.
Harry grinned.
“You look fine. Very… presentable, Prefect.”
I ignored his smirk and pushed open the door.
Slughorn beamed when he saw me, as if I were the main course.
“Ah, Mr Weasley! Splendid, splendid! So glad you could come tonight. Your work in Potions—absolutely marvellous! And the Draught of Living Death on the first day? Remarkable!”
I blinked, surprised by the direct assault.
“Thank you, Professor.”
There. Cool as a cucumber.
“And I’ve heard you’ve quite the flair in a duel, too! My sources are very reliable.” His eyes twinkled. “Tell me, where did you learn to duel like that, my boy?”
Shit.
“Trade secret, sir.”
I grinned and hoped it looked conniving rather than tense.
Fake it till you make it.
“Oho! Playing your cards close to the chest, eh? I do adore a student with a touch of mystery.”
Slughorn clapped me on the back, practically jostling me into motion.
“Come, come! Sit here, my boy—no arguments!” He guided me to the chair on his right, like I was some prized pheasant he’d bagged for the evening.
Cormac McLaggen took the seat on his left, puffed up with the air of someone who thought they were the shit. Hermione slid into the chair beside me with an amused glance, Harry next to her, already making a point to sit as far away from Slughorn as possible.
The table was heaped with dishes: roasted duck, minted potatoes, glazed carrots, platters of smoked salmon and pickled eggs, and something that looked suspiciously like acromantula stew. I didn’t ask.
“Now,” Slughorn said, beaming at me again as he filled my goblet himself. “I must say, Mr Weasley, your family’s quite the impressive brood! Your father’s recent promotion—what is it now? Head the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects, isn’t it?”
“Yes. He’s been busy.”
“Splendid, splendid. And those twin brothers of yours—entrepreneurs! Very clever boys, those two. I must say, their Canary Creams are still my favourite.”
Hermione let out a soft snort beside me. I kicked her gently under the table.
“And of course,” Slughorn continued, voice growing even more delighted, “there’s young Percy Weasley—now the undersecretary to the Minister himself, yes? That’s quite the feat at his age.”
Cormac straightened abruptly, puffing out his chest like a bloated peacock, looking between Slughorn and… Hermione? Was he peacocking for her?
“Well, I’ve known Minister Scrimgeour for years, actually. Used to come round my uncle Tiberius’s for dinner during holidays. Bit of a family friend.”
Slughorn offered a vague nod, clearly not as impressed.
“I see, I see,” Slughorn said vaguely, already turning back to me. “Still, such a marvellous lineage—brains, brawn, and no shortage of ambition.”
I tried not to choke on my pumpkin juice.
Cormac kept trying to crowbar his way back into the spotlight, launching into a story about some Quidditch camp he’d attended over the summer and how one of the scouts had praised his reflexes. Hermione’s attention, though, didn’t budge from Harry and me, and Cormac was clearly getting annoyed.
When she asked for the salt halfway through the meal—sweetly, like always—the shaker was right next to Blaise. He looked at her, then at the salt, and did absolutely nothing.
Hermione’s hand hovered awkwardly before she lowered it again, cheeks colouring faintly.
“Salt, Blaise?” I said, voice level.
“Didn’t realise I was a waiter,” He said with a lazy shrug.
I frowned, but let it slide. However, I had a strange feeling about the interaction.
Dessert came out—glistening treacle tart, steaming chocolate pudding, and a strange lemon soufflé that tried to run off the table when Slughorn cut into it. Conversation turned airy again, but the mood didn’t fully lift until someone brought up ambition.
“Ambition,” Slughorn echoed, swirling his wine. “Now there’s a word with weight. Legacy, too. Tell me, my dears—what do you want to be remembered for?”
Melinda Bobbin said something about expanding her family’s apothecary chain. Marcus Belby wanted to publish a groundbreaking thesis on magical genetics. Zabini just smirked and muttered, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Then Slughorn looked at Harry.
“And you, Mr Potter?”
Harry squirmed.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’d rather not be remembered at all, really.”
Slughorn chuckled.
“Modesty! A rare trait these days.” He turned to Hermione. “And you, Miss Granger?”
“I’d like to be remembered for changing something. Something that matters,” she said clearly. “Like equality in magical law.”
Blaise snorted, quiet but sharp. My eyes cut to him and didn’t leave. I felt something twist in my chest—slow, sharp, ugly. I hadn’t thought about it before, but that—his tone, the sneer—it clicked into place.
Blaise had a problem with Muggleborns.
I exchanged a look with Hermione. She gave a slight shake of her head. Not here, not now. Still, the atmosphere around our end of the table shifted.
Then Slughorn turned to me.
“And you, Mr Weasley?”
I leaned back in my chair, considering. Everyone was looking at me now.
“I don’t care if people remember me,” I said. “I just want to make sure there’s a future left worth remembering.”
A few seconds of stunned silence.
Then Slughorn let out a delighted laugh.
“Good Lord, my boy. What a thing to say.”
“And here I thought Mr Prefect would thirst for glory,” Zabini quipped with a chuckle.
Friendly tone. Light jab.
I didn’t answer. I just looked away.
Zabini blinked at that, maybe realising something had shifted. And I went back to my chocolate pudding.
The rest of the dinner passed in a polite murmur, though something unspoken hung over our end of the table. Slughorn, oblivious or pretending to be, kept up the cheer, refilling goblets and levitating a dish of crystallised pineapple from one end of the table to the other. Cormac tried a few more times to grab Hermione’s attention with some tale about his uncle Tiberius and a three-headed hyena, but she barely responded with more than a nod.
I didn’t speak much either. I was still chewing on the weight of Zabini’s sneer, Hermione’s quiet resolve, and the look she’d given me—like she was used to this, and I was only now seeing it.
Eventually, Slughorn raised his goblet for a final toast.
“To ambition—may yours be worthy and your legacy lasting!”
We clinked glasses. Some more enthusiastically than others.
After that, everyone stood and began trickling out, stretching and adjusting their robes, the buzz of conversation resuming but not quite reaching the ease it had before dessert. Cormac lingered, trying to catch Hermione’s eye as she slung her bag over her shoulder. Harry and I flanked her without a word.
We stepped into the corridor and began walking. It was late enough that the castle had quieted, and the only sounds were our footsteps and the occasional hiss of torchlight. When we reached the junction—one path leading to Gryffindor Tower, the other toward the dungeons—I slowed.
“Do you want us to walk you back?” I asked Hermione, my tone light. But I gave her a look—pointed, meaningful—and then flicked my gaze, just briefly, toward Cormac, who was hovering far too casually by a nearby suit of armour.
Hermione looked between us. Her lips twitched faintly.
“I’d like that,” she said, and looped her arm through mine.
Harry moved to her other side with a grin.
“Lead the way, Prefect.”
Cormac didn’t follow.
Good.
Once we were alone, Hermione glanced at me sideways.
“So. Trade secret?”
I winced.
“It was either that or ‘I duel in my sleep.’”
Harry snorted.
“You looked like he was going to eat you when we walked in.”
“Probably would’ve, if I’d been marinated first,” I muttered. “Honestly, I felt like so awkward. The way he was gushing—how does he know all that?”
Hermione gave me a knowing look.
“Slughorn has ears everywhere. You’re not exactly subtle, Ron. Especially when you brew a perfect Draught of Living Death on the first try.”
“That, or someone’s been gossiping,” I said, glancing at Harry. “Snape wouldn’t. Dumbledore maybe? Or Tonks? She hears everything at those Order meetings.”
Harry shrugged.
“Whoever it was, he’s clearly got his eye on you.”
We fell quiet for a moment, then Harry said, more seriously,
“I didn’t realise Blaise was like that.”
I nodded, jaw tight.
“Neither did I. Thought he was just smug. Not—”
“A bigot?” Harry offered darkly.
“Yeah.”
Hermione shook her head.
“I should’ve known. I just… He seemed more intelligent than that.”
“That’s the worst part, isn’t it?” I said. “When someone’s clever enough to know better, but still chooses to be a prat.”
We walked in silence a bit longer before Harry spoke again, sounding thoughtful.
“Your answer. At the table.”
I glanced at him, unsure what he meant. He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“About legacy. It was a little gloomy, maybe… but I liked it.”
I blinked.
“Gloomy?”
“I mean,” Harry said quickly, “not in a bad way. Just… I dunno. Serious. Real. It made sense to me.”
“Well… I mean, with the war looming, a lot of things seem so… inconsequential. I just… wish that we’ll all make it out alive.
“Gloomy,” Harry repeated, but this time he was smiling. “But yeah. Makes sense.”
Hermione was quiet for a moment, then said softly,
“It wasn’t gloomy. It was… grounded. More than anyone else at that table, you were thinking beyond yourself. Like always. We shouldn’t be surprised by it anymore.”
“Stop before I blush!”
“You’re already blushing, mate.”
“Shut up.”
They just laughed at me.
My little gremlins.
Chapter 79: BOOK SIX - LETHAL JEWELRY
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
LETHAL JEWELRY
I caught them hinting again—Harry and Hermione, that is. It was in the way they spoke about the weather softening, or how good it’d be to breathe air that hadn’t passed through dusty books first. Hermione dropped the word “Honeydukes” twice in one conversation, which meant she was trying really hard to be subtle. Harry just looked at me whenever Hogsmeade came up, like he was waiting.
I ignored them at first.
They didn’t say anything outright. They wouldn’t. Not after last year.
Not after what happened.
October was pressing in, thick with the weight of dates I didn’t say out loud. I knew exactly what week it was. What day was coming. The first Hogsmeade trip of the year was scheduled for Saturday, with Aurors patrolling and stricter safety protocols, and everyone pretending that made it alright. Better, somehow.
But I remembered the last time. I remembered everything.
When I thought of Hogsmeade, the feel of the Imperius still clung to my skin. Not like slime or anything gross. Just… wrong. Quiet and inside. Like breathing smoke and pretending it’s air.
I still had the scar on my throat. Jagged, faintly white against the pink of my skin. I saw it every day in the mirror and told myself I was over it.
I wasn’t.
And that’s what made the guilt worse. I wasn’t over it. But Harry seemed like he was. At least enough to want to go. And Hermione was watching both of us like she wanted to ask but wouldn’t dare. I knew they’d both skipped every trip last year for my sake. Waited on me to be ready.
So if they wanted to go now… then I had to be ready. Or pretend to be. Fake it, like I always did.
It was just a village. Just shops. Just cobbled roads and fireplaces and chocolate frogs. I wasn’t going to let it own me anymore.
So two days before the trip, I finally did it.
We were in the Library, Harry half-asleep against his essay, Hermione frowning at her planner like it had personally insulted her. I cleared my throat, louder than necessary.
They looked up.
“I was thinking,” I said, keeping my voice light, casual. “Might be good to go to Hogsmeade this weekend. Get some fresh air, you know. And Honeydukes is probably due for a robbery.”
Harry blinked. Hermione’s eyes went wide.
“You want to go?” Harry said carefully.
“Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, we all deserve a break, don’t we? Bit of fun. Could even stop by the Three Broomsticks, if you’re buying.”
My throat closed around the name of the pub.
Hermione didn’t say anything right away. She just stared at me, like she was trying to read the fine print behind my smile.
Then, very softly, she said,
“That’s brilliant, Ron.”
Harry grinned.
“About time.”
I nodded, pretending my stomach hadn’t knotted itself into oblivion. They didn’t press. Didn’t bring up last year. And for that, I was grateful.
But inside, I was still bracing myself.
Because pretending to be ready wasn’t the same as being ready.
Still. It was a start.
I hated this Saturday. Absolutely loathed it. But I still ate enough at breakfast to rival a pack of starving trolls. Which, of course, Harry took as a good sign.
“You’re in a good mood,” he said cheerfully, buttering his toast like we were on holiday.
I gave him a tight smile and reached for more eggs. I wasn’t in a good mood—I was in full-scale internal meltdown mode. But that’s the thing about me. When I’m properly stressed, when my skin feels too tight and my lungs too shallow, I eat. It’s like trying to build a barricade out of toast and porridge. Harry, provincial idiot with no emotional literacy, mistook it for enthusiasm.
Part of me hoped he’d notice. That he’d suddenly realise what the day was. That he’d remember last year. That maybe he’d say, “We don’t have to go, you know.” But no. He just kept eating, chatting about what sweets to buy in Honeydukes like we were thirteen again and not marching toward the scene of my personal trauma.
By the time we finished breakfast, my hands were trembling under the table, hidden by the sleeves of my jumper.
At the front doors, Filch was his usual delightful self, taking his role as security to new levels of pedantry. He squinted at our permission slips like he expected one of us to be a Death Eater in disguise. The Secrecy Sensor was working overtime—buzzing, whistling, flashing red at poor Neville.
Finally, we were herded into the carriages. I slid into one with Luna beside me. She was quiet. So was I.
The wheels clattered on the stony path, and I let myself sway with the movement, focusing on the sound of hooves and wind.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Luna looking at me. Not just glancing— watching. Calm and curious, like I was an interesting plant she was trying to coax into blooming.
I cleared my throat and tugged my scarf higher up my face.
“You don’t have to hide,” she said softly, so quietly it didn’t even feel like speech. “Not from your friends.”
Before I could say anything, she rummaged in her coat and pulled out a small sachet. It made a soft, familiar clicking sound when she moved it—sunflower seeds.
My throat tightened.
She tucked it gently into my pocket like it was a charm or a talisman.
I reached over and took her gloved hand in mine. And didn’t let go until we arrived.
The sky was the colour of an old bruise. Wind whipped through the village with a sharpness that made even my nose regret existing. Scarves flapped like flags, and the tip of my ear went numb before we even passed the first cottage.
Zonko’s was boarded up—probably for the best—so we made for Honeydukes. The moment we stepped inside, the smell of sugar and chocolate smothered the wind. It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t. But I played the part.
We were picking out a few things for late-night study when we ran into Slughorn.
“Monday night!” he boomed, as if he were announcing a banquet for the Queen. “Another little gathering! You must come, my dears!”
We all nodded. Even Harry, who looked like he wanted to say something impolite, agreed with a grunt.
I picked out a small tin of chocolate-covered espresso beans. Boosted focus, Snape had once muttered. Not that I’d ever admit I got that tip from him.
By the time we got outside, the weather had taken a turn for the worse—which was saying something. Rain now, sleety and mean. Hermione and Harry were hunched forward like they could fold themselves against the wind. Luna and I walked behind them, arms linked. Her grip was steady. Warm. I clung to it.
The Three Broomsticks was packed, of course. Everyone craved the illusion of warmth. We found a table near the back and peeled off layers like moulting owls—gloves, scarves, damp coats. I felt ridiculous. Naked. Like my gloves could’ve stopped anything if we were attacked.
Madam Rosmerta came to take our order. Butterbeer for Harry and Hermione. Hot chocolate for Luna and me.
They chatted—nothing important, just school and classes and jokes. Luna was her usual quiet self. But I was quieter than usual. And no one said a word about it.
Maybe they thought I was just cold.
I took a long sip of hot chocolate. My hands were still trembling. I focused on the warmth, the sweetness, the way it coated my tongue—
Then I turned my head.
And nearly spat it all back out.
“Oh my God.”
Hermione looked over.
“What—”
I spun back around so fast I nearly knocked over my mug, and in the process, sloshed hot chocolate all over my wrist. I hissed and dropped the mug back to the table with a wet clatter.
“I didn’t need to see that,” I groaned, dragging both hands down my face. “Merlin, I could’ve gone my whole life without seeing that.”
“Seeing what?” Hermione said, twisting in her seat.
“Ginny!” I wailed. “With Dean! Rearranging each other’s tonsils in that corner like they’re auditioning for a bloody romance novel!”
Hermione’s eyebrows rose.
“Oh.”
“She’s just a baby,” I muttered, still scandalised, turning my face firmly toward the wall and covering one eye for good measure. “I remember when she was born! It was, like—like two years ago!”
Hermione snorted.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a young woman, Ron. You can’t keep pretending she’s still five and eating paste.”
“I don’t mind her dating!” I protested, waving my chocolate-splashed hand vaguely in the air. “Honestly! It’s fine. It’s fine. I just don’t need to see the details .”
“You mean the public snogging?” Hermione said, one corner of her mouth twitching.
“Yes!” I moaned. “Do it somewhere less… accessible to my eyeballs .”
Hermione laughed and shook her head, clearly enjoying herself now.
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
“I’m not —!”
“Oh, please. If you ever had the chance to snog your crush like that, you’d—”
“I do not have a crush!” I cut in, probably louder than necessary.
Hermione arched an eyebrow.
“I didn’t even name names, Ron.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
Trapped. Checkmate. Absolutely bamboozled.
She smirked, victorious.
I groaned and dropped my forehead to the table with a thud.
“Someone hex me unconscious.”
Harry hadn’t said a word through all of this. Just quietly sipping his drink, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. No teasing. No snickering. Which was odd, because Harry never missed a chance to laugh when I made a scene.
So I chanced a glance at him.
He wasn’t scowling exactly, but he looked… pensive. And maybe a bit miffed.
My eyebrows lifted slowly. Huh.
I sat back in my seat and wiped my wrist on a napkin, pretending to stretch while keeping half an eye on him.
Maybe… maybe I wasn’t the only one uncomfortable seeing Ginny with Dean.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I didn’t say anything. Not yet. But I filed that thought away for later.
When we weren’t all buried under scarves and emotional repression.
Yeah.
Definitely a conversation to have later.
We left the warmth of the Three Broomsticks bundled up again, steeling ourselves against the wind and rain. The storm hadn’t let up—if anything, it had gotten worse. My cloak flapped violently as we stepped outside, the icy air slicing right through it. Hermione muttered a Warming Charm, and I hurried to do the same, fumbling slightly with my still-cold fingers.
“Tomes and Scrolls?” Hermione asked, tucking her scarf tighter around her neck.
“Yeah,” I said, teeth clenched against the chill. “Let’s get it over with before the parchment starts growing icicles.”
But then—
A scream.
Sharp. High-pitched. Terrified.
Everything inside me dropped, like my guts had just bottomed out.
My wand was in my hand before I could even think. Muscle memory. Trauma reflex. Whatever it was, it was fast.
Another scream followed. Louder. Closer.
“Help! Someone help!”
And just like that, Hermione and Harry were already moving.
“Wait—wand out! ” I shouted, grabbing Hermione’s sleeve and reaching to shove Harry’s arm. “If you’re going to run headfirst into something like that, at least be ready.”
They both blinked at me, then nodded and drew their wands. Luna had already done so. Of course she had.
We ran toward the noise, feet splashing through puddles, slipping on cobblestones slick with rain and sleet.
There was a crowd gathered at the edge of the high street, near the little bridge that crossed into the hillside. People were gasping, whispering, shielding children with their bodies.
I pushed forward, heart in my throat.
And then—
“Move,” a voice snapped, cutting through the panic.
Snape.
He emerged like a blade through water, black robes billowing, expression carved from stone. People moved aside instinctively, some almost stumbling over themselves in the process.
I saw her then.
Katie Bell.
She was on the ground, thrashing, her limbs spasming uncontrollably. Her face twisted in agony. Screams tore from her throat, shrill and ragged, as though they were being dragged out of her.
My mouth went dry.
Snape was already kneeling beside her, murmuring incantations too fast for me to catch. His wand glowed in strange pulses—green, blue, then a kind of silvery shimmer I’d never seen before.
He conjured a stretcher with a sharp flick of his wand and gently levitated Katie onto it, his motions precise.
“Don’t crowd her,” he barked at the bystanders. “Give her air. Someone inform Madam Pomfrey. And alert Headmaster Dumbledore immediately.”
No one dared argue.
The stretcher floated upward at his command, and with another flick, it glided in the direction of the castle, Snape walking quickly beside it, his hand never lowering.
The crowd slowly began to scatter, people murmuring with alarm and unease. I could still hear Katie’s cries, faint now, swallowed by the wind and distance.
Hermione looked shaken. Harry was white as a sheet. Luna’s expression was unreadable, but she clutched her wand tighter than usual.
And me?
I couldn’t feel my feet anymore.
Not from the cold.
But from the fear that had sunk its claws deep and refused to let go.
“Can we just… go back to the castle now?” I asked, my voice low, unsteady. I didn’t care if I sounded pathetic.
Luna didn’t blink.
“It’s the right time to return,” she said dreamily. “The air here is wrong today.”
That was all it took.
Hermione nodded sharply.
“Yes. We’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”
Harry looked like he wanted to argue, eyes still flicking back in the direction Katie had been taken, but something in my face must’ve stopped him. He swallowed and gave a short nod.
“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
We retraced our steps quickly, the wind lashing our cloaks against our legs, stinging our faces with fine mist. I kept my eyes fixed on the path ahead, but I couldn’t help seeing Snape and the girl who’d screamed for help—still walking ahead of us, the stretcher floating between them, Katie’s limp body laid out on it, unmoving now.
The girl was sobbing quietly. I didn’t know her name.
I gritted my teeth until my jaw ached.
I had warned Dumbledore. I’d told him something was going to happen at Hogsmeade this year, that Draco was planning on giving a cursed necklace to a student. He believed me. He said he believed me. And still—this. Katie, cursed and carried on a bloody stretcher, and it’s starting again.
Guilt twisted low in my gut, hot and bitter. Not just guilt—anger. Rage, even. At the war. At how fragile everything still was. At how easily everything could be undone.
And yeah—at Draco.
Even after all this time, even after his wide eyes and stiff shoulders and that miserable, lonely conversation, there was still a part of me that couldn’t forgive him. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but I hated this. Hated that he did this. Hated that it was Katie today, and someone else tomorrow.
I hated all of it.
We walked in silence, our group drawn in close like we were bracing against more than just the storm. I didn’t let go of Luna’s hand the whole way back.
Suddenly, Hermione spoke:
“Katie had a package.”
“A package?” Harry repeated.
Hermione nodded.
“Wrapped in brown paper. Katie was clutching it like it was important.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“You think that’s what cursed her?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know,” Hermione said, biting her lip. “But it would make sense. She touched something cursed.”
Harry’s face tightened.
“Why would someone try to curse Katie?”
We all went quiet. My fingers were still wrapped tight around my wand, even though it was clear there was no immediate threat left.
Hermione glanced toward Luna and me.
“What do you think?”
Luna’s eyes were on the clouds above, as if reading something the rest of us couldn’t see.
“I have thoughts,” she said softly, “but maybe we shouldn’t guess too much yet. You remember what people said about Harry and Ron last year. Everyone had a theory. Everyone was wrong. It didn’t help then. It won’t help now.”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard. Harry looked down at his boots.
“But,” Luna added, tilting her head, “the air changed before she screamed. Something very old woke up. I think it was the kind of magic that likes to cling to people. The kind that knows how to wait.”
Her words lingered in the air longer than the wind did.
I nodded.
“She’s right.”
They looked at me.
“It’s too easy to guess wrong,” I said. “And wrong guesses hurt more than they help.”
Hermione nodded slowly, subdued. Harry said nothing.
We walked in silence the rest of the way. And even though we were headed back to the safety of Hogwarts, I didn’t feel safe. Not even close.
I hated all of it.
Katie was transferred to St Mungo’s the next day. By then, word of the curse had already swept through the school, though the details were muddled, and no one seemed to realise that Katie hadn’t been the intended target.
Dumbledore offered me tea when I entered his office, and I accepted mostly out of habit. My hands were cold despite the fire crackling in the grate, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the October air or from what had happened yesterday.
He didn’t launch straight into the topic. He let me sit, let me sip, and then, very quietly, he said,
“You were there when Miss Bell was cursed.”
I nodded once, my throat tightening.
“Yeah. We saw it happen. I—I was behind Harry and Hermione. Heard the scream. Saw her—” I broke off. The image of her writhing on the ground, Snape elbowing through the crowd with his wand drawn—it wouldn’t leave my mind.
Dumbledore’s expression was grim but calm.
“Miss Bell is stable. She remains in St Mungo’s, but the curse did not claim her life. Severus managed to halt the spread. Your warning, though not tied to an exact date, was reason enough to ask Severus to be present in Hogsmeade during this trip. Your warning might have saved her life.”
That twisted something in my chest—guilt and relief in equal parts. I should have felt better. But I didn’t.
I looked down at my tea.
“Was it Draco?”
Dumbledore folded his hands.
“He was in detention at the time.”
I blinked. That gave me pause. I hadn’t known that. I should’ve felt relieved, but I didn’t. Something twisted in my gut instead.
I frowned, staring into my cup.
“Still... I’m not sure that rules him out entirely.”
Dumbledore stared at me intently.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—something is bothering me. I can’t remember what. Something... something makes me feel like it still could’ve been him.”
Dumbledore didn’t interrupt, just waited.
I rubbed my temple.
“It’s stupid, probably. But maybe... maybe it wasn’t him, exactly. Maybe someone looking like him? Polyjuice or something? He has Slytherins who’d do things for him.”
“You believe Mr Malfoy may have used a proxy?”
“Yeah. Or even brewed it himself in advance. I don’t know. But if someone took Polyjuice to look like him—or like anyone, really—they could’ve passed for a student during the trip. No one would’ve noticed.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly, fingers steepling.
“I will speak with Professor Slughorn. If someone took from his private stock, he may not have noticed yet.”
“Could be nothing,” I muttered. “But better to check.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. Then, with a gentler tone: “Thank you, Ron.”
I nodded.
“What about the real reason you asked me here?”
Dumbledore’s eyes glinted.
“Yes. Voldemort’s behaviour has remained unchanged since the locket was destroyed. It gives us an opportunity.”
My stomach dipped in that familiar way.
“We’re doing another?”
“We are. Tonight, we destroy the diadem.”
Another Horcrux.
I didn’t say anything. I just set down my tea and stood.
As before, I disillusioned myself and followed Dumbledore silently down to the hidden containment room in the dungeons. We passed no one but one first-year Ravenclaw who looked half-lost and too spooked by Dumbledore’s presence to ask directions.
When we reached the end of the forgotten corridor, Dumbledore whispered a sequence and the invisible door shimmered into view. Inside, I pulled off the charm. The room was unchanged. Still cold, still bare, still covered in complex containment wards I’d never seen in a textbook.
Dumbledore stepped into the innermost circle and knelt, withdrawing the diadem from a heavily warded box. He moved with slow, deliberate care, like he was handling a wild creature rather than a tiara. The thing looked delicate, almost fragile.
He floated it to the centre of the runic circle, then straightened and held out the sword of Gryffindor to me.
“It’s ready,” he said. “As before.”
I took it, hefting the weight in my hand. It felt heavier this time. Heavier than it had with the locket. I didn’t know if it was guilt, or something else.
I stepped into position and adjusted my stance.
Dumbledore’s voice cut the quiet.
“You are safe within the wards. I will contain whatever backlash emerges.”
I nodded, jaw set.
Then I raised the sword, aimed, and brought it down in a single, decisive strike.
The reaction was instant. The diadem split with a metallic scream that didn’t come from metal. A thick black cloud exploded from it, writhing like smoke underwater, trapped inside the rings of the containment wards.
I stumbled back, but Dumbledore was already moving, his wand drawing that same vacuuming spell as last time—siphoning the dark mist into nothing. The pressure in the air cracked, and then silence.
Just the diadem now. Broken. Hollow. No trace of what it once held.
I stared at it, my grip tightening on the sword.
“I’m sorry,” I said, almost without thinking. “It was ancient. Priceless.”
Dumbledore looked over, his face pensive.
“It was only a relic. Its worth cannot outweigh the price of victory. And it is a price I am more than willing to pay.”
I swallowed and nodded, still looking at the broken artefact.
“One more to go,” I said quietly. “The Diary.”
Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to mine.
“It will depend on how Voldemort responds to this destruction. We must remain patient.”
“Right,” I said. “Still. I hope he doesn’t know. I hope he doesn’t feel it.”
“As do I,” Dumbledore murmured.
We left the diadem behind in the circle. I knew Dumbledore would deal with it properly, remove the pieces, and collapse the warded room again. But as I followed him out, I couldn’t help thinking how strange it was. To destroy something like that. To feel no triumph. Just… another step forward. Another weight.
One more to go.
The moment Slughorn let slip that Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, would be the guest of honour at the next Slug Club supper, I knew exactly what to do.
“Ask her,” I told Harry in the common room, nudging him hard enough to make his quill skid across his homework.
He frowned.
“Ask who what?”
“Ginny. Invite her. Slughorn said you could bring a guest, didn’t he?”
Harry looked like I’d suggested he sprout gills and serenade Filch.
“Ginny? I mean—why would I—”
“Oh, come off it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s Gwenog Jones. She’d hex your eyebrows off if you didn’t ask her.”
That shut him up. For a second.
“But wouldn’t it be—” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Weird?”
“What, me inviting my sister? That would be weird,” I said, deadpan. “You, on the other hand—”
He scowled, but the colour rising in his ears gave him away.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll ask.”
When he finally did the next day at breakfast, Ginny said yes with a grin that could’ve powered the whole of Hogwarts.
The supper was held in one of the elegant side parlours off the Great Hall. Warm candlelight, silver platters, and Gwenog bloody Jones sitting at the head of the table like a queen of mayhem. Ginny was radiant, barely keeping from vibrating out of her seat. Harry, to his credit, looked equal parts delighted and terrified. Cormac, as expected, turned the fawning up to eleven.
“Oh, that Bludger in the Cup Final—your aim was lethal,” Cormac said, practically drooling.
“I did break a man’s jaw,” Gwenog said with a smile. “Deserved it too.”
Ginny laughed like she’d just been told a sacred secret. Harry joined in. Cormac tried too hard and nearly knocked over the butter dish.
Hermione and I stayed toward the edge of the circle, drinks in hand. She looked vaguely amused by the chaos, eyes flicking from Gwenog to Ginny to Harry and back again.
“You playing matchmaker now?” she asked under her breath.
I sipped my drink and grinned.
“Maybe. We talked about it.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow. “You and Harry talked about Ginny?”
“Well, sort of. I told him to ask her. He looked like he was going to explode when he saw her with Dean last time. You saw him.”
She nodded slowly, still watching the scene unfold. Ginny was leaning forward, asking Gwenog about training regimens. Harry was watching her more than he was listening to Gwenog.
“Do you think he knows?” Hermione asked softly.
“Knows what?”
“That he likes her.”
I shrugged.
“Not really. I think he’s thick about it, honestly. Might take a broomstick to the head.”
She smiled faintly.
“Do you want to talk to him about it?”
“Dunno. Should I?”
Hermione paused, then gave a little sigh.
“Maybe. But gently. He’s… emotionally constipated.”
I snorted.
“You say that like I’m not.”
She smiled and looked at me sideways.
“You’re a different flavour of constipated.”
“Thanks. Real flattered.”
The conversation at the table roared with laughter—Ginny had just asked Gwenog if it was true she once punched a referee. The answer, apparently, was yes.
“Look at her,” Hermione said, watching Ginny with something like fond exasperation. “You did good.”
I shrugged, sipping again.
“Just returning the favour. They both deserve something nice.”
And tonight, at least, was nice.
Notes:
I wanna write but I'm still grieving this story (╥‸╥)
I wanna write some angsty Snarry or Ron/Harry romance
Chapter 80: BOOK SIX - TAROT READING
Notes:
This chapter is so awkward and embarrassing for Ron, I love it.
Just a little reminder for those who don’t want shipping, Ron won’t be paired with anyone in the main story. Only in the sequel, so don’t worry.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
TAROT READING
November arrived with cold wind, muddy boots, and the first Quidditch match of the season. Slytherin won—decisively, I might add. No accidents. No hexes in the crowd. Just Quidditch.
For once, it felt like we were still just students.
The next day was anything but ordinary. My feet dragged as I made my way to the Headmaster’s office after dinner, my stomach coiled with the familiar mix of dread and anticipation. It was Diary Day.
The gargoyle leapt aside as I muttered the password, and I stepped onto the spiral staircase, feeling oddly weightless.
Dumbledore greeted me with a tired smile as I entered.
“Ah, Ron. Please, sit.”
I did, across from him at the same desk as always. The sword of Gryffindor was laid out neatly in its velvet-lined case beside us. My eyes drifted to it, then to the black box that sat, ominous and silent, near the fireplace. The Diary was inside it. Riddle’s first echo.
But Dumbledore didn’t go for it just yet. Instead, he folded his hands and looked at me steadily.
“There was another attempt on my life this week.”
I sat up straight.
“What?”
“A tripping jinx,” he said with something that almost sounded like amusement. “On the staircase outside this office. Quite feeble, but placed precisely, aimed at the third step. One I rarely miss.”
“That’s—” I stared at him. “That’s desperate.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “It would seem so.”
My thoughts spun.
“So, either Malfoy or whoever’s carrying out these plans now is running out of time. Or running out of ideas.”
“Or both,” he said mildly.
I ran a hand through my hair, heart pounding now.
“I don’t know of anything more. I’m sorry.”
“There is no need to apologise,” he said, lifting a hand gently. “You have done more than I ever expected, and with a great deal more grace than most men twice your age. I will be prudent.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just nodded, the guilt settling like grit between my ribs. It didn’t feel like enough.
“What about the Vanishing Cabinet?”
“Still unmoved. The wards remain untouched.”
I sighed.
“At least there’s that…”
The silence that followed was brief. My fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest. There was another subject we had to discuss absolutely.
“Sir… since today we’re destroying the last Horcrux we have, we need to start thinking seriously about the last one. The Cup.”
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. I continued:
“We need to find a way to confirm where it is. If it’s already in Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault, then isn’t it the perfect time to take advantage of her imprisonment? We could—hypothetically—administer Veritaserum. Get a confirmation. Then Obliviate her so she won’t remember what we asked.”
Dumbledore didn’t respond right away. His hands folded again, fingers steepling.
“A shrewd thought, Ron,” he said at last. “But I’m afraid such a course of action is not merely unethical; it is also unwise.”
He looked at me over his glasses, his eyes unusually grave.
“The mind is not a vault to be broken into lightly. Bellatrix Lestrange may have taken steps to ensure her memories are protected—tampering with them could backfire, or alert Voldemort himself. And should the Ministry learn we’ve used Veritaserum and Obliviate on a prisoner… well, they’d have all the justification they need to bring Hogwarts fully under their control.”
I swallowed hard, frustrated.
“Then what can we do? Just wait? Hope that one day Voldemort checks his Horcruxes and Harry happens to get a vision of it? Or that Bellatrix escapes again and we never find her?”
My voice cracked slightly near the end. I hated that.
“I can’t help it. I keep thinking about that Horcrux. About how we’re supposed to get it.”
Dumbledore studied me a moment, and then asked gently,
“How do you know the Cup should be retrieved, Ron?”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair and dragging a hand through my hair.
I didn’t even need to think hard about it. I’d already thought about it from every possible angle.
“It’s all tied to the Sword of Gryffindor,” I said aloud. “And… a leap of faith.”
His eyes didn’t move from mine, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Next year,” I said slowly, “Harry, Hermione and I—we’re captured. Taken to Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix Lestrange panics when she sees we’ve got the Sword. But she doesn’t know there are two of them. The real one and the fake one she has in her vault.”
Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but I saw a shadow flicker across his gaze.
“She accuses us of breaking into her Gringotts vault. She’s terrified. And I think… after we escape, Harry has a vision. Voldemort checks the vault and he’s relieved.” I frowned slightly. “Or maybe I’m remembering that part wrong. But the important thing is Bellatrix’s reaction. She’s hiding something in there. Something important. Valuable. We figure it could be a Horcrux.”
I gave a humourless little laugh.
“And since we are desperate—and we have no other lead—we just… take a leap of faith. And break into Gringotts.”
Dumbledore was quiet.
Thinking.
Processing.
I waited.
“And how, exactly, do you break into Gringotts?” Dumbledore finally asked.
I sighed, already knowing how absurd it sounded.
“We use Polyjuice Potion. Hermione disguises herself as Bellatrix—wears her clothes, even uses her wand. We somehow—” I shook my head. “We must’ve taken it during the scuffle at Malfoy Manor. I don’t remember clearly, but we have it.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly, waiting.
“We make a deal with a goblin. One we helped escape from the dungeons there. Griphook. He agrees to help us in exchange for the Sword of Gryffindor.”
The silence in the room shifted slightly. I could feel Dumbledore’s attention narrow like a knife.
“We manage to get into the bank. But Hermione’s impersonation doesn’t hold up long. She doesn’t… she isn’t cruel enough. Too polite. Suspicious,” I scratched the back of my neck. “So one of us—me or Harry—has to use the Imperius Curse on one of the goblins to get them to let us through. To get us to the vault.”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch, but I could see it, his knuckles tightening around his chair.
“We are taken down to the lower levels. On one of those mad carts. But then… there’s this waterfall. Magic one. Strips off enchantments. Polyjuice. Imperius. Everything. The goblins must’ve planned it as a fail-safe.”
I grimaced.
“We still make it to the vault. Got in. But then Griphook betrays us. Takes the sword and leaves us inside, yelling for guards.”
“But you escape,” Dumbledore said quietly.
“Barely. We ride a dragon. There is one chained in the lower vaults—part of the defences. We unchain it. Jump on its back. Fly it straight through the roof.”
I let out a breath.
“It is… loud. And public. Voldemort knows then. That’s when he realises. He figures out someone is destroying his Horcruxes. And he gets… careful.”
Dumbledore didn’t respond.
He just sat there, very still. Thinking. Processing.
I waited.
Dumbledore took a long breath, fingertips steepled beneath his chin. His gaze had gone distant again, inward and solemn, the firelight gilding the lines on his face.
“We cannot repeat such a daring feat,” he said quietly. “If it is truly the theft of this particular Horcrux that finally alerts Voldemort to what is happening… then the consequences must have been dire. We must be cautious. Clever. Subtle.”
His eyes came back into focus and landed on me.
“I owe you an apology, Ron,” he said, with a small bow of his head. “This is a great deal to lay upon your shoulders, and I will need time to think carefully on what you’ve told me. If you are amenable, we shall revisit this conversation soon.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
I hesitated, then gave a small tilt of my chin toward the black box resting near the hearth.
“I guess we go on with tonight’s plan.”
Dumbledore followed my gaze, and after a beat, stood.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Let us see to it.”
We descended to the containment chamber in silence. My Disillusionment Charm shimmered over me, just as before, and Dumbledore opened the case and placed the Diary—Tom Riddle’s smug little relic—into the containment circle. The sword of Gryffindor gleamed in my hands like it had been waiting.
I stepped forward, raised the blade, and brought it down in one sharp, decisive stroke.
The chamber howled with cursed wind, shadows clawing at the walls, until the vortex collapsed inward and the darkness was sucked away into the warded ring. When it was over, the Diary lay cracked and empty, split down the middle like a snapped spine.
But there was no relief in it.
Not like the first time. Not like the locket.
I stared at the remains and felt… restless. Uneasy. Like the Cup was whispering in the back of my skull, teasing the edge of my thoughts.
Please, I thought. Find a way. Find something. Because I don’t want to do it. Not like that. Not riding dragons and destroying half a bank.
Dumbledore turned to me, quiet, watchful.
“You are still troubled.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, then closed it again. He already knew.
“I will find another way to reach the Cup,” he said. “A safer way.”
I wanted to believe him.
I needed to.
But something in me stayed tight, knotted and wary. I didn’t say that, of course. Didn’t say I wasn’t sure I could believe in anything that easily anymore.
I just nodded, dutiful and quiet.
Then we left the chamber. He went one way. I went another.
That night, I dreamed.
Of Harry and Hermione trapped in Bellatrix’s vault.
Of me holding a bunch of keys.
Not knowing which one to use.
And no matter what key I used, the vault wouldn’t open.
And all the while, I could hear my friends screaming and suffocating.
And I could do nothing.
The week had been a disaster. My thoughts felt like splinters under my fingernails—sharp and impossible to ignore. Every spare moment was spent turning over the same problem: the Cup. Bellatrix’s vault. Gringotts. The break-in.
I didn’t know enough. Not enough spells, not enough charms, not enough bloody anything. Dumbledore had promised to find another way, but my gut twisted every time I thought of it. Hope wasn’t a strategy. Ethics weren’t armour. And we were at war. Did he really think we’d win it by being careful and moral and good?
I didn’t sleep properly. I bit my nails. I nearly snapped at a second-year for breathing too loud. And every time I passed a mirror, my hands itched to grab my hair and tear out the frustration. Sometimes, when no one was watching, I actually did.
But, of course, I was a fool. Someone was always watching.
The snow was patchy and hard-packed under our boots as Harry, Hermione and I trudged through the courtyard. Cold wind bit through my scarf, but I barely felt it. My hands were stuffed in my pockets, jaw clenched. Hermione’s boots crunched to a stop beside mine.
“Ron,” she said, and it wasn’t casual. “You’ve been acting strange all week.”
I blinked and tried for a confused frown.
“Have I?”
Harry stopped walking, too. I could feel both of them looking at me.
“Don’t try and deflect,” Hermione said. “You’re distracted. You’ve snapped at three different people today alone. Is something wrong with Snape?”
“No,” I said too quickly. “No, it’s not Snape.”
Hermione’s eyebrows lifted.
“Really. Tutoring’s going great.”
They didn’t look convinced, so I added, louder than necessary,
“In fact, my last Occlumency session went exceptionally well. Thanks to Harry.”
Harry looked startled.
“Me? What’d I do?”
I turned and gave him a theatrical glare.
“Snape broke into a memory I didn’t mean to show him. From my birthday. Last year.”
“Oh,” Harry said faintly.
Hermione looked between us.
“What memory?”
“Harry’s gift.”
Hermione squinted.
“I don’t remember that.”
“That’s because he gave it to me when we were alone.” I looked pointedly at Harry, who was starting to grin.
Hermione looked suspicious.
“What did you give him?”
Harry scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
“Er… a book.”
“What kind of book?”
“A romance novel,” I muttered. “ A corny one. About a teacher and a student sneaking around.”
Hermione’s jaw dropped.
“You gave him smut ?”
“It had plot!” Harry defended himself quickly, but he was laughing now.
Hermione looked horrified.
“That’s not the point! ”
“I told you it was corny,” I said, exasperated. “And now Snape knows. Which means I’m probably never going to get a passing grade in anything again.”
Harry looked halfway between choking and laughing.
“I didn’t think he’d see it!”
“Yeah, well. He did. And now he knows that the main character’s name was Silas Nighthawk, and that he had a leather coat and a tragic past.”
Hermione groaned and covered her face with both hands.
“I can’t believe this.”
“I can,” I muttered. “I lived it. ”
Harry was wheezing.
“Oh, God. The mental image—Snape reading that.”
“I’m the one with trauma, thanks,” I said. But despite myself, I felt a corner of the heaviness lift. Just a little. A crack of light in the fog.
Hermione lowered her hands, still half-red with secondhand embarrassment.
“Alright. You win. That was… something. But Ron—seriously. If it’s not Snape, and it’s not us, what is it?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head.
“Just tired,” I said. “And cold. And sick of the Library.”
They didn’t buy it, not really. But they let me have it. Hermione sighed and looped her arm through mine. Harry fell into step beside us again, still snorting now and then.
I didn’t tell them the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever if I could help it.
The Divination classroom was thick with perfumed smoke and giggles.
Professor Trelawney was already in full mystical mode when I arrived, her many shawls shimmering faintly in the candlelight. She welcomed us with a sweeping motion of her hand that sent three crystal bangles clinking musically down her wrist.
“Today, my darlings,” she said, “we shall be attempting something most profound… a Relationship Spread.”
The girls gasped like Christmas had come early. Parvati clutched Padma’s arm, Lisa squealed softly, and Lavender beamed like she’d just downed a cheering charm.
I had a bad feeling about this.
“A Relationship Spread can reveal the currents of connection between two souls. Longing, heartbreak, destiny…” Trelawney’s eyes glittered behind her glasses. “You will each perform a six-card reading for your partner.”
She gestured to the velvet-draped table at the centre of the room.
“But first, we shall demonstrate. Two volunteers, please. One to read, one to be read.”
Lavender’s hand shot up before the sentence had finished.
“Me!” she said breathlessly. “ Me, Professor! I’ll do the reading!”
“Ah, Miss Brown, ever attuned to the pulse of the cosmos,” Trelawney cooed. “Now… who shall she read for?”
I should’ve ducked. I should’ve melted into my chair. But instead, I sat there like a stunned mandrake as the four girls all turned toward me like a pack of Kneazles scenting milk. Before I could even process it, they were saying my name.
“Ron should,” Parvati said, smiling far too sweetly.
Padma and Lisa giggled.
“Oh yes, Ron should!” Padma agreed eagerly.
“He’s always so mysterious about his love life,” Lisa added.
I groaned inwardly, face already burning.
“Mr Weasley?” Trelawney asked, eyes shining like crystal balls. “Would you oblige us?”
I could feel the girls’ excitement like static in the air. Even Lisa was trying to stifle a grin.
I nodded, cheeks flaming.
“Alright.”
Gasps. Actual gasps. You’d think I’d just proposed to someone. I stood, walked to the centre table like I was walking to my execution, and sat across from Lavender, who looked giddy. Absolutely glowing. I could barely look at her.
We took seats in the centre of the classroom, surrounded by a ring of giggling girls. Trelawney clapped gently to hush them.
“Now, Mr Weasley. You may name your person aloud if you wish to strengthen the connection, but if the stars would rather you keep their name secret, you need only hold them clearly in your mind.”
There was a collective breath-hold. I could feel all four girls leaning in.
The girls leaned forward, expectant.
There was absolutely no way in hell I would gave the name out loud.
I cleared my throat, tugged my scarf slightly looser at my throat, and mumbled,
“What will happen in my relationship with… my crush?”
They cooed. It was awful. My ears were on fire.
I stared at the table so I wouldn’t have to see their faces. Lavender looked practically high on glee as she shuffled the deck like she’d done it a thousand times.
“Clear your mind,” she told me seriously, “and picture your person.”
I did. His face. His eyes. His hands—elegant, calloused. That smirk he wore when he corrected me in class. The way he watched me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
Don’t say the name, don’t say the name…
Lavender laid out seven cards in a slow, wide arc between us.
Trelawney stepped closer to peer over her shoulder.
“Card one,” Lavender announced breathlessly, turning it over. “The Querent—you. Your feelings.”
It was the Knight of Cups.
Again with Cups, I thought darkly.
“Romantic,” Lavender announced dreamily. “Idealistic. You’re in love—you just don’t want to admit it.”
The girls squealed.
Lavender tapped the second card.
“Card two—the person you’re thinking of. Their feelings.”
She flipped it over. The Hermit.
I snorted. Then had to put my hand against my mouth to stop myself from snickering. It was so accurate.
Trelawney made a soft, tragic sound.
“Ah, a lonely soul. Withdrawn. Watching from afar. Afraid to connect.”
Oh my god.
“So… shy. Or just… private,” Lavender added.
She furrowed her brow slightly but smiled again.
“Card Three,” She announced solemnly. “What connects you.”
She turned it over. Strength.
“A bond forged through challenge,” Lavender murmured. “Mutual respect… inner resilience… understanding despite the odds.”
Well, shit.
I stared at the card. I couldn’t help it. A lump formed in my throat. It was us, wasn’t it?
“Card Four. Obstacles.”
She turned over The Tower.
I sucked in a breath, then choked. I had to cough into my fist.
A Tower . In my sixth year. Linked to Snape.
That felt a bit too close to the mark.
“The Tower represents upheaval,” Trelawney said gravely. “Catastrophe. A truth revealed. Something that could change everything.”
I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable.
Lavender cleared her throat daintily before announcing the next card.
“Card five. Advice on your relationship.”
Lavender hesitated before flipping it. Temperance.
Trelawney nodded, pleased.
“Patience. Caution. Balance. Do not rush where angels fear to tread.”
I almost laughed. Bitterly.
“Now the last card. The outcome.”
She turned the card.
The Lovers.
A pause.
The girls exploded. Giggling, gasping, squealing.
Lavender covered her mouth, eyes wide.
“Oh my God.”
Trelawney looked delighted.
“It seems the fates have plans for you, Mr Weasley.”
I couldn’t even speak. Just sat there, red as a beet, trying not to die on the spot. Because all I could see was him. His eyes. The lines of his face when he wasn’t scowling. And a future I couldn’t even dream of having.
Trelawney clapped her hands.
“An unusually harmonious spread. Truly, my dear, your Inner Eye is awakening most impressively.”
Lavender turned her radiant grin to me, and I didn’t know where to look. At the cards? The floor? The nearest window to jump out of?
“Alright, darlings,” Trelawney announced, “find yourselves a partner. The stars are ripe for revelations today!”
Before I could so much as blink, the room became a flurry of purposeful movement.
Padma slipped wordlessly over to Lisa and took her arm. Lisa raised an eyebrow, amused, but didn’t resist—just sat with Padma like this was always the plan.
Parvati swooped in with a sunny smile.
“Trio,” she said brightly, grabbing my sleeve. “You, me, and Lavender.”
Lavender practically glowed.
I blinked.
No one consulted me. None of them consulted each other either, as far as I can tell. It’s like watching owls coordinate in absolute silence. Apparently, I’d been volunteered.
I glanced at the ceiling for help, then sighed and let myself be guided to the table like a lamb to the slaughter.
And now I was stuck with two girls staring at me like I was a romantic prophecy waiting to unfold.
Brilliant.
Parvati took the lead with the confidence of someone who had already planned every step in advance.
“Alright,” she said brightly, tapping the table. “I’ll read for Lavender first. Ron, you’ll read mine after.”
I nodded dumbly, mostly because Parvati was already dealing the cards like she ran the bloody place. Lavender sat down beside me, nearly vibrating with excitement. Parvati gave her an encouraging smile.
“Just concentrate and ask your question aloud.”
Lavender cleared her throat delicately, she kept sneaking little glances at me, which I tried not to notice. I figured she was just embarrassed—didn’t want to name her crush in front of someone who wasn’t really a close friend.
Fair enough.
“What will happen in my relationship with my crush?”
She said it breathlessly, her cheeks going pink.
Parvati began laying the cards out with deliberate flair.
“Alright, first card… the Ace of Cups reversed.”
She hummed thoughtfully.
“That usually means unrequited love. Or at least, a love that hasn’t been fully returned yet. There’s emotion there, but it’s not flowing the way someone wants it to.”
Lavender bit her lip, looking hopeful despite that.
“Next—the Lovers. Upright.”
Lavender gave a quiet gasp. I stared at the table. That seemed… bold.
“This means there’s real connection. Soul-level, sometimes. It can also mean a choice between two people.”
Parvati gave Lavender a meaningful look. Lavender’s gaze flicked quickly back to me.
I gave her a polite half-smile, still trying to figure out why she was watching me like she was waiting for a comment. It wasn’t my turn to do the reading.
“The third card is the Five of Pentacles,” Parvati went on. “That’s… loneliness. Isolation. Maybe someone feeling like they’re not good enough, or that they’re being overlooked.”
She glanced at me again. I didn’t know what to do with my face anymore.
“Fourth card—High Priestess, reversed.”
She sucked in a breath through her teeth.
“Secrets. Hidden truths. Something unspoken. Maybe the person you’re asking about… has a secret they’re not ready to reveal?”
Lavender’s cheeks flushed deeper.
“And the fifth card—Strength. Upright.”
She smiled, more confident now.
“That’s resilience. Emotional control. Patience. It means if you wait, and trust your feelings, you’ll endure whatever the obstacle is.”
I shifted in my seat. This was sounding intense.
“And the final card…” Parvati turned it over slowly. “The Ten of Cups.”
Lavender gasped.
Parvati beamed.
“Happily ever after. Emotional fulfilment. A true bond, built over time.”
Lavender looked like she might melt.
And I sat there, blinking, wondering if I had been that dramatic during my own reading.
When she looked at me, I simply offered her another awkward little smile.
Parvati and Lavender exchanged a loaded glance.
I, meanwhile, had absolutely no idea what was going on.
Evening brought with it the quiet dread of Occlumency. I’d barely had time to shove down the memory of that Divination lesson before I was knocking on Snape’s door, heart thudding in my chest like it wanted to run without me.
He greeted me with the usual curt nod and turned straight toward the cleared centre of the room, where our sessions always began.
“You are already shielding,” he said coolly, eyes narrowing. “Good. It will not help you.”
Then his wand was raised, and I barely had time to brace before— Legilimens.
His magic crashed into my mind like a silent flood. He was looking for something recent, something unguarded. The classroom bloomed into view—the candlelit haze of Trelawney’s tower, the cards spread out, Lavender looking at me like she was about to eat me alive—
I panicked.
My embarrassment flared hot and wild, like a kicked cauldron, and I pushed. Tried to eject him from my head with brute force.
But Snape didn’t budge.
He lingered, digging deeper. Not just observing now, but clawing at the memory. Trying to peel it open like parchment. I felt the tug of his will, felt my grip slipping on the edge of my thoughts, on the way I’d been trying to frame the reading as harmless, silly, not even about me.
I couldn’t let him see the rest.
Honking geese. Honking geese. Honking geese—
A wall of furious noise erupted in my mind—screeching, flapping, absolute chaos. Not elegant. Not refined. Just rage, noise, and feathers.
It was enough.
I felt the pressure withdraw, sudden and clean, like surf sucking back from the shore. I gasped aloud as the connection snapped.
Snape lowered his wand slowly and raised a brow.
“Fascinating,” He drawled. “So that’s your limit. Not the Cruciatus. Not the graveyard… A horoscope .”
I snorted despite myself. Said like that, it sounded ridiculous.
“At least the graveyard didn’t involve three girls giggling about my destiny. If you’d been there, you’d have blocked yourself out too.”
Snape gave the faintest of smirks—barely there, more a twitch at the corner of his mouth than anything else—but I caught it, and that was victory enough for now.
Then his wand flicked again.
No warning. Typical.
Pressure surged at the edge of my thoughts, swift and practised. He wasn’t giving me time to breathe between attempts. This time, the pressure was more fluid, sliding through the outer layer of my mind like ink bleeding into water—searching.
Divination. I felt it immediately. He was targeting surface thoughts: vague memories of floating incense, shifting cards, Trelawney’s dreamy monologue. I let them go without resistance. They weren’t charged. No sting, no shame. They meant nothing.
But I knew what was coming next. I felt it.
He would try for the reading. Of course he would. He’d seen just enough to know it rattled me—enough to guess the shape of the memory, if not the contents. He was going to dig for the moment I sat in a circle of giggling girls while Lavender dealt my so-called romantic future. Absolutely not.
Even before the pressure shifted again, I was already pulling them forward—my geese. Loud, flapping, furious. They descended through my mind in a honking storm of wings and defiance, their wings sharp as blades, beaks aimed at the intruder. I fed the image, gave it shape, and fuelled it with every ounce of stubborn pride I had.
The moment Snape brushed against the edges of the reading, the wall snapped into place—feathers and fury and sound.
He hit it.
Hard.
I felt him falter. For half a heartbeat, the pressure wobbled. I seized it, shoved everything I had forward.
OUT.
The connection broke with a satisfying snap. My eyes flew open, chest heaving. Sweat trickled down my temple and I wiped it away with my sleeve, grinning despite myself.
“Twice,” I panted, breathless but triumphant. “Twice tonight.”
Snape’s expression didn’t shift much. But I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes—something halfway between appraisal and faint irritation.
And a healthy dose of approval.
Chapter 81: BOOK SIX - DRACO MALFOY
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
DRACO MALFOY
I was rinsing my face when I heard the door lock click shut behind me.
I straightened at once, water dripping down my chin. In the mirror, Draco Malfoy stood near the entrance, his wand half-raised.
Great. Just what I needed—an ambush in the bloody bathroom.
I reached slowly for my own wand, not drawing it yet.
“If this is a duel, Malfoy, it’s a weird place to pick one.”
“No duel.” His voice was strained. “Just... privacy.”
He pocketed his wand, and that alone was so out of character that I turned fully around. His posture wasn’t combative. He looked... tired. Shadows under his eyes, hair flatter than usual, his cloak not even properly buttoned.
“Right,” I said slowly. “Privacy. For what, exactly?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped further in, away from the door, his hands tight at his sides. Then, he looked at me—really looked at me, not like a rival, not like a Slytherin or a pure-blood or a pawn in some bloody chess match. Just… a boy.
“I remember what you said last year,” he said finally. “You said there was another way.”
My heart stuttered. I hadn’t thought he’d remembered that. I hadn’t thought it mattered to him.
“And?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“And I need Dumbledore’s help.”
I stared at him. He looked—Merlin, he looked terrified. The kind of fear that didn’t come from school marks or petty rivalry, but something deeper. Older. Familiar.
I stepped closer.
“You mean you’re ready to get out? Out of all of it?”
He didn’t answer the question. Not directly.
Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small, flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper. He held it out with both hands, like it might explode. Everything in me screamed to be cautious, but I couldn’t forget how he’d looked when his father was arrested. Or how he’d flinched when I told him his name didn’t have to define him. Or the desperate way he was looking at me now.
“I need you to give this to Dumbledore. You don’t even have to believe me, just... deliver it. That’s all.”
I didn’t move.
“Please,” he added, eyes flickering toward the mirror, the walls, anywhere but my face. “You said there was another path. Let me take it.”
My stomach twisted.
I took it. The paper was cool against my palm, heavier than it looked.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll help you.”
He closed his eyes briefly, like something inside him unclenched. Then he looked at me again, serious this time.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
I lied.
“I won’t.”
He nodded once, then turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the locked door and my racing heart.
Once I was ready for the night, I hid the package in my trunk. I didn’t sleep much.
I simply lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, the parcel burning a hole in my thoughts.
Was Draco trying to play me?
It would’ve been a clever play. Appealing to the one person soft enough to maybe listen. The one person who’d once said—foolishly, maybe—that he could change. I wanted to believe him. I really did.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Wanting made you stupid.
And I’d been stupid before.
I replayed the scene in the bathroom in my head a dozen times—his voice, his face, the way he held out the package like it might bite. He’d looked scared. Really scared. But people had looked scared and lied before. Hell, I’d done it.
Was it a trap? Something cursed, something meant for Dumbledore?
Was that what he wanted—to make me his delivery boy in a murder plot?
I didn’t know. I didn’t bloody know.
I rolled onto my side, gripping the blankets in frustration. I could’ve cast Revelio on it. I could’ve opened it. I could’ve shaken it, sniffed it, run a dozen detection charms. But I hadn’t. Because part of me—some stupid, reckless, hopeful part—was terrified that opening it would break whatever fragile thing this was. If it was a plea for help… if he meant it…
I wasn’t going to be the one who broke it.
So I left it alone.
Tomorrow, I’d bring it to Dumbledore. And we’d see what it was.
Whether Malfoy was reaching out a hand…
Or throwing a curse.
The next day, the sky was already dark when I reached Dumbledore’s office, and my fingers were cold where I gripped the little wrapped package in my pocket. It felt heavier than it should’ve. Like it knew.
The gargoyle let me in with the password Dumbledore had given me at the start of term, and the spiral staircase carried me up in a slow, circling climb that made my stomach twist. By the time I knocked, I half-hoped there’d be no answer.
But the door opened almost instantly.
“Ron,” Dumbledore said. “Please, come in.”
I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, suddenly all too aware of the thing burning a hole in my robes.
“I’ve got something,” I said, walking toward his desk. “From Malfoy.”
That got his full attention.
He sat straighter, fingers steepling as I reached into my pocket and drew the parcel out with deliberate care. I placed it on the desk between us like it was made of glass—or worse.
I didn’t sit.
“He came to me last night. Locked us both in the bathroom.” I observed Dumbledore’s expression. “Said he needed your help. Said he had something to give you. That he didn’t need me to trust him, just to deliver it.”
Dumbledore didn’t speak. He murmured a charm instead, his wand tip glowing with sharp, pale blue light. He passed it slowly over the parcel, brow furrowing almost immediately.
There was a low hum.
Then the light flared dark red.
“That’s a curse, isn’t it?” I asked tightly.
“It is,” Dumbledore said softly. “A rather sophisticated one. Cleverly hidden, layered deep. Designed to activate only once opened by a specific person—presumably me.”
My stomach dropped.
“So it was a trap.”
Dumbledore didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head either.
“It was a test,” he said instead, voice grave. “Whether Malfoy meant to kill, or merely frighten, I cannot say. But the curse is real—and dangerous.”
I sat down hard in the chair across from him. My heart was pounding, but underneath the fear was something else. Disgust. Anger. Shame.
“I thought he might’ve meant it. I thought he might actually want help.”
Dumbledore studied me, his eyes not unkind.
“He still might.”
I stared.
“People caught in traps,” Dumbledore said gently, “do not always move in straight lines. It is possible that Draco feels both things at once—guilt and resolve. Fear and ambition. He may not know yet which one will win.”
“And until then, I’m just his go-between?” I asked. “His test subject?”
“Until we know more,” Dumbledore said, “I would ask that you play along. Within reason. You are not to endanger yourself, Ron. If he approaches again, do not refuse him. Accept what he gives. Say what you must. Then bring it to me.”
I swallowed.
“And if he hands me something worse next time?”
“You have my word,” he said, his gaze sharp and clear, “that I will be ready.”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
Dumbledore gave a slight nod in return, then turned his attention back to the cursed object. I rose, heart still thudding, and quietly left the office, feeling like I was walking deeper into a web with every step.
It was Saturday lunch, and for once, the Great Hall wasn’t insufferably loud. We were sitting at the Ravenclaw table. I was doing the Quibbler crossword with Luna, which meant mostly letting her fill in strange answers while I guessed the ones that didn’t involve Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.
“Fifteen across,” I said, pointing with my fork. “Pretty sure that’s ‘widdershins.’”
Luna beamed and wrote it in delicately with her Self-Inking quill.
Then Harry suddenly stabbed his potatoes and muttered,
“What the hell is going on with Malfoy?”
I blinked and looked up, following his line of sight. Across the Hall, Malfoy had just flicked his gaze away. Too quickly. Too guilty.
“There,” Harry said, jerking his chin. “You saw it too, right? He keeps looking at us. All the time.”
Hermione didn’t even glance over.
“Not us,” she said. “He’s looking at Ron.”
I blinked. Again.
“And what?”
Luna tilted her head and finally looked up from the crossword. Now the three of them were staring at me like I was supposed to cough up a confession or spontaneously combust.
Harry frowned.
“It’s weird. He keeps watching like he’s planning something. Like he’s waiting.”
Hermione tapped her spoon against her lips.
“He hasn’t been himself this year. He looks terrible. And he’s always tense. Snapped at Flitwick in Charms, remember?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “He’s been a mess.”
“And he’s been getting in trouble,” she went on. “Doesn’t do his homework. Walks around like he expects someone to hex him from behind. He looks… hunted.”
I didn’t say anything. Just stabbed my shepherd’s pie a bit harder than necessary.
Harry and Hermione turned to me.
“Well?” Harry said.
Time to deflect. If possible with something ridiculous enough.
I shrugged and smirked.
“Maybe he’s got a crush.”
Hermione made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh. But then she and Harry exchanged a glance. Not the amused kind. The suspicious kind. The connecting dots kind.
“I was joking,” I said, frowning. “Draco doesn’t have a crush on me.”
And just like that, all three heads whipped around to stare at me again. Luna’s included. I stared back, completely lost.
“What?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“You just called him Draco.”
I rolled my eyes.
“That’s his name.”
They didn’t seem convinced.
“There’s nothing going on,” I said, exasperated. “What the hell, guys? You’re acting like I’m dating him in secret. He’s a prat.”
Another glance passed between them.
“What?” I demanded. “What now?”
Hermione opened her mouth in her careful, diplomatic voice, but Harry beat her to it.
“You like thugs.”
I choked.
Not a little cough. A full, ridiculous, can’t-breathe, wheezing, red-in-the-face choke.
“Thugs ?” I managed, between gasps. “Did—did you just say thugs?”
The mental image hit me like a rogue Bludger—Snape and Malfoy in backwards caps and gold chains, standing outside Knockturn Alley like they were about to drop a mixtape.
“Oh my God,” I wheezed. “I’m dying. Thugs.”
Harry looked utterly nonplussed.
“What’s so funny—?”
I couldn’t stop. Draco with his robes halfway down and sunglasses. Snape in a hoodie. Thugs, he says!
Hermione tried to look disapproving, but she was biting her lip.
“I can’t—” I was still laughing, nearly in tears. Draco with a wand holster that’s actually a gold chain.
Finally, the others broke. Hermione snorted. Harry tried to keep a straight face and failed. Even Luna smiled faintly and wrote “thugs” into the crossword.
Eventually, I caught my breath and wiped my eyes, trying not to crack up again. I leaned back, hands over my face. Snape with a backwards cap popped into my brain again and I snickered.
Harry gave me a look.
“I don’t see what’s funny about it.”
I looked at him, breathing slowly through my nose to keep a straight face.
“Alright,” I said. “What were you even trying to say?”
Harry, very seriously, said,
“You like mean people.”
Hermione nodded.
“You do.”
I shrugged.
“I like snarky people. That doesn’t mean I like Malfoy. He’s not snarky. He’s whiny. He’s weak. I’m not interested. And I don’t like blondes, if we’re going for superficial.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“You should tell Lavender that, then.”
I frowned.
“What’s that got to do with Lavender?”
Cue three looks of pure are you kidding me.
Luna shook her head and returned to the crossword. Harry made a sound like a deflating balloon. Hermione gave me a look of pity so intense I almost checked my shirt for blood.
I blinked, disbelieving.
“You think Lavender has a crush on me ?”
More silence. Hermione actually looked offended on Lavender’s behalf.
I frowned harder, thinking. And then it all came together in a horrible, dawning wave—the way the girls in Divination always paired us up. The way Lavender blushed and giggled. The relationship reading.
Oh God.
“She thinks I fancy her,” I muttered. “They all do.”
I groaned, slumping forward to knock my head against the table.
“Seriously? What am I supposed to do about that? That’s so awkward.”
Harry patted my back once, very unhelpfully.
“Next time,” I muttered, “I’m sitting with the Hufflepuffs.”
Hermione looked at me pityingly.
“That would just put you into Elsie Haider’s clutches.”
“Who?” I asked, bewildered.
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard her whole upper body went with it. Harsh.
“Elsie Haider, the girl who asked you out last year.”
Oh. That girl. Right.
“Am I safe anywhere? What about Ravenclaw? Is there anyone in Ravenclaw with a crush on me? Just so I can have the whole set.”
“Well…” Hermione begins.
“No way,” I interrupted her.
Harry leaned back casually, spearing a piece of potato with his fork like he was just thinking aloud.
“I dunno,” he said. “I always thought Flitwick had a bit of a thing for you.”
I turned to stare at him, utterly appalled.
“You what?”
Harry burst out laughing, absolutely delighted by my horror. Hermione cracked up too, smothering her giggles behind her hand.
I just sat there, blinking at both of them like they’d lost their minds.
“You two are menaces,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face.
Harry was practically wheezing now.
“You should’ve seen your face!”
“I felt my face,” I said. “It’s traumatised.”
Hermione was still laughing softly, shaking her head.
“Poor Ron. Admirers everywhere.”
I sighed, long and dramatic, and turned back to Luna with as much dignity as I could gather.
“Let’s just finish the crossword,” I said.
She nodded serenely and passed me the quill.
“We’re nearly done. Only four across left.”
“Let me guess,” I said dryly. “The answer’s humiliation.”
I was hunched over a detailed sketch of a Runespoor, charcoal smudging the side of my hand, when someone slid into the chair beside me.
Too close.
I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. There was a tense sort of hush that followed Malfoy around lately, like even the Library air didn’t want to touch him.
I finished shading the curve of a tail before finally flicking my gaze sideways.
“Library’s full of empty seats,” I muttered.
He ignored that. Leaned in, voice low enough that it barely stirred the dust between us.
“The package,” he whispered. “Did you give it to him?”
I didn’t look at him. I added another line, slow and deliberate.
“I gave it to Dumbledore,” I said quietly. Kept my tone flat, like we were talking about the weather.
“But did he open it?” Draco asked, and for the first time I heard it—the sharp edge behind the whisper. Something desperate.
I shrugged, still not meeting his eyes.
“He took it. I don’t know if he opened it.”
Draco was silent for a moment. I could feel him watching me. I didn’t flinch.
Then he nodded once, like he was trying to convince himself of something. I glanced at him—he looked paler than usual, mouth tight, eyes darting toward the shelves like he was worried someone might overhear.
I didn’t offer anything else. Just went back to shading the Runespoor’s scales.
Draco leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes darting to the aisle behind him.
“I have… another package.”
I didn’t look up from my sketch. I didn’t react. Not visibly, at least. Inside, everything in me pulled taut. Still cursed. Still dangerous. Still trying.
I gave a slow blink, like he wasn’t trying to hand me a murder weapon.
“Another one?” I murmured, keeping my tone neutral. “You want me to take it again?”
He hesitated, then nodded quickly.
“It’s… It’s in the dormitory. I didn’t bring it here. I didn’t know if you’d even—after the first—”
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed now, sketch forgotten.
“Draco,” I said carefully, “I said I’d help you, and I meant it. Is this actually going to help you?”
“It will,” he cut in, too fast, too brittle. “It will .”
I looked at him for a moment. Really looked. He had circles under his eyes, worse than Harry’s even when the visions were bad. Even though he was trying to kill Dumbledore, part of me still pitied him.
“I’ll take it,” I said quietly. “I just want to be sure this is what you want. Because if you’re in trouble… There are better ways to get out than whatever this is.”
He looked at me then, and for a second, the mask slipped.
“I don’t get better ways.”
I didn’t say anything to that.
He studied me for another long heartbeat. Then finally, he exhaled, shoulders slumping like some of the weight was sliding off them.
“It has to go to Dumbledore. Soon. Please.”
I gave a single, calm nod.
“Tomorrow night. I’ll take it.”
Draco looked away and nodded once, too, jaw clenched. Then he stood and left without another word.
I didn’t follow him with my eyes. I just went back to sketching and labelling the different parts of the creature.
And I counted the seconds until I could go to Dumbledore.
The next day, I knocked on the door to Dumbledore’s office just after dinner. The second package weighed heavily in my bag and even heavier on my mind.
“Enter,” came the soft voice.
I stepped in, shut the door behind me, and didn’t waste time.
“He gave me another one,” I said, pulling the small wrapped box from my satchel. “Said it was urgent. I haven’t touched it, just in case.”
Dumbledore gave me a long look, solemn and assessing.
“Thank you, Ron. Please, take a seat.”
I did. The familiar weight of the sword of Gryffindor sat in its usual case on the table nearby, a strange companion to the black box between us. Dumbledore murmured a few spells before carefully unwrapping it. As the final layer of cloth fell away, a subtle pulse of magic rippled in the air. Dark, noxious.
“Cursed,” Dumbledore confirmed quietly. “And powerful. A subtle variation of the Entrail-Expelling Curse… embedded in a glass paperweight, how poetic.”
He placed it inside a warded containment vessel, sealed it with a flick of his wand, and sighed.
“This cannot go on.”
“No,” I agreed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I think… Draco honestly believes I’ll help him. I don’t know if he’s acting, or desperate, or both. But he’s trusting me.”
Dumbledore steepled his fingers.
“Then we shall take advantage of that trust. The current strategy—interception without escalation—won’t hold forever. At some point, Voldemort will grow impatient. Or Draco reckless.”
We sat in silence for a beat, the only sound the low tick of one of Dumbledore’s many enchanted instruments. Then we began brainstorming.
“What if we feed him a line?” I said slowly. “Make it look like you’re getting worse. Weaker. Like now’s the time to act if he wants to get help before it’s too late.”
“Tempt him to accelerate,” Dumbledore murmured, “and see which way he turns. Toward murder—or mercy.”
“Exactly,” I said. “If he’s still on Voldemort’s leash, he’ll act. If he’s not… maybe he freezes. Or warns me off. Or nothing happens.”
“And if he bites,” Dumbledore said, voice darkening slightly, “we can prepare a response. Perhaps even stage an injury. Apparent weakness to sell the lie further.”
I nodded.
“But we’d need to tell Snape. In case Voldemort hears that you’ve been hurt. Snape’ll need a script.”
Dumbledore gave me a surprised little smile.
“You’re thinking ahead. Good. Yes, Severus must be told immediately.”
“And if we do end up staging something bigger…” I hesitated, then took the plunge. “We should use Snape properly. Reinforce his position. Let Draco see him treat me like just another pawn. If I’m the only one Draco thinks he can trust, then showing Snape as the ‘loyal Death Eater’ will make it more real.”
Dumbledore looked at me for a long moment.
“You would trust Severus to play that role convincingly?”
I gave a dry laugh.
“Please. If there’s one thing Snape can do, it’s to play the villain.”
The headmaster chuckled under his breath, but the seriousness returned quickly.
“Very well. We begin with the false intelligence. I suggest you plant it soon—no need to be direct. Just enough for Draco to think he’s got a window of opportunity.”
I nodded.
“I’ll tell him you’re worse. That I’m worried. Maybe hint he should act fast if he wants to ‘get help’ from you.”
“And we shall watch,” Dumbledore said, folding his hands again, “to see which way the scales tip.”
I sat back and exhaled slowly. The next move was mine.
And I had to make it count.
Steam still clung to my skin when I stepped out of the shower stall, towel slung low around my waist and hair dripping into my eyes.
Then I squeaked. Actually squeaked.
Draco bloody Malfoy was standing just inside the bathroom door, arms crossed, looking like he’d been waiting. Which he probably had.
“For Merlin’s sake—” I clutched my towel tighter. “Ever heard of knocking?”
He raised an eyebrow, but his voice was quiet.
“Did you give it to him?”
I blinked. The second package. Right.
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing my dressing gown from the hook. I didn’t like the way his eyes were scanning my expression—nervous, twitchy. Like he expected something to go wrong any second. “I did. Same as before.”
Draco looked relieved, but not by much. He stayed tense, shoulders drawn up.
“You know,” I said quietly, rubbing a hand through my damp hair, “you might want to hurry.”
Draco’s gaze snapped to mine, sharp.
“What?”
I looked at him steadily.
“Dumbledore. He’s… he’s looking worse. Since last week, even. Just… frail.” I swallowed. “Like he’s running out of time.”
He didn’t say anything, but I saw his fingers tighten on his sleeve.
“If you still want his help, I’m not sure how long he’ll be able to give it.”
It hung in the air between us. I didn’t say more. I didn’t need to.
He didn’t answer at first, just stared at the damp tile beside my foot like it might offer some clue.
Then, finally, a small nod.
“Right. Yeah.”
I turned away, grabbing my wand to siphon the water from my hair and avoid his eyes. He lingered a moment longer, then slipped out without another word. Once the door clicked shut behind him, I took a deep breath.
Played well, I hoped.
Now we’d see if he bought it.
One week after I’d told Dumbledore that I’d dropped the bait, nothing had happened. No sign that Draco had done anything with the information. I started to think maybe he hadn’t believed me. Or maybe he was too afraid to act.
But that changed on Monday.
Lunch was quieter than usual. Sprout and Babbling weren’t at the staff table. I barely noticed it at first—too busy focusing on the crossword Luna had pushed in front of me. But Hermione pointed it out.
“They’re not here,” she murmured, frowning.
Harry glanced up, brows drawn.
“Maybe they’re sick.”
It was cold enough to be plausible. Half the castle had a cough already. But something felt… off. Dumbledore wasn’t there either.
That was what truly got to me. Dumbledore almost never missed a meal these days, even if he didn’t eat much. I tried not to overthink it.
Maybe they were just ill.
But that illusion didn’t last long.
That evening, I got summoned to the Headmaster’s office. The corridor was dark and cold, and when the stone gargoyle moved aside, I had the horrible feeling I was walking into something I wouldn’t like.
Snape was already there when I stepped in. Standing near the fireplace, arms folded, half-lit in flickering orange light.
Dumbledore looked grave.
He gestured to the seat opposite him.
“Ron. Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
I did, my eyes flicking toward Snape. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. No sarcasm, no sneer. Just something flat and unreadable.
“There has been an incident,” Dumbledore began. “Professors Sprout and Babbling consumed poisoned sweets from the staff room earlier today. They are both in the hospital wing.”
My heart dropped.
“Are they going to be alright?”
“They will,” he said gently. “Poppy acted swiftly, and Severus identified the poison in time.”
Snape nodded once.
“It was a rare variant of Arsenical Withering—untraceable unless you know the specific variant. It had been infused into a few lemon drops. Not widely dispersed. Targeted.”
Lemon drops. I looked back at Dumbledore.
“So it was meant for you.”
“It was,” he said quietly.
A cold weight settled in my gut.
“So… Draco really took the bait.”
Meaning he had not decided to back down and switch sides.
“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Which means we must escalate. The danger is no longer confined to myself. It’s collateral. Uncontained.”
I swallowed.
“So I imagine… we go with the staged confrontation?”
He met my gaze.
“Yes.”
Dumbledore turned toward us both.
“We have three primary objectives moving forward. First, we must destabilise Draco emotionally. Second, he must not suspect either of you are working with me. And third—we must minimise further collateral damage.”
His gaze rested on me for a second longer than it did on Snape. Like he knew what that weight felt like.
Snape inclined his head in silent agreement. Dumbledore turned more directly to him.
“The confrontation must be private. You will accuse him of incompetence, of recklessness. Threaten to expose him. Offer an ultimatum—finish the task properly, or you will take it over.”
Snape’s lip curled faintly.
“And I am to frame this as protecting the mission, not interfering.”
“Exactly,” Dumbledore confirmed.
I hesitated, then asked,
“And if he name-drops me?”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
“Just in case,” I added quickly. “If he says I’ve been helping or whatever.”
“Then I will imply you are dense, oblivious, and… pliable,” Snape said smoothly. “Entirely useful. But never dangerous.”
“Charming,” I muttered.
Snape’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. But close.
Dumbledore gave me a gentle nod.
“Ron, your role is just as important. You must continue to act as Draco’s reluctant but loyal confidant. Remain sympathetic. Appear uninformed.”
I exhaled slowly, trying to let that settle.
“And if he starts to panic? Or gets close to confessing?”
“You must report it immediately,” Dumbledore said. “Carefully monitor his emotional state. Any sign of collapse must be acted upon swiftly.”
I nodded. My chest felt tight, but I kept still.
“We will begin with another piece of bait,” Dumbledore said. “Tell Draco I am soon to leave the school. For a vulnerable location.”
“Where?” I asked.
Dumbledore leaned back.
“There’s an old Order warehouse. A cottage in Devon. It was partially compromised during the first war. Voldemort will know what that means if the intel reaches him.”
I frowned.
“And you’ll go there?”
“I will,” he said softly. “And the Order will be waiting. As will the Aurors. We intend to identify, disrupt, and arrest any Death Eaters or collaborators Voldemort sends.”
I swallowed hard. That sounded good on paper. In reality? Many things could go wrong.
Then Dumbledore spoke again, quieter.
“Now. Contingencies.”
He looked at me first.
“If Draco confesses to you, Ron—stay calm. Act supportive. Bring him to me. Quietly, without alerting anyone else. We’ll secure his statement, offer him protection, and ensure he’s watched. He will not face this alone.”
I nodded slowly.
“And if… he talks to Snape instead?”
Snape’s arms folded, jaw tightening just slightly.
“In that case,” Dumbledore turned toward Snape, “you must act sympathetic, but calculating. You must report to me directly. And we’ll craft a false narrative—something Voldemort will believe.”
Snape inclined his head once.
“Understood.”
“You may even need to offer to help Draco complete the task,” Dumbledore added.
I whipped around.
“But he won’t complete it, right, sir?”
The question hung in the air.
Dumbledore looked at me for a long time. So long I thought he might not answer at all.
Then he said quietly,
“No, Ron. He won’t.”
My shoulders relaxed. A little.
We all sat still for a moment longer, tweaking things around. Then Dumbledore rose and dismissed us.
As I followed Snape out of the office, I felt ready.
Chapter 82: BOOK SIX - MATCHMAKING
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
MATCHMAKING
I was halfway back to the common room, under the comfort of a disillusionment charm and muffling my footsteps with every spell I knew, when I glanced down at the Map one more time—habit, mostly. Paranoia came easier after Occlumency lessons.
But then I saw it.
‘Draco Malfoy’, labelled in inky loops, was stationary inside a ground-floor bathroom not far from the dungeon entrance. Way past curfew.
I stopped. Just stared at the dot for a second. He wasn’t pacing or moving around. Just sitting—or standing—there. Alone.
I veered right.
I checked the charms on my shoes again. Still holding. I took the path down, stuck to the walls, and kept my breath even. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. I didn’t hear anything at first.
Then I did.
Harsh, shuddering sobs. Awful ones. The kind that had nowhere to go but out.
I moved carefully, slowly pushing the door open wide enough to slip through. The sound grew louder. Draco was bent over the sink, gripping the sides like he might fall. His shoulders shook so violently that it looked painful. I couldn’t see his face, only the way he crumpled in on himself.
I dropped the disillusionment charm.
Then, on purpose, I scuffed my shoe against the tile.
Draco spun around with a gasp, already reaching for his wand, but I raised my hands immediately.
“No wand,” I said quietly. “I’m not here for that.”
He stared at me, breathing hard. His face was blotchy, eyes wet and red, lips trembling with leftover fury and shame. He wiped at his cheeks, angry with himself, and snapped,
“What are you looking at?”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward slowly.
“Not much,” I replied softly. “Just someone who looks like they need help.”
He scoffed. A bitter sound, soaked in humiliation.
“Help. Right.” He leaned against the sink, scrubbing furiously at his face with the sleeves of his jumper. “No one can help me now.”
“Some people can,” I said. “You just haven’t asked the right ones yet.”
He shook his head, face twisted.
“Don’t give me that Dumbledore rubbish.”
“It’s not rubbish,” I said, firmer this time. “If anyone can help you… It’s him. You still have time before...”
I paused. Baiting. He blinked slowly. Then:
“Before what?” he whispered.
I hesitated long enough that it didn’t seem rehearsed. Long enough to make it feel like I didn’t want to say it, because honestly, I didn’t.
“Before he leaves,” I said finally. “His health’s gotten worse.”
Draco frowned.
“Leaves where?”
I looked down at the floor, made myself sound reluctant.
“I heard… he’s going to a cottage in Devon next week. One of his old ones. Quiet. Isolated. Good place to recover. Might not come back.”
Draco stared at me like he was trying to figure out if I was lying. I held his gaze.
“You still have time,” I repeated. “If you wanted to talk to him. He’s not—he’s not gone yet.”
The silence between us stretched.
I didn’t say anything more. I couldn’t trust myself to. I already hated planting the bait like that—using this moment, when he was raw and real, as part of the bloody plan.
But if it kept more people safe… if it helped Draco find a way out…
Then it had to be worth it.
It was worth it.
Even with all the lies. Even with how much I hated using Draco like that, hated watching his face fall when I fed him the bait, hated the way his shoulders curled in like he was made of paper… It was still worth it.
Because this week, for once, we won.
The morning after Draco passed on the false intel, Dumbledore acted. He left the castle as planned. Slowly, with a visible limp, cloaked in vulnerability. It looked real enough that even McGonagall believed he was unwell. He travelled to the cottage in Devon, a dusty old safehouse from the First War, with nothing but his wand and a cane.
What Voldemort didn’t see were the Order members waiting in the trees, or the Aurors hidden beneath Disillusionment Charms. What he didn’t account for were the protective enchantments layered over every stone, or the tracking spells designed to catch anyone Apparating in.
They came at dusk.
Six of them. Death Eaters in masks, and others without—confident, maybe, that this would be quick. An old wizard, alone, too weak to even defend himself.
Two didn’t make it back.
Yaxley was stunned before he could draw his wand. Selwyn was hexed through the knee and taken down screaming by Kingsley himself. The other four were captured briefly, long enough to confirm identities before they slipped through the cracks—cowards, but informative ones. Among them were names no one expected. People we’d seen in Diagon Alley. In the Ministry.
People who’d smiled while shaking Dad’s hand.
People who’d stood silent when things went wrong.
The Daily Prophet ran the headline this morning in thick, black font:
AMBUSH IN DEVON: TWO DEATH EATERS ARRESTED, MORE UNDER INVESTIGATION.
The article even hinted—barely—that the information had come from “a loyal source close to the school.” They didn’t name names, of course. But I felt the words hum under my skin all through breakfast.
I watched as the students read the article, whispering. I saw the way some of them looked up at Dumbledore’s empty seat, then down again at the paper.
I saw how Draco didn’t read it at all.
He just sat there, pale and stiff, picking at his food like it tasted like ash.
And I wondered if he recognised it for what it was. A trap that happened because of his intel. There was no way yet to know if Draco suspected me of knowingly feeding him the false intel. No way to know if I was playing him, or if Dumbledore was playing me.
All I could do was wait. And observe.
So I waited. And I observed.
Slughorn’s Christmas party must’ve already been in full swing by the time we reached the Entrance Hall.
Luna stood beside me in a silver-blue dress that glittered like frost, humming something soft and off-key. Harry waited with Ginny, who’d worn something green and bold, and Neville had just helped Hermione adjust her shawl. The five of us didn’t usually make such a coordinated entrance—but tonight, with each of us coming from different houses, we’d agreed to meet here and head in together.
Slughorn’s office—already crammed with portraits and cabinets—looked ready to burst at the seams. Laughter, music, and the hum of dozens of conversations rolled out the moment the door opened. It wasn’t just students this time. There were more guests than I’d ever seen at one of his supper clubs: adults in fine robes, older alumni, Ministry types, a vampire standing by the punch with long, gloved hands…
I barely had time to look around before Slughorn caught sight of me.
“There he is! My boy!” he bellowed, sweeping forward like a walrus in a velvet tsunami. “Ronald, come in, come in—oh, what a pleasure!”
He seized my arm in a grip like a clamp. I reached for Luna’s hand to keep from being dragged off, but she gave me a serene smile and waved me off as if she’d expected this.
“I want to introduce you to some very distinguished guests,” Slughorn went on, already steering me away from the group. “This young man,” he said loudly to a cluster of robes and moustaches, “is one of my finest! A true jewel in the Slug Club—potions prodigy, promising duellist, sharp as a blade and twice as quick-witted!”
The group murmured approvingly, and someone nodded at me over their monocle. I wanted to sink into the carpet.
“Have I mentioned he’s one of Severus’s best students?” Slughorn added proudly to a tall, cadaverous wizard with yellow eyes.
I smiled thinly, made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, and subtly started scanning the crowd for escape routes. As soon as Slughorn turned to greet someone else—some Ministry ghoul with an oversized bowtie—I made a break for it, ducking behind a decorative suit of armour and weaving through the throng as fast as dignity allowed.
I spotted my friends near the refreshment table and slunk between Ginny and Luna like a fugitive hiding from the law.
“There you are,” Ginny said with a wicked grin. “Did you elope with Slughorn or just get engaged?”
“I object,” Harry deadpanned.
“I vomit,” I said, pulling a face.
Luna handed me a glass of mead, and I drank like it was medicine.
We settled in and started chatting—Harry and Ginny nudging each other over something I missed, Neville trying to name all the cheeses at the snack table, Hermione arguing about something with a tiny, serious Ravenclaw boy who seemed ten years old. I mostly listened and watched.
I caught Harry watching Ginny once or twice, and she watched him back. Nothing dramatic, just soft little glances that said more than they’d ever say aloud. I thought they might be here as friends. Now I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t ask. Just sipped my drink and made small noises of suspicion when they looked especially smiley.
At one point, Trelawney floated past in a cloud of shawls and scent.
“My stars, my shining lights,” she said, pausing before Luna and me. “What a joyous union, to see the two of you together. Both of you have the Sight, you know. You radiate it. Such promise, such power…”
Then she wandered off to find the mulled mead, leaving behind a trail of patchouli and confusion.
I rubbed the back of my neck, glancing awkwardly at Luna, who just beamed like she’d been blessed.
In my relief-slash-distraction, I forgot to stay small and out of view.
Slughorn’s voice boomed again.
“Ah! There he is!” he cried, and this time, Snape was beside him.
My stomach dropped.
“I don’t think I’ve ever taught such a natural at Potions!” Slughorn gushed, one meaty hand on Snape’s arm and the other waving toward me. “Instinctive, you know! It’s a gift. I’ve only ever seen that kind of raw ability a handful of times. Why—even you, Severus!”
I blinked. My eyes widened. Snape’s brow lifted slowly as he looked me over.
Then, in a dry, razor-edged voice, he said,
“I see you’ve discovered what I’ve known since his first year here.”
My face went scarlet. I could feel it, flaming like a beacon. I glanced at my friends—Harry looked like he was chewing his cheek to keep from laughing, and Ginny had ducked her head entirely. Hermione was biting her lip, and Neville seemed genuinely impressed. Luna patted my hand like I was being knighted.
I wanted to vanish.
“Thank you, sir,” I muttered to Snape. I didn’t even know if it was sarcasm or not.
He quirked a brow at me. Just slightly. Like he hadn’t decided yet either.
Slughorn, beaming and oblivious, launched into another story about my perfect Draught of Living Death at the beginning of the year. I stared into my glass like it might help me disappear.
Great. Just brilliant.
Christmas, Slughorn style.
And apparently, I was the tree.
Eventually, Slughorn moved on—still talking, dragging Snape along like a reluctant shadow. Snape didn’t resist, but he gave me one final glance before disappearing into the crowd. I had the sudden urge to comb my hair. Or breathe into a bag.
The moment they were out of earshot, everyone pounced.
“Did that just happen?” Ginny said, staring at me like I’d grown antlers.
“I think it did,” Neville said slowly, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Snape. Complimented. Ron.”
“Openly,” Ginny added. “In public.”
“I thought the ceiling would crack,” Neville muttered.
Harry barked a laugh.
“That’s not the first time.”
Hermione nodded.
“It’s just usually more… barbed. Less obvious. Like when he says, ‘Finally some competence,’ after Ron brews something perfectly.”
“Or when he lets you off without a point deduction,” Harry added. “That’s practically a love letter.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow at me.
“So he’s been slipping you secret praise and you didn’t tell us?”
“Ron,” Neville said, “you might be his favourite .”
I groaned and tried to drown in my mead. The glass was distressingly small for someone trying to avoid eye contact with his entire life.
“Alright,” I said, mostly to the ceiling. “That’s enough.”
Hermione smirked.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not .”
“You’re blushing,” Ginny said sweetly, poking me in the cheek.
“I’m eating,” I declared, grabbing a handful of tiny puff-pastry stars from the snack tray. “Look at this food. Isn’t it marvellous? Let’s all focus on the food.”
“You’re glowing,” Luna said dreamily beside me. “Like a firefly.”
I groaned again, but it was mostly for show. Deep down—stupidly, idiotically—I was glowing. Snape had said it. In front of everyone. No sarcastic twist. No hidden barb. Just… something real.
I forced another pastry into my mouth to shut myself up. My face still felt hot.
“I need stronger mead,” I muttered.
Neville handed me another glass helpfully.
“I think you deserve it.”
Ginny was still staring at me, faintly suspicious.
“You didn’t bribe him, did you?”
“Ginny.”
“Blackmail?”
“Please.”
“Hypnosis?”
“I will throw this tart at you.”
She just laughed and nudged me in the ribs.
And even as I rolled my eyes and chewed like my life depended on it, I felt something warm and steady settle in my chest. A quiet little spark that no one could take away.
Snape had meant it.
Maybe this party wasn’t so bad after all.
The day after Slughorn’s party, it was time to head home for the winter holidays. It felt good to leave the castle for a bit. A break from the constant tension, from the scheming with Dumbledore, from the piling homework, from Draco’s watchful eyes. And, alright, Slughorn’s backslapping too.
Ginny didn’t seem stressed in the slightest, despite O.W.L.s breathing down her neck. I knew her well enough by now—she’d sprint through it all in a fit of last-minute panic just before we returned to Hogwarts, probably while stealing my old notes. A real Weasley, that one.
We got to the Burrow in a whirl of cloaks and muddy boots. Mum fussed over our frozen fingers and thinner faces and packed us with food before we’d even set our trunks down. Dad was glad to see us, but even at home, he was buried in paperwork, in late Floo calls, in quiet frowns behind his glasses. I barely saw him. Or Percy. Ministry had its claws in both of them.
But come Christmas Eve, the house was full. Properly full. Mum, Dad, Ginny, the twins, Percy, Bill and Fleur—who’d managed to charm Mum into only lightly scowling at her—and Harry, of course. Mum had invited Sirius and Lupin too, which made the place feel even warmer somehow, like we were holding the storm outside at bay with tea and tradition.
Downstairs, the rooms pulsed with comfort. In the kitchen, Sirius, Ginny, Harry and the twins were playing Exploding Snap and yelling about cheating. In the sitting room, Mum had Celestina Warbeck singing through the wireless. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, just soaking it in. Everyone was safe, happy, and well-fed. All my chicks in one basket. It was perfect. Exactly the way I liked it best.
Then I saw Lupin.
He was by the fire, sitting in the big worn armchair Dad usually favoured. The light from the hearth cast sharp shadows across his face, and they weren’t flattering. He looked thinner than last time. Shabbier, more threadbare around the edges. His shoulders were slumped forward, eyes fixed on the flames with a look I recognised from my own reflection a few times after particularly bad nights. Tired. Bone-deep tired.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
I ducked into the kitchen, stole a fresh glass of eggnog from the counter and grabbed a plate of Christmas biscuits Mum had just taken out of the tin. Then I wandered over and sat down on the little pouffe beside him.
He didn’t glance at me until I gently pushed the glass into his hand and set the plate next to him.
“You look like you’ve seen the ghost of Christmas future,” I said casually. “And he told you there’d be no pudding.”
Lupin blinked and then gave a small huff of something close to a laugh. His mouth quirked up, and he shook his head.
“No pudding. That would be tragic.”
“Unforgivable,” I agreed.
I leaned back, stretched out my legs like I had nowhere urgent to be.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked, tone still light. “Could be something. Could be nothing. Or we could talk about nargles. I’m not picky.”
He glanced sideways at me, surprised. I kept my gaze on the fire.
“I’m fine, Ron,” he said eventually.
“Yeah,” I said. “I say that a lot, too.”
He didn’t reply. But after a pause, he took a sip of the eggnog, and then another, slower one. His fingers didn’t shake quite as much around the glass anymore.
I didn’t press. Just let the silence be easy. Safe.
And after a while, I felt him relax, just a bit, beside me. Lupin sipped his eggnog, and I leaned forward to poke at a biscuit. Then, in a small-talk tone, I asked,
“So… what’ve you been up to lately?”
He glanced at me like he wasn’t sure whether I was being polite or nosy. But in the end, he answered.
“Working underground. For the Order,” he said, voice low. “Living among werewolves. Dumbledore wanted a spy in their midst. Nearly all of them are on Voldemort’s side.”
I caught the edge in his voice. Not angry, exactly, but… weary. Bitter. Like he’d swallowed something sharp, and it never quite stopped hurting.
“Must be difficult,” I said. “Gaining their trust.”
“It is,” he said shortly. “They can tell I’m different. That I’ve spent too much time living among wizards. That I’ve tried to make peace with the world they hate. And I don’t… hunt. Like Greyback.”
I winced at the name, and Lupin noticed.
“That sucks,” I muttered. “That you’ve got to reason with people who’ve been listening to a sociopath like him. I take it it hasn’t exactly been a resounding success?”
Remus let out a dry, bitter laugh.
“Definitely not.”
We lapsed into silence again. Mum and Dad had started dancing—slowly, goofily—to Celestina Warbeck’s warbling chorus, and even though it was embarrassing, it made something soft ache in my chest.
I hmm’d, and flicked my eyes toward Lupin without turning my head.
“By the way… There is something that could help you, you know. See the good side of life.”
Lupin frowned, puzzled.
“What would?”
I let the corner of my mouth curl up. More of a smirk than a smile.
“Some love,” I said, giving him a look. “With a certain Auror. And I’m not talking about Moody.”
Remus stared at me, utterly gobsmacked. Then he made a choked sound—almost a laugh, almost a groan—and pressed his hand over his face.
“I—Ron…”
“Don’t ‘Ron’ me,” I said cheerfully. “You and Tonks are ridiculously obvious.”
“She deserves better,” he muttered into his hand.
“Oh, shut up,” I replied, elbowing him gently. “You’re both tired and weird and stubborn. It’s perfect.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. Quietly, but it was real this time.
And I grinned, pleased with myself. I felt like I’d said exactly the right thing. Remus turned to me, eyebrows raised, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Did Sirius put you up to this?”
“Nope. This one’s all me.”
His brow creased faintly in confusion, so I leaned back and shrugged, casual.
“I have my own agenda.”
“Oh?” he said warily, sipping his eggnog again. “And what’s that?”
I gave him a look.
“I’m a closet romantic, alright? Sue me.”
Remus blinked at me, and I held his gaze.
“Also,” I added lightly, “it makes Christmas dinner less depressing when one of the guests isn’t brooding like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance serial.”
He chuckled, low and genuine this time.
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “So, you know. Just think about being a little selfish for once. If Tonks fancies you—and let’s be honest, she does—you don’t have to be noble and miserable about it.”
He didn’t answer right away, just looked back at the fire with a quiet, unreadable expression.
I nudged the plate of biscuits toward him again.
“Eat a biscuit. Ponder love. Maybe let yourself be happy.”
He huffed a breath of amusement, and when he picked up a biscuit, I called that a win.
After I left Lupin by the fire—he gave me a grateful sort of nod as I stood—I made my way to the kitchen in search of a nightcap and maybe some company that didn’t look like they were being gnawed at from the inside.
The exploding snap match was long over. Bits of singed cards littered the table, the smell of burnt parchment clinging faintly to the air. Mum was bustling at the sink, clanking plates with a sort of righteous vengeance. The twins were chatting with Sirius in low, mischievous tones that made me suspicious on instinct. Percy and Dad were nursing something that looked suspiciously like firewhisky near the back door.
But no Harry. No Ginny either.
Huh.
I paused, glancing around casually—totally casually—like I wasn’t suddenly curious at all. A soft noise caught my attention, and I shifted to the side, peeking around the archway just slightly.
There they were. Sitting in the far corner of the living room, partially shielded by the old bookcase. Talking. Heads bent together, voices low and quiet. They weren’t snogging or anything, but… the atmosphere was unmistakable. Cosy. Close. A little too close for just a friendly chat about Christmas crackers, if you asked me.
A part of me—the irritating older brother part—wanted to stride over and make an embarrassing show just to see them squirm.
But another part—possibly the part that had just spent the evening handing out unsolicited emotional support to moody werewolves—paused.
They looked happy. Or if not happy, then… peaceful. Comfortable. Like maybe they’d found something good in the middle of all this chaos.
I battled with myself for a second, chewing the inside of my cheek. Then I sighed, quietly deciding to be a nuisance later. Let them have this moment.
Just as I was about to turn away, Harry looked up.
Our eyes met.
He froze like a kneazle caught nicking turkey off the table. Completely still. Eyes wide. Guilt painted across his face so fast it was nearly comedic.
Oh, brilliant.
I grinned slowly, then lifted two fingers and pointed from my eyes to him in the classic I’m watching you gesture.
Harry visibly gulped.
I couldn’t help it, I snickered under my breath and turned around, hands in my pockets, smug satisfaction warming me better than any firewhisky.
Let them stew.
I’d tease him tomorrow.
Maybe.
Depending on how much pudding I got.
That night, after Mum firmly decided that Sirius had had one firewhisky too many and declared it “utterly irresponsible” to let him Floo back to Grimmauld Place, Harry was roped into staying the night too.
Which meant, of course, bunking with me.
We set up the camp bed like usual—well, I did most of the setting up, while Harry mostly stood there, fidgeting like the bed was cursed. He kept adjusting his glasses and looking around the room like he’d never seen it before.
I pulled on a t-shirt and tossed him a spare blanket.
“You good?”
He nodded, then didn’t say anything.
I raised a brow, watching him shift uncomfortably on the edge of the camp bed, his hands clasped together like he was steeling himself for battle. Which, knowing Harry, he probably was.
“Harry,” I said finally, “are you alright, or are you just trying to set a new record for awkward silence?”
He looked up at me, the tips of his ears already red.
“Ron… if I told you I liked someone… and she happened to have red hair and a wicked bat-bogey hex, would you hex me or hear me out?”
I snorted.
“So you want to date Ginny? Or are you already dating and I’m the last to know?”
His eyes went wide.
“No! I mean—not yet. Not… we’re not. Dating. Yet.”
I flopped back onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, arms behind my head.
“So you like her?”
“I—yeah.”
There was a long pause. I could practically feel him holding his breath. I let it stretch for a second longer just to mess with him, then sighed.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You… what?”
“I know,” I said again, turning my head lazily to look at him. “You’ve both been making cow eyes at each other for ages. It was like watching two cats try to court through a pane of glass.”
He made a noise of protest, half-mortified, half-disbelieving.
“Hermione and I even considered placing a bet on it,” I added, smirking. “But we both realised you’d never get around to it. Not unless she hexed ‘I fancy you’ onto your forehead.”
Harry let out a strangled sort of sound.
“You—what? You and Hermione—”
“Oh, yeah,” I chirped, stretching a bit and settling into the pillow. “Gave up the bet entirely. No point. We both knew it’d be Ginny making the first move.”
Harry looked utterly scandalised.
“You are… encouraging it?”
I shrugged.
“You’re family already.” I gave him a small smile.
Harry looked like he’d swallowed something too big.
“I thought you’d hex me.”
“Oh, I still might, if you muck it up,” I said matter-of-factly. “But only after Ginny’s finished with you.”
He let out a stunned laugh and sat back on the camp bed, looking both wrecked and relieved.
“You’re a lot more terrifying than I give you credit for.”
“Just don’t make me walk in on anything scarring. That’s all I ask.”
Behind me, I could hear the sound of him groaning and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Bloody hell.”
Notes:
Does anyone have a reading recommendation for a good fiction about Snape? Don’t care who he’s paired with.
Chapter 83: BOOK SIX - THE FERRET'S TAIL
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
THE FERRET’S TAIL
I didn’t see Harry again for the rest of the holidays, and it felt weird. Off-kilter, like forgetting your wand on a Hogsmeade weekend. I’d thought about owling him, but it felt wrong somehow. Too easy to say “how are you?” on parchment and never get a real answer. I wanted to see his face. I wanted to know if Dumbledore had told him the prophecy. If Sirius had stayed with him after. If he was holding up at all.
He hadn’t come to the station. Too risky. Dumbledore had arranged for him to use the Floo straight from Grimmauld Place. I was glad. Grateful, even. Harry deserved the extra security, deserved people who took his safety seriously. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t impatient to see him again.
I’d know soon enough. Just a few more hours and we’d be back at Hogwarts.
I was on patrol, making the rounds like any responsible prefect would, when I passed the Divination girls’ compartment. They were all crammed in there, scarves half-unravelled and teacups clinking in their hands like it was some kind of séance. When they spotted me, a chorus of smiles broke out. I nodded politely, kept moving.
Then the door slid open behind me.
“Ron?”
I turned. Lavender Brown was stepping into the corridor. Her hair looked extra curled, and she had that very Lavender expression—half-shy, half-determined—that usually meant something was about to happen.
“Hi,” she said brightly, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I, um—I missed you over the holidays.”
“Oh,” I said, blinking. “Er, thanks.”
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and went on quickly, like she was afraid of losing momentum.
“So I was wondering—there’s a Hogsmeade trip in two weeks, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well.” She gave a little breathless laugh. “Do you want to go? With me, I mean. Just us. Like a date.”
Her eyes were wide and hopeful.
Shit.
I straightened my spine. This was it. The exact moment Hermione had trained me for. I could practically hear her voice in my head like a drill sergeant: No flinching. No fidgeting. No eye-darts toward the nearest emergency exit.
Right.
Eye contact.
Compliment.
Soft honesty.
Dignity.
“Lavender,” I said carefully, “you’re really kind, and I’ve had fun talking to you in class…”
Her smile froze slightly.
“…but I don’t feel that way about you. I think we’d be better off just as friends.”
There. Done. Respectful. Kind.
But then, maybe because I could see how she blinked—fast, like trying not to let something sting—or maybe because I remembered how she had given me her last Chocolate Cauldron before Christmas without saying anything, I added, quietly:
“My heart’s already sort of decided. I’ve felt it for a long time, and I’d be lying to you if I pretended I could feel that way about someone else.”
Lavender froze.
Then she gave a tiny, breathless laugh.
“Oh. Right. Sure. No, of course. I mean—I understand.”
Her voice was unsteady, but she pushed through it, smoothing her hands over her robes.
“I should’ve known you’d be one of those tragic, soulful ‘my heart is taken’ types. Who is it? No—don’t tell me. Let me imagine it’s someone dramatic and dark, with a cloak or something. I’ll make up a story in my head.”
She squared her shoulders, drawing herself up, and her next words came out steadier.
“Thanks for telling me kindly. Most blokes wouldn’t bother.”
And then she turned on her heel and walked back into the compartment.
I stood there for half a second, frozen in guilt, until the door slid shut behind her.
A burst of giggling erupted almost immediately on the other side. Loud, panicked, exaggerated. I didn’t wait to hear more. I bolted down the corridor and found refuge in my own compartment.
Hermione was reading. Luna was humming something and playing with the end of her scarf. I shut the door behind me, slumped across Luna’s lap with a dramatic groan, and buried my face in my arm.
“What happened now?” Hermione asked flatly, not even looking up from her book.
“Lavender,” I mumbled into my sleeve. “She asked me out.”
“Oh no,” Hermione said, still in that disinterested voice. “Poor you. People in love with you. How tragic.”
I sat up immediately, affronted.
“Oi!”
Hermione turned a page and didn’t even glance up.
“You survived.”
“She said I was a tragic, soulful type,” I muttered. “What does that even mean?”
Luna, who had taken my groaning in stride, tilted her head and said dreamily,
“It might be your pheromones.”
“My what?”
“Pheromones,” she repeated. “They change when your heart’s already devoted. It makes you smell like longing and tragic resolve.”
Hermione finally looked up at that.
“No, they don’t.”
Luna shrugged.
“You’ve never tested it.”
I groaned again and grabbed a handful of crisps from the open bag beside her.
At least Harry would be back soon.
Hopefully, he hadn’t been serenaded with perfume-soaked declarations over the break. But knowing his luck… At least he knew better than to eat or drink anything sent by some girls he didn’t know. Hermione and I had drilled this into his thick skull. I hoped it stuck.
The Entrance Hall was packed when we arrived—students everywhere, trunks clattering over the floor, first-years yelling across the din to each other. I was trying not to trip over a Hufflepuff’s owl cage when I spotted Harry, standing off to one side, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
As soon as his eyes met mine and Hermione’s, he made a beeline toward us.
“We need to talk,” he said under his breath, glancing around. “Somewhere private.”
Hermione and I both nodded without hesitation. I figured this had to be about the prophecy—Dumbledore had promised he’d tell Harry over the holidays, and I’d been thinking about it all week. Wondering how Harry would take it. Wondering if he’d look different once he knew.
He did.
“Room of Requirement?” Hermione suggested quietly.
Harry nodded. We followed the flow of students upstairs, up to the seventh floor. While the Gryffindors turned toward their common room, we slipped off down the corridor near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Harry paced three times in front of the blank wall with that focused look on his face, and sure enough, the door appeared.
Inside was a quiet little space—soft lighting, squashy chairs, enough room for three people to breathe. Hermione took the armchair, I flopped onto a beanbag, and Harry stayed standing.
He looked like he had something stuck in his throat. Arms crossed. Eyes not quite meeting ours.
“Occlumency lessons are over,” he said finally.
I blinked. Hermione straightened in her seat.
“Already?” she asked. “But… you said they weren’t going well.”
“They weren’t.” Harry rubbed his forehead. “But Dumbledore came to Grimmauld Place after New Year. He told me there was another reason he wanted me to learn. A secret. One Voldemort couldn’t know. But… he said he couldn’t wait anymore for me to master Occlumency. So he told me.”
The air felt heavier instantly. I didn’t say anything. Neither did Hermione.
Harry went quiet for a second, then looked up.
“It’s about the prophecy.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. My stomach twisted.
Harry told us. Word for word. His voice was steady but weirdly flat, like he was reading from a tombstone. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... On and on until the last line: Neither can live while the other survives.
It still made me flinch. I’d known. I’d known since before I even met Harry. But hearing it from his mouth… seeing the way it sat on his shoulders like a boulder…
It gutted me.
There was a long silence. Hermione’s face had gone pale, and she looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry or start researching loopholes right then and there.
“Does Dumbledore believe it’s set in stone?” she asked eventually, voice low and a little shaky.
Harry shrugged.
“He thinks it’s about choice. That Voldemort made it come true by acting on it. But still… the ‘one has to die’ part…”
He trailed off, and I hated the way he looked. Like he was already halfway to a grave he didn’t want.
“There must be a loophole,” Hermione said quickly, her tone sharpening with resolve. “There always is. Prophecies aren’t straightforward, they’re all riddles and metaphor and—”
“That’s literally what they are,” I said. “Cryptic messes. You’re not locked into this, mate.”
Harry gave a small, tired smile.
“I talked to Sirius. It helped. But it’s… a lot. Still sinking in.”
He sat down finally, looking like someone who’d just dropped their broom after a crash. Hermione moved closer, and I sat up.
“You’re not just the Chosen One to us,” I told him. “You’re just Harry. And we’d still be with you, prophecy or no prophecy.”
He blinked at me.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said firmly. “You’re not doing this alone. Even if it comes to the worst, you’ll have us next to you. Always.”
Hermione put her hand on his arm, warm and steady.
“The prophecy doesn’t mean it has to end in death,” she said. “Dumbledore trusts you because you’ve always had a choice, even when it’s hard. And you have us. We’ll help you look at every angle, every option. You don’t have to carry this alone, Harry. You never have.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at us like he couldn’t quite believe we were real.
But I could see it—the weight hadn’t vanished, not by a long shot—but something in his shoulders loosened. Like maybe it wasn’t quite crushing him anymore.
And if I could be part of that, even just a little, then I’d gladly carry the rest. I already was carrying some of the weight for him, even if he didn’t know it, and probably never would. And I would carry even more if I could.
All the sacrifices were worth it if they were for Harry.
It didn’t take long for me to notice that Draco was tailing me.
The first time was Monday. I was on my way to duelling tutoring in the Room of Requirement—nothing unusual there. I’d taken to doing the first part of the route the regular way, walking openly down the corridor. Then I’d duck into the bathroom on the first floor, cast a Disillusionment Charm on myself and another to muffle my steps, and take the back passages the rest of the way.
But just as I was about to leave the bathroom that day, the door creaked open and in walked Draco Malfoy.
He didn’t see me—obviously—but he started to glance around, a little too casually. Eyes drifting over the sinks, the floor, the stalls. He wasn’t looking for a place to piss.
It was suspicious as hell, but I didn’t want to be late for my session with Snape—he’d hex my eyebrows off if I kept him waiting without reason. So I slipped out, invisible and silent, and made it to the Room of Requirement with a minute to spare.
I thought it was a coincidence.
But then Friday came.
Same routine. Same bathroom. Same charms. Same timing. And right as I was about to open the door—Malfoy again.
I waited this time. Let him step all the way in. Watched from under my charm as he checked the stalls like he was trying to find someone. His movements weren’t loud or obvious, but he wasn’t hiding what he was doing either. Just enough discretion to not get caught… if no one was looking too closely.
When I finally made it out, I didn’t just walk. I kept an eye on the Map.
His dot lingered in the bathroom for another thirty seconds. Then it moved—one stall, then another, like he was still searching. And then it left.
I didn’t like it. I really didn’t like it.
So when I got to the Room of Requirement and stepped inside—the walls already transformed into the usual replica of Snape’s office, and him waiting near the far end with his arms folded—I didn’t waste time.
“Draco’s following me.”
Snape’s eyes flicked to me, sharp as ever.
“Explain.”
I dropped my bag on the bench by the wall and started undoing the Disillusionment Charm.
“It happened on Monday, too. I was on my way here, stopped in that same bathroom on the first floor. I always go visible up to that point, then disillusion myself before taking the rest of the way to the Room.”
He gave a short nod—he’d approved the plan originally when we started these covert sessions last year.
“Monday,” I continued, “just as I was about to leave the bathroom, Malfoy walked in. Looked around a bit. Nothing major, but… weird.”
Snape narrowed his eyes.
“And today?”
“Same thing. He came in again, looking around. And after I left, I kept the Map out. He looked in every stall before leaving.”
Snape was silent for a beat. Then,
“Has this behaviour occurred before the new term?”
I shook my head.
“No. Only since we came back.”
He stepped away from the wall and came to stand closer.
“Where is he now?”
I pulled the Map from my pocket, tapped it, whispered the incantation, and searched.
“Common room.”
Snape didn’t visibly react, but I knew he was processing fast.
“I’ll inform Dumbledore,” he said finally. “This may be an isolated concern—or a shift in Malfoy’s assignment.”
I folded the Map and tucked it away, watching his face.
“Keep your eyes open,” Snape added, tone brisk now. “See if he follows you on other days. If it happens again next Monday or Friday, note it. No detours. No confrontations.”
“Right.”
He turned back toward the desk, already in professor mode.
“And in the meantime, let’s hope your Occlumency shields didn’t go soft over the holidays.”
“I didn’t mean to take a break.”
“Then let’s ensure your mind didn’t.”
Draco might be sniffing around, but Snape wasn’t going to let that delay his preferred torture.
Figures.
Draco was absolutely shit at tailing people.
By Sunday night, I’d spotted him six times. Six. I wasn’t even trying to catch him—he was just that bad at being subtle.
It started Saturday morning when Harry and I met Hermione in the Library to review some Transfiguration notes. We’d barely taken out our books when I caught sight of that unmistakable blonde head three rows down, pretending to flip through a heavy tome upside-down. Hermione raised an eyebrow. Harry whispered, “Is he following you?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Draco wasn’t exactly being discreet.
Then Sunday, I decided to go see the thestrals with Luna—get some air, clear my head, feed a few slices of raw meat to the quiet, bony creatures that always seemed to understand too much. Luna had wandered ahead and was whispering to one of them, and I was about to join her when I caught movement between two trees near the edge of the paddock.
Draco again.
Badly hidden behind a tangle of bare shrubbery, like a first-year playing hide and seek. He froze when I glanced his way, then disappeared with all the grace of someone whose robes had just gotten caught on a branch. Subtle as a dung bomb.
Monday came, and he didn’t follow me to Care of Magical Creatures—he had Arithmancy with Hermione. But during Potions that afternoon, he was back to it. Staring at me so intensely, he nearly dropped his ladle into the cauldron. He botched the antidote we were supposed to brew so badly that it turned pink and started foaming. Slughorn looked scandalised. I would’ve found it annoying if I weren’t so amused about it.
Later, when I sat in the common room before dinner to work on some Runes worksheets, he was there too. Sitting on the opposite sofa, pretending to read, but not turning a single page. He hadn’t been near this room during study hours since September. I caught him looking up from behind his book at least four times.
By the time dinner was over, I was beyond done with this cat-and-mouse game. I stuck to my usual routine—left the common room at the normal time, walked up from the dungeons, then ducked into the first-floor bathroom.
The moment the door shut behind me, I cast my Disillusionment charm, followed by the Air-Resonnance Charm like always. I counted down in my head, and sure enough, maybe forty seconds later, the door creaked open.
I pressed myself to the wall and watched Draco slip inside. He paused, peered around like someone who’d lost their toad, and started checking the stalls one by one. Didn’t even bother to call out. I watched him open the fourth stall, frown at its emptiness, and mutter something under his breath before turning toward the mirrors.
I left while he was distracted by his own reflection.
The Room of Requirement appeared the moment I passed the tapestry, the door sliding into place with its usual silent grace. Snape was already inside, standing like a shadow near the duelling mat, arms crossed, wand in one hand. He looked at me with something that might’ve been expectation.
I dropped the Disillusionment charm and stepped forward.
“He’s been tailing me outside tutoring nights,” I said without preamble. “Pretty much all weekend. Saturday, he showed up in the Library. Sunday, he ‘hid’ near the thestrals paddock while Luna and I were out there. He’s gotten worse, honestly. Less careful.”
Snape’s jaw shifted.
“And this afternoon?”
“Potions. Stared at me so hard he killed his antidote. And he was in the common room while I was working. He hasn’t done that all year.”
Snape was silent for a long moment, his expression tightening just slightly.
“We cannot afford to ignore it any longer,” he said at last, voice low. “This is not passive observation. It’s persistent.”
“You think he’s getting orders now?”
He didn’t answer straight away. His eyes flicked to mine.
“Or he’s desperate. Either way, it cannot continue unchecked.”
“So no more waiting?”
“No,” Snape said. “We’ve seen the pattern shift.”
I nodded and exhaled slowly.
“You’ll tell Dumbledore?”
“Tonight.”
That was that. Snape stepped onto the mat and raised his wand, and the lesson began. He didn’t mention Draco again. He was more curt than usual, more exacting. Each block and counter had to be precise. Every nonverbal spell was dissected, corrected, drilled again.
He cut the session ten minutes short.
“Go back the long way,” he said as I wiped sweat from my brow. “Be visible. Let him see you. But say nothing.”
I nodded again and pulled my cloak tighter.
I’d known we were playing a long game, but now the stakes were clearly shifting.
The moment Professor McGonagall approached our table during the practical part of Transfiguration, I knew something was up. She never walked over for no reason, especially not during the middle of a switching spell demonstration.
She didn’t speak loudly—just leaned slightly over and murmured so only I could hear.
“Mr Weasley, the Headmaster wishes to see you in his office before dinner. He wishes for you to be discreet.”
I gave a small nod, keeping my wand steady.
“Yes, Professor.”
She swept away before anyone else could overhear, but of course, Harry was sitting right next to me. His head turned instantly.
“What’s that about?” he whispered, wand poised over his quill but not focusing on the spell anymore.
I shrugged, aiming for something casual.
“I’ll find out when I get there. Might be better not to talk about it out loud, yeah?”
Harry frowned but nodded slowly.
“Alright.”
Still, I caught him glancing at me every few minutes for the rest of the lesson. Concern, frustration, the works. Hermione would’ve pressed. Harry didn’t, but I could feel the questions sitting on the tip of his tongue. I didn’t blame him. If our roles were flipped, I’d be doing the same.
The rest of the day blurred together. Between a stack of Potions notes, the Transfiguration essay I still hadn’t finished, and revising for the next Charms test, I had enough on my plate to keep my brain mostly occupied. But still—underneath it all—Malfoy.
Was he acting alone? Or were those ridiculous attempts at tailing me all part of some order he got from Voldemort? I didn’t know which was worse.
When the castle clock chimed the hour before dinner, I packed my things in the Library and slipped out, pausing in the first quiet corridor I could find. I took out the Map, tapped it carefully, and muttered, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
No one was following me. Malfoy’s dot was still in Greenhouse Three, just leaving Herbology with Harry and Hermione. Good.
I rolled the Map back up, cleared it, and headed for the Headmaster’s office. When I reached the gargoyle, I said the new password and rode the spiral stairs up to the oak door.
Dumbledore was already seated behind his desk, looking—well, like Dumbledore. That calm, even expression and half-moon glasses that made you feel like he’d already read your mind before you even stepped in the room.
“Ron,” he said warmly. “Thank you for coming. Lemon drop?”
I grinned.
“Always.”
He handed me the tin. I popped one in and sat, the sweet sourness sharp and familiar on my tongue.
“Will Professor Snape be joining us, sir?”
“Yes, momentarily,” Dumbledore replied. “He’s finishing a report for the Board of Governors. We’ll begin as soon as he arrives.”
That gave me a moment. I hesitated, then leaned forward slightly.
“Sir… I just wanted to say—thanks. For waiting to tell Harry the prophecy. I think it helped that he had time. That he wasn’t spiralling from the battle still. And that he had Sirius. I think… I think it made it a bit easier to handle.”
Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled faintly, though his expression remained serious.
“I appreciate you saying so, Ron. I worried whether I had waited too long. But in this case, I believe you’re right. Timing is often the gentlest kindness we can offer.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Dumbledore called.
Snape stepped in, robes sweeping behind him. His eyes flicked briefly to me before he inclined his head to Dumbledore.
“You said it was urgent.”
“Yes. Please, Severus, have a seat. We have matters to discuss regarding young Mr Malfoy.”
Snape sat beside me, one brow raised, waiting.
Dumbledore began.
“Ron, Severus—thank you both for your continued vigilance. It seems our suspicion that Draco may be actively monitoring Ron’s movements has now become a pattern.”
Snape nodded curtly.
“He’s followed Mr Weasley on multiple occasions. It’s far too frequent to be a coincidence.”
“Which means,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers, “we must address this development directly.”
He looked at me.
“Ron, your tutoring with Severus must continue without interruption. However, we must take extra precautions to avoid leading Draco—or anyone else—to conclusions about your extracurricular lessons.”
I nodded.
“Should I stick to my usual schedule?”
“Yes,” Snape said sharply. “Be consistent. Do not alter your behaviour abruptly. No detours. No sudden excursions. If he’s watching, we need him to grow bored. Or overconfident.”
Dumbledore added, “It may also be wise to begin subtly planting false information. If Draco is passing along reports, we might guide what his recipient believes. But this must be done carefully. Nothing too dramatic.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
“Like what, exactly? Something else like the cottage? Even he wouldn’t bite twice.”
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly.
“No, not like the cottage. We must be more delicate now. Something small. Inconsequential on the surface.”
I frowned, trying to picture what that could look like.
“So… not another trap. More like… a story he might overhear?”
“Precisely,” said Snape, his tone sharp with approval. “Let him believe he’s gleaning secrets you didn’t mean to share. Idle remarks to friends. Small slips of the tongue.”
“Perhaps that you’ve been benched from anything Order-related,” Dumbledore added. “Or that the headmaster no longer confides in you. Things to make you seem less threatening. Less central.”
“More useless,” I said with a nod.
Snape gave me a look.
“More forgettable. Say you’re struggling with Occlumency—spread that quietly. Let him believe your training has been failing.”
“Exactly,” Dumbledore said. “If he reports that you’re struggling to master something vital, it may either reassure his source or invite an attempt to exploit it. Either is useful to us.”
I glanced at them in turn, then nodded again.
“Right. And I’m the one planting all this?”
“You may choose to enlist Mr Potter or Miss Granger if needed,” Dumbledore said gently. “But you must all be subtle. Too perfect a performance will draw suspicion.”
“So… I’ll act like I’m useless, but not too useless.” I rubbed my eyes. “Right. At least, if I’m seen as useless, the target on my back might shrink a little. That’s comforting, I guess.”
Dumbledore leaned forward now, his eyes sharper than before.
“The more we understand Draco’s patterns, the more we can control what he sees. And if we can lull him into thinking you’re harmless—”
“—then we might get more time before the next attempt,” I finished. “Or catch whoever he’s working for in the act.”
“Precisely,” Dumbledore said. “We may even learn whether Voldemort is directly in contact with Draco—or if there is another intermediary.”
Snape added,
“And if the opportunity presents itself… You might consider telling Draco something misleading. Just enough to bait him. Carefully.”
I hesitated.
“You want me to talk to him?”
“Eventually,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Not yet. Not until we’ve laid the groundwork. Let us see whether he continues to follow you. And how closely.”
I shifted back in the chair and rubbed the back of my neck.
“So basically—keep acting normal, be visibly mediocre, and let him think I’m not worth the trouble?”
Snape gave a small, humourless smile.
“You’ve been training for years, Weasley.”
I grinned.
“Cheers, Professor. That means a lot.”
Dumbledore stood, and so did we.
“We will stay in close communication. You will not be left to face this alone.”
“I know,” I said, glancing between them. “Thanks.”
As I turned to go, Snape added,
“And for Merlin’s sake—don’t get cocky. If you think he suspects anything—anything—bring it to me. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stepped out of the office, the lemon-drop taste still on my tongue and my mind already turning over how best to plant believable lies.
The trick, I figured, was to be boring.
Merlin help me.
Chapter 84: BOOK SIX - CAT AND MOUSE
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CAT AND MOUSE
The next morning felt longer than it had any right to be. Harry wasn’t sulking exactly, but he wasn’t not sulking either. He kept glancing at me like I’d nicked the last treacle tart and refused to explain myself. And Hermione? She was watching both of us like we were a particularly dense Arithmancy riddle.
I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. Not without looking suspicious. And I needed them if this was going to work.
In the afternoon after Defence, just as the class was packing up, I turned to them and said, as casually as I could,
“Fancy a stroll outside?”
Hermione looked out the window like I’d just suggested a swim in the lake. The sky was grey and spitting rain, and the wind was doing its best to rip the ivy off the walls.
“Now?” she asked, already beginning to frown. “Ron, it’s freezing and we’ve got—”
“I’m in,” Harry cut in so fast she startled. “Let’s go.”
He was already standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder like he couldn’t wait to escape. He grabbed my arm with a bit too much enthusiasm and steered us out of the classroom before Hermione could form a coherent protest. She followed, bewildered and muttering about people with no respect for weather forecasts.
Once we were past the greenhouses and the main doors shut behind us, I reached for my wand and cast a quick Muffliato. The hum settled around us like a bubble.
Hermione frowned immediately.
“What was that spell?”
Before I could answer, Harry cut in.
“Doesn’t matter. We’re not here for a lesson. Ron—what happened with Dumbledore?”
Hermione blinked.
“Wait, what?”
Harry turned toward her, quick and irritated.
“McGonagall gave him a message during Transfiguration yesterday. Said the Headmaster wanted to see him. And Ron wouldn’t explain.”
Now both of them were looking at me, Hermione with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, Harry with a face like thunder.
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck.
“Yeah, all right. I was going to tell you. Just needed to get things sorted first. And I didn’t want to do it in the middle of the common room where half the house could overhear.”
“Well,” Hermione said, her voice prim and clipped, “we’re listening.”
I glanced around. We were near the edge of the lake now, and the wind was sharp enough to make our cheeks sting. Perfect—no one else would be out here willingly.
I turned to face them and spoke in a low voice.
“The Order’s picked up on something. They think Malfoy’s tailing me. Watching me. Could be for the Ministry. Could be for someone worse.”
Harry’s brow furrowed.
“Why you?”
I shrugged.
“No idea. Maybe they think I’m easier to get close to than you. Or maybe they want to test how solid your inner circle is.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
I looked her straight in the eye.
“It means they might be trying to see if I’d slip up. If one of your friends would talk out of turn. Dumbledore reckons Malfoy might be reporting to someone—maybe even trying to manipulate me.”
Harry’s fists clenched slightly.
“That git’s been following you all this time?”
“Yeah. Subtle as a flobberworm on ice. He’s rubbish at it, honestly.”
Hermione was still processing.
“And… what does Dumbledore want us to do?”
I took a breath.
“He thinks we should feed Malfoy false info. Nothing dramatic. Just small things. Let him overhear that I’ve been benched from the Order. That Dumbledore doesn’t trust me with anything big. That I’m struggling with Occlumency. Little bits that’ll make me seem unimportant.”
Harry blinked.
“So… we’re making you look useless?”
“Basically.” I gave a crooked grin. “Won’t even be that hard, will it?”
Hermione didn’t smile.
“Ron, this is serious.”
“I know it’s serious,” I said. “That’s why I’m telling you. I can’t make this work alone. If you two help sprinkle the right sort of comments, it’ll seem more believable.”
Harry looked wary.
“So what kind of things should we say?”
“Stuff like, ‘I thought you were training more’ or ‘Dumbledore hasn’t been calling on you lately.’ Things Malfoy might overhear if he’s skulking around corners.”
Hermione chewed on her lip.
“You’re sure the Order wants this?”
I nodded.
“Dumbledore signed off on it himself. He said we need to control what Malfoy thinks he’s seeing.”
Harry let out a low breath.
“Right. I’ll help. Of course.”
“Me too,” Hermione said after a pause. “But we’ve got to be subtle, Ron. If it’s too obvious—”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I know. No dramatic monologues. Just believable enough.”
Hermione adjusted her scarf and gave me a thoughtful look.
“You’re handling this well.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What, espionage?”
“No,” she said. “Trust.”
I looked away, cheeks stinging—probably from the wind.
“Just don’t let it go to your head,” she added primly.
Harry snorted.
We turned and started walking back toward the castle, the three of us huddled close against the cold.
Now the real act began.
We were camped in a quiet corner of the Library, books and parchment strewn across the table. The place smelled like ink and dust, and the scratch of Hermione’s quill had gone from soothing to vaguely threatening. Ancient Runes homework. Brilliant. I’d rather wrestle a boggart blindfolded.
Harry was slouched low in his chair beside me, muttering under his breath as he tried to translate a passage without Hermione noticing he was doing it all wrong. We, of course, were already three paragraphs ahead of him and Hermione was frowning at his side of the table like it might catch fire from lack of progress.
And then I saw him.
Draco Malfoy. Loitering in the Ancient Runes section, a bit too close to our table, pretending to be fascinated by a dusty old volume he hadn’t even opened. His eyes flicked over the top of the shelf, clearly watching us. Watching me.
I nudged Harry with my foot under the table. Gently, but firmly. Then I did the same to Hermione, who blinked and gave me an annoyed look. I tilted my head very slightly toward the Runes shelf.
Both of them followed my glance—subtly, I had to give them that—and their expressions shifted just enough to let me know they saw him too.
Right, then.
I raised my voice just enough to carry, not shouting, but just a bit too loud for normal Library conversation.
“I just don’t get it,” I muttered, frustration lacing every word. “I’m doing everything I can, and still, Dumbledore doesn’t trust me with anything. Not one bloody thing.”
Hermione barely looked up from her parchment. She was already in character.
“Maybe because you’re not mature enough yet,” she said primly, her voice that perfect balance of casual and smug. “You let your emotions lead you too often, Ron. You’re not exactly a calm presence in a crisis.”
Ouch. That was a bit harsh. I fought the urge to grin and leaned into the drama instead, slouching in my seat like I’d just been accused of biting kittens.
Harry joined in without missing a beat.
“And even if he did trust you,” he said with a shrug, “what exactly would you do? You’d probably trip over something trying to help.”
I scowled.
“I would not. I’ve fought Death Eaters, same as you. I’ve survived five bloody years of Hogwarts. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
Hermione finally set her quill down and looked at me, all cool logic and superiority.
“It’s not just about surviving, Ron. It’s about planning, responsibility, knowing when to act and when to wait. You don’t think before you leap—you never have. That makes you a liability, not an asset.”
I forced my face into a scowl and crossed my arms.
“Brilliant. Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I muttered. “Don’t know why I even try talking to you two anymore. Just forget it.”
I snatched my quill back up and stared at the half-finished translation in front of me, jaw tight. Hermione picked her quill back up without another word. Harry let out a quiet exhale that might’ve been a laugh, and I saw him shoot me a quick, amused look under his fringe.
I didn’t look toward the Runes section again. But I could feel Malfoy still watching.
Good. Let him think I was bitter, excluded, and angry enough to do something stupid.
Let him think he was getting exactly what he wanted.
I didn’t like this. Not one bit.
The street was grey and slick with slush, and the cold bit through my gloves as I tucked my hands deep into my pockets, heading away from the Three Broomsticks with my collar turned up. Harry and Hermione were inside, probably warming their hands on butterbeer mugs. And I was out here.
Alone.
My boots squelched over the half-frozen street as I walked down the slope toward the Hog’s Head. I kept my head down but my ears open. The hat Hermione made me wear was itchy and the nerves in my chest were so tight I could barely swallow.
I’d offered to do this. Volunteered, even. Said I could handle it. Said I could be subtle.
Merlin help me.
The plan had been clear. Dumbledore’s idea, Snape’s refinements, and my part was simple enough on parchment. Look like a nervous schoolboy. Act like you’re passing something secret. Don’t draw too much attention. Make it ambiguous.
I didn’t have to act nervous.
The worst part wasn’t the cold or the fear of being followed—it was being away from Harry. After everything last year... every time I couldn’t see him in a crowd, my chest clamped like a fist. And I hated the thought of not being nearby if something kicked off again.
But Dumbledore had said this was important. That I had a role to play.
So I walked through the snow and didn’t turn back.
The Hog’s Head looked as dodgy as ever. The windows were too dirty to see through, and the sign creaked ominously overhead. I stepped inside, blinking against the gloom and smell of goats and ale and smoke. The place was barely lit—just a few oil lamps on the walls—and about five customers scattered in corners, hunched over their drinks. Most didn’t look up.
Aberforth was behind the bar, polishing a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass. He gave me a look like I was an infestation.
“I’m looking for Marlowe,” I said, just loud enough.
He gave a grunt that might’ve been a cough, then flicked his eyes toward a corner table, where a heavily veiled witch sat motionless with a cup in her hand. The shadows seemed thicker around her.
I nodded once, throat dry, and started toward her.
Halfway there, the pub door creaked open behind me.
My heart nearly stopped.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t check.
Don’t even blink.
I kept walking. One foot in front of the other. I imagined Harry’s voice in my head— You’re doing fine. Just don’t trip over your own feet, yeah?
I reached the table. The veiled witch didn’t move.
I sat for just a heartbeat. Not even enough time to warm the chair. From my inner pocket, I slid out the scroll Dumbledore had prepared—coded, layered with nonsense, but convincing-looking. I placed it beside her cup without a word, without a glance. My hand barely brushed hers.
Then I stood. Calm. Normal. Boring.
As I turned back toward the door, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A figure shifting near the bar. Pale hair, maybe. My stomach curled.
Don’t look.
Don't make it obvious.
I pushed open the door and stepped into the cold, not daring to breathe until it shut behind me.
I walked up the street again, heart pounding, ears burning. Every instinct screamed at me to check behind, but I didn’t. I focused on the Three Broomsticks glowing up ahead. I fixed my eyes on that little bit of warmth and light and safety.
Inside, I’d find Harry and Hermione.
I’d be Ron again—not bait, not a decoy, not a cog in Dumbledore’s machine. Just Ron. Cold, jittery, slightly damp, and very ready for a bloody butterbeer.
And I’d done it. Merlin help me, I’d actually done it.
The corridor near the first-floor bathroom was quiet, echoing with the usual creaks and rustles of old stone and moving portraits. I glanced at the Map again. No dot trailing behind me. Nothing obvious. Either Draco was finally getting better at tailing me… or he wasn’t tailing me at all.
Except he was.
I slowed my pace just enough to flick my eyes toward the Map again, and there it was. Draco Malfoy. In the bloody bathroom. One of the middle stalls. Stationary. Waiting.
I didn’t break stride.
No point walking into that blind, not without backup and definitely not without Snape or Dumbledore knowing. If Draco wanted to escalate things, I wouldn’t be the one cornered in a bathroom stall like a duelling amateur.
I kept walking until the corridor curved out of sight, then slipped into a forgotten alcove behind a hanging tapestry. The stone was cold against my back, but the spot was perfect—nothing on the Map nearby, no portraits, no wandering ghosts. I pulled out my wand and cast a Disillusionment Charm, then the footstep-muffling spell.
I checked the Map again.
Draco hadn’t moved.
I watched his dot, my fingers tight around my wand. Dumbledore and Snape were not going to like this.
The next afternoon, I was in Dumbledore’s office again. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, gold and soft, but the atmosphere was anything but warm.
Snape stood off to one side of the desk, arms crossed. Dumbledore sat across from me, hands folded, gaze intent and unreadable.
“I didn’t go in,” I told them. “He was already in the bathroom. He was just waiting there. I kept walking, found a safe spot, disillusioned and muffled myself. He didn’t follow.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod.
“Good. You did exactly as you should’ve.”
Dumbledore looked thoughtful.
“It appears Mr Malfoy has decided to take a more… proactive approach.”
“So,” I said, “no more observation. We’re in the next phase.”
“Likely,” Snape said. “Whether he acts now or waits… it depends on what he’s been told. But if he was lying in ambush, the situation is escalating.”
I swallowed, then asked,
“Do we even know if the Hogsmeade thing worked?”
Dumbledore’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk.
“There’s no way to be certain yet,” he said. “If he believed the drop-off was real, it may take time before we see results. His next move will tell us far more.”
I nodded, then hesitated.
Snape noticed immediately.
“Out with it.”
I looked between them, then said quietly,
“What do I do if he confronts me… but not just to talk?”
Dumbledore stilled.
Snape tilted his head slightly.
“You mean, if he attacks you?”
I nodded once.
There was a long silence. Not awkward, just… heavy.
Snape was the one who spoke first. His voice was sharp and clipped.
“You defend yourself. Swiftly. Decisively. You do not escalate, but you do not hesitate.”
“You must not seek a fight,” Dumbledore added, more gently. “But if one comes, your first duty is to protect yourself. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I nodded again, throat tight.
“And how far am I allowed to go?”
“Enough to stop him,” Snape said. “No further.”
“No Dark magic,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Nothing you cannot justify. The moment you have the advantage, you disengage. And you come directly to one of us.”
I sat back slightly, hands clasped in my lap.
“Understood.”
Dumbledore leaned forward.
“Ron. I know this places a burden on you. But you have shown remarkable judgment. And restraint.”
Snape gave a brief, almost reluctant nod.
“Just don’t let your mercy get you killed.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
That got a dry huff of breath from Snape. Dumbledore smiled faintly.
I didn’t.
Because now I knew. If Draco came at me, I was allowed to end it, but only just. And if he crossed that line first…
I’d have to be ready.
Even if it meant being the first Weasley in history to break someone’s wand arm on purpose.
The parchment with the Apparition sign-up sheet was still curling slightly at the corners, tacked unevenly to the noticeboard in the Slytherin common room. Harry and I had just added our names to the growing list. It felt strange, seeing “Weasley, Ronald” written so neatly on a Ministry roster. Like I was volunteering to be splinched.
I turned slightly, about to make a joke, when I caught sight of Draco loitering nearby. He was pretending to examine the parchment, but he wasn’t even reading. He was just… there. Again. For the fourth evening in a row. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to make wallpaper out of my daily habits.
Fine.
I took a few deliberate steps sideways, letting my voice drop just enough to seem private, but not enough to truly be private. Just loud enough to carry to the blonde stain on the wall.
“Snape nearly hexed my eyebrows off,” I said, with all the weary drama I could muster. “Said I’ve been wasting his time for years. I think I’m banned from extra tutoring now.”
Harry raised a brow.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” I shook my head, sighing. “Honestly, I think that’s a little harsh.”
Harry snorted.
“Harsh is how Snape says good morning. What’d you expect?”
“It’s not my fault!” I said, half-defensive, half-defeated. “I think my brain’s just… leaky. Like no matter how hard I try, Occlumency just won’t stick. Snape says I’ve got the mental defences of a wet sponge.”
Harry let out a surprised laugh and barely tried to muffle it.
“I’m shocked he used such gentle language.”
“Didn’t help that I accidentally blocked my own memory last time,” I muttered.
That got him properly snickering.
“ What ?”
“I forgot where I lived for an hour,” I said with a shrug.
“I think even a wet sponge would do better.”
I gave him a wounded look.
“Et tu, Potter?”
He grinned, and I saw the corner of Draco’s eye twitch. Good. Let him wonder.
Just like we wanted.
I was so damn tired.
Tired of spinning plates, tired of keeping the secrets straight, tired of calculating every word I said within earshot of Malfoy, tired of ducking down side corridors to cast Disillusionment, of lying to teachers, of scanning the Map every time I wanted to so much as sneeze in peace. Dumbledore’s plans were getting more complex by the week, the coursework had turned mean, the essays seemed to have doubled in length overnight, and Prefect duty was a constant weight across my shoulders.
I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in… maybe a month. Maybe longer.
And through it all, I kept it together. I tucked every worry, every panic, every flicker of guilt or fury behind the clouds in my mind. I’d got so good at Occlumency I didn’t even need to try anymore. It wasn’t shields—it was scaffolding. And I lived behind it.
It made me dull. I knew that. Luna had said so. Twice. And if Luna said something twice, it meant she was actually worried.
But Harry hadn’t said anything. Hermione hadn’t either. So I kept going.
I’d done a few more sketches with them—loud conversations near Malfoy about how rubbish I was at Occlumency, how Dumbledore didn’t trust me, how Snape was fed up with my lack of progress. We’d staged a conversation in the Library last week where Hermione told me again that I was a liability. Harry had added that even a Flobberworm would be more useful in a duel. I’d scowled, told them to sod off, and stormed away.
Malfoy had eaten it all up like he was starving.
And still—nothing. No slip, no contact, no real change in anything, except maybe that Malfoy’s skin had gone the colour of bad milk and his eyes had taken on a sickly glint. He was getting reckless. Erratic. Flitwick had pulled me aside after class once and asked if I could check on Malfoy as a prefect. Said he seemed withdrawn, tense. I’d nodded, said I’d look into it.
I hadn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be near him more than I had to be.
What I wanted was a break. Just a few days. Just a single day. But that wasn’t going to happen, because tonight was Occlumency again. And I already knew how it would go—I wouldn’t manage to throw Snape out. But I’d keep him at bay. I was good at that now. Holding things in. Burying it all until I barely felt it anymore.
I was nearly at the bathroom when I heard it.
A shift of air.
The subtle scuff of a shoe against stone.
My wand was in my hand before I thought about it. I ducked just in time. A flash of spellfire missed my shoulder by inches, and I whirled around, heart thudding, stunner on my lips.
Malfoy stood a few paces away, wand raised. His face flickered from shock to rage in an instant.
“What are you hiding, Weasley?”
His voice was low, tight with effort. He was trying to sound dangerous, but it wobbled around the edges.
I didn’t lower my wand, but I didn’t raise it either. I didn’t even blink.
“You’re going to hex people in the back now?” I said, keeping my voice cool. “Is that where we are?”
Malfoy sneered.
“You’ve been disappearing for weeks. I want to know where you’re going.”
“Why don’t you just ask nicely?” I said. “Oh, wait. Right. You’re more the skulking-in-toilets type.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t mess with me, Weasley. I will find out.”
I stared at him. No fear, no anger. Just steady, quiet pressure behind my eyes. Occlumency holding everything in place. I was still inside.
“Not messing with you, Malfoy,” I said. “I just don’t owe you anything.”
His hand clenched tighter around his wand. He looked half-crazed with frustration, like he couldn’t believe I wasn’t playing his game.
“You think you’re clever? You’re not. You’re a pawn. You don’t even see what’s happening around you.”
“Could say the same to you,” I murmured.
That did it.
“Shut up!”
He flung a spell at me—wordless, fast—but I was faster. My shield snapped up in a blink and deflected it cleanly. I answered with a flick of my wrist, nonverbal, and his wand sailed from his hand and clattered against the far wall.
Silence fell.
Draco stood there, chest heaving, stunned.
Then the sneer came back.
“What, going to gloat?” he said bitterly. “Do it, then! Let’s see how noble you really are.”
I looked at him. Not with anger. Not even contempt.
Just… exhaustion.
He was standing there with his arms tense, braced like he thought I’d lash out now. Like he wanted me to, just to have something to fight back against. But I didn’t feel like fighting. I felt… old.
I lowered my wand, turned my back on him, and walked away.
He didn’t follow.
When I turned the next corner, I heard his footsteps pounding in the opposite direction.
Running. Again.
I kept walking, but the anger never came.
Just that low, quiet throb of tiredness in my chest. Like someone had scooped everything else out and left behind nothing but the echo.
Draco had run. I should’ve felt triumphant or smug or even worried. Instead, I felt… nothing. Just the way you feel after crying too hard for too long—emptied out, sore behind the eyes, and past caring.
The corridor turned cold the closer I got to the Room of Requirement. I could’ve used the Map again, but I didn’t. I already knew he wouldn’t be there. Draco wouldn’t push his luck twice in a row.
The door appeared before me like it always did, faithful and silent. I stepped inside and shut it gently behind me.
Snape was already there, standing near the far end of the room, sleeves rolled, wand in hand, like always. But his posture changed the second he saw my face. Not much—just a subtle straightening of his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes.
“Explain,” he said, low and flat.
I didn’t even sit down. I stood just a few paces inside the room, my hand still around my wand because it felt like if I let go, I might shake.
“He threw a spell at my back.”
Snape stepped forward, slowly, his jaw tightening.
“What kind of spell?”
“I ducked too fast to see,” I said. “But he didn’t deny it. Just got angry I’d caught him. Said I was hiding something. Tried to get under my skin.”
Snape didn’t speak. He waited.
“So I said something back. Nothing too clever. Just… that he was scared. That he was in over his head.”
A pause.
“Then he attacked properly.”
Snape’s voice was very quiet.
“Did he hit you?”
“No,” I said. “I shielded. Then I disarmed him.”
I didn’t mention how easily it had happened. How fast it had been. I didn’t want him to hear pride in it.
Snape watched me for a long moment. Then he turned away, his robes whispering against the floor. He walked to the far end of the room and stopped near the false windows, where the fake moonlight slanted across the floor.
“This changes things,” he said, like he was speaking more to himself than to me.
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
“I think he expected me to hex him after,” I said. “He stood there, all braced like I’d go for it. But I didn’t. I just left.”
Snape turned back slowly, and I saw something behind his eyes that I couldn’t quite place. Not approval. Not anger. Something heavier.
“You made the right call,” he said at last. “You did everything correctly.”
I swallowed.
“So what now?”
“I speak to the Headmaster,” he said. “Right now. This is an escalation. We can’t afford another.”
He walked past me toward the door but stopped just beside me.
“You defended yourself well. Don’t let this rattle you.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just looked at the door.
“I’m not rattled,” I replied quietly.
It was a lie. A practised one. It passed his inspection.
Snape inclined his head once and swept out, leaving me standing in the middle of the Room, arms leaden, lungs aching, wishing I believed my own lie.
Notes:
I just finished reading an amazing story recommended by ValerieAlstonia. If you’re interested, it’s called "Judge softly" by Magpies_Treasury (https://archive.transformativeworks.org/works/56756803/chapters/144289084)
Chapter 85: INTERLUDE V
Notes:
Baby interlude with Draco's point of view.
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE V
January 1997
Draco leaned against the frost-dusted stone archway just beyond the Entrance Hall, arms folded tightly across his chest. His fingers were cold. He didn’t mind. He liked the sting of it—it kept his hands from shaking.
Weasley.
Of all people. It should’ve been Potter. It was supposed to be Potter. But somehow, it was Weasley being shadowed, Weasley passing coded messages to cloaked strangers in dingy pubs. Weasley, with that stupid loping gait and terrible posture and perfect hair, who suddenly mattered far more than he should.
He’d followed him, like always, careful not to be too obvious. Slipped into the Hog’s Head seconds after the red hair vanished inside. He’d seen the handoff. He’d seen the tension in Weasley’s shoulders. He’d felt it too, standing there behind the door, heart in his throat, trying not to breathe too loudly.
He hated this.
This wasn’t power. This wasn’t glory. This was nerves and shadows and never knowing if he was walking into a trap.
The mark on his arm burned. He didn’t touch it.
Dumbledore. He was still expected to kill Dumbledore. As if he could just do that. As if murdering the most powerful wizard in the world was something he could just get on with , between Potions and Astronomy and pretending not to be cracking under the weight of it all.
And now—this. A second task. Not just spying on Weasley, but manipulating him. Winning his trust. Feeding him lies. Watching for weakness.
Draco pressed his knuckles to his mouth, biting back a bitter laugh.
As if Ron Weasley would ever trust him.
Still… the Order clearly trusted Weasley. And if the Dark Lord thought it was worth pursuing, then Draco didn’t have a choice. He had to try.
He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he failed again.
His eyes drifted upward, to the high towers of the castle silhouetted against the darkening sky. Somewhere up there, Dumbledore was moving through his day as if none of this were happening. And Weasley was probably back with Potter and Granger, laughing over butterbeer.
Draco’s jaw tightened.
Fine.
If he had to play this part, he would play it well. Ron Weasley would never even see it coming.
But deep down, behind the bitterness and the burning scar, there was a flicker of something colder, sharper, and harder to name. Not hatred. Not really. Not anymore.
Maybe that’s what scared him most.
Draco knocked once before slipping into the office, closing the door behind him. The dungeon was quiet save for the soft simmer of a cauldron near the back wall and the scratch of Snape’s quill. He didn’t look up.
“I assume this isn’t about your sub-par essay,” Snape said dryly.
Draco ignored the jab.
“I saw something during the Hogsmeade trip.”
Snape’s quill stilled.
Draco stepped closer.
“Weasley. In the Hog’s Head. Acting... odd. Nervous. He met with someone. A woman, I think. Hooded. He gave her something.”
Snape looked up now, his gaze unreadable.
“Did you recognise the woman?”
“No.” Draco folded his arms, steadying his voice. “Didn’t get a good look. But he went in alone, left Potter and Granger behind. Looked over his shoulder like he was worried he’d been followed.”
Snape said nothing.
Draco studied him.
“Thought you might want to know. Since you’ve been tutoring him.”
That got a reaction. The faintest twitch at the corner of Snape’s mouth. Draco pressed on, careful.
“I’ve heard things,” he added. “Them whispering about Occlumency. Thought that was Potter’s miserable hobby, not Weasley’s. Unless he’s training for something.”
Snape slowly set down his quill.
“You’re listening to corridor gossip now?”
“I’m watching him,” Draco said. “Like I was told to. He’s not as useless as he looks.”
Silence stretched between them. Snape’s gaze was cool, inscrutable. Finally:
“If Weasley is involved in anything above his ability, I will handle it.”
Draco nodded slowly.
“So it’s nothing, then.”
“I didn’t say that.” Snape stood and walked to the shelves. “But you would do well to remember your own task. Fixating on others is a convenient way to avoid your own failures.”
The words hit harder than Draco expected. His jaw clenched.
Snape turned back.
“Monitor him. Quietly. But don’t let your curiosity become sloppiness. You’re playing a dangerous game, Draco. One misstep, and it won’t be Weasley who suffers for it.”
Draco swallowed hard.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Then prove it. And do not bring me every twitch you find suspicious unless it’s actionable.”
Draco nodded again, tighter this time.
“Understood.”
He turned to leave.
“And Draco—” Snape’s voice followed him just before he touched the door handle. “If Weasley’s being used… he’s not the only one.”
Draco didn’t answer. He stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
But Snape’s words followed him all the way back to the Slytherin common room.
Chapter 86: BOOK SIX - SEVEN OF SWORDS
Notes:
Chapter 80 at last. My second favourite chapter. Sorry not sorry.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY
SEVEN OF SWORDS
By Monday, I’d nearly chewed a hole through my cheek from the inside out. Still no word from Dumbledore. Nothing from Snape either over the weekend, not even one of his signature dry-as-dust remarks slipped into a passing hallway glance. Just... nothing. So I waited. I kept my head down and sat through classes like I wasn’t ready to crack apart at the seams.
When the hour rolled around, I still didn’t know what to do. Was I meant to go to tutoring? Avoid the usual route? Act like nothing happened?
In the end, I did what I always did. Routine had been the plan from the beginning. I stuck to it.
I left the common room at the usual time, Map tucked under my arm like it was just another bit of parchment. At each corridor corner, I ducked briefly out of sight to consult it. Nobody following. Nobody ahead. Bathroom: empty. I let myself in.
I stared at the row of sinks, palms clammy. There wasn’t even the echo of footsteps. If Draco was going to try again, he’d have to do better than that. I took a breath, tapped my wand to my chest, and whispered the disillusionment charm.
It settled cold across my skin like sleet. Then I muffled my steps and slipped out, unseen.
The Room appeared for me without hesitation: golden torchlight, pale duelling floor, neat shelves of practice wands and stun cushions like nothing had ever gone wrong.
Snape was already there, arms folded, eyes sharp as ever. But his expression didn’t carry the usual sneer or challenge. He looked... expectant. And tired.
I let the charm melt away, and he turned.
“The Headmaster was unavailable this weekend,” he said, tone clipped. “And he appears unavailable still. So we’ll proceed without him.”
“Unavailable?” I echoed. “He hasn’t told me anything. I thought he’d—he always lets me know when he goes somewhere.”
Snape’s mouth tightened into something unreadable.
“He didn’t inform me either.”
That landed cold in my gut. Dumbledore always told him. Always.
“Do you know where he could be?”
“If I did,” Snape said, voice like iron, “I wouldn’t be standing here speculating with you.”
That wasn’t comforting.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot.
“Should we be worried?”
Snape’s eyes flicked to me.
“Worry, Mr Weasley, is useful only when it compels action. For now, our action is to continue.”
Right. Continue. As if things weren’t fraying at the edges already.
“Then what do we change?”
Snape gave a sharp nod.
“You’re to borrow Potter’s cloak. No more disillusionment charms. Use the cloak when leaving your common room and do not let yourself be seen en route. I want no more bathroom detours. Is that clear?”
“Yeah. Clear.”
It made sense. Fewer chances for Malfoy to corner me. Still, it felt like things were slipping. If Dumbledore was gone without a word... what else might be coming?
Snape summoned two practice wands from the shelf and tossed one to me.
“We’ll begin with counter-curses. And Weasley—don’t let your distractions dull your reflexes.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” I said, catching the wand and squaring off.
I told myself I’d be fine. Told myself Dumbledore would turn up soon. That whatever he was doing, he had a plan. He always did.
But something in my chest didn’t believe it. Something in me had started to brace.
Just in case.
On Wednesday lunch, I sat next to Harry at the Slytherin table, not touching my food. My eyes were glued to the staff table.
Still no Dumbledore.
He hadn’t shown up since Friday night. Not for a single meal. Not for anything. I’d checked the Map twice this morning before breakfast. The Headmaster’s name hadn’t been on it. Not in his office, not in the castle, not even on the grounds. It was like he’d vanished.
And I hated it.
I’d lived with secrecy before, with half-plans and barely explained orders, but Dumbledore always told me. Even when he was vague, he made sure I knew enough to follow the thread. But this? Nothing. Not even Snape knew where he’d gone. And Snape never didn’t know.
Snape said we were pausing the active work. Said I was to use Harry’s cloak instead of the Disillusionment, and avoid confrontations. No instructions on whether Draco should still be fed fake information. No new objectives. Just a stall. A stopgap. I didn’t like it. I wasn’t good at stillness when everything felt like it was shifting under my feet.
“Mate,” Harry said around a bite of mashed potato. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking to my hands.
Right. My deck.
I’d already pulled it from my pocket without noticing. My fingers were shuffling the cards idly, like muscle memory. I stared down at them, then drew one.
Seven of Swords.
Again.
My stomach sank. I didn’t even try to hide my sigh.
“Every bloody day since Sunday,” I muttered.
Harry leaned a bit closer, lowering his voice.
“That one again?”
I nodded and slipped the card back in the middle of the deck, then pocketed it. I could feel it burning through the fabric, as if it knew how unnerved I was.
Seven of Swords. Deceit. Strategy. Secrets. Theft.
At first, I’d assumed it was about Draco. That this was some celestial way of telling me to stay on my toes, that he was planning something, or that I needed to deceive him better. But the more it came up, the less sure I was. It wasn’t shifting. It wasn’t evolving. It was constant. Like it didn’t care what I did.
That was what really got to me—how it felt like Fate. Like something had already been decided and I was just the idiot stuck inside it.
I didn’t want Draco to be important enough to warrant Fate. I didn’t want this to be what the universe decided needed prophecy and pattern. Because if Fate was involved, then it meant no one— not even Draco —had room to change course. No chance to do better. Just rails to follow into darkness.
And now Dumbledore was gone.
The one person who always knew more than me, the one who left breadcrumbs and threads for me to follow, had just disappeared without a word. He could be doing something vital. He could be in danger. Or—worse—he could already be dead, and no one had noticed yet.
I clenched my hands under the table and tried not to look like I wanted to scream.
I wanted answers. I wanted orders. I wanted to do something.
But instead, I sat in a noisy, warm Hall with the taste of iron in my mouth and a tarot card in my pocket that felt like it was mocking me.
And Dumbledore didn’t come.
Dumbledore wasn’t at breakfast. Again.
I stared up at the empty golden chair at the centre of the Head Table, its silence louder than any absence had the right to be. Dumbledore’s seat stayed empty. Just like it had been at dinner. And lunch yesterday. And breakfast before that.
And now, even lunch today.
By the time I set my fork down, I’d made up my mind.
If I couldn’t go to Dumbledore—and Snape didn’t want me acting without orders—then I’d go to the next best thing.
After lunch, I slipped away from the Great Hall and made my way up the castle, climbing staircase after staircase until the air grew thinner and warmer, laced with incense and dust. My legs were burning by the time I reached the ladder, the round trap door overhead like the lid of some oversized teacup.
I climbed, heart thudding—not from the height.
I knocked twice.
The trap door creaked open immediately, without a sound from inside.
I lifted my head cautiously into the Divination classroom.
Trelawney was sitting at a small round table tucked between two velvet-draped armchairs. The curtains were drawn against the windows, soft lamps glowing amber. In front of her, a worn tarot deck lay in a loose spread, like it had been waiting for me.
“Ah,” she said, without surprise. “Mr Weasley. I knew you would come.”
Of course she did.
I hauled myself through and closed the trap door behind me. The room was warm and quiet, and somehow it felt like I’d walked into the air before a storm. I crossed to the table and sat down across from her.
She didn’t offer tea. She didn’t need to.
My eyes dropped to the cards.
My breath caught in my throat.
There it was. Seven of Swords. Upright. Right in the centre of the spread.
I said its name in a whisper, like saying it too loud would make it real.
Trelawney nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she said, eyes magnified behind her lenses. “I’ve been pulling this card for nearly a week now.”
I looked up sharply.
“Me too, Professor.”
She inhaled softly through her nose and pressed two fingers to her temples.
“Oh, my dear boy… you’ve felt it too.”
The room felt like it shifted, grew deeper.
“Treachery… deception… a theft concealed by silence,” she whispered, drawing out each word like a thread. “This card warns of secrets taken and destinies shifted. And if both of us draw it… Then the omen is not yours alone.”
Her voice turned almost fragile.
“The signs converge. A theft approaches—a silent heist cloaked in cleverness. But there is more. The Seven of Swords is the shadow behind the door. And someone will pass through it… never to return.”
I didn’t say anything.
She tilted her head, watching me like I was a chessboard.
“Something important is being stolen right from under Fate’s nose,” she murmured. “Someone is sacrificing something vital—a piece of their soul, or their future.”
I swallowed hard.
“Do you know who the thief is? Or what’s being stolen?”
She looked down at the deck and straightened, as though preparing for a performance.
“Let us ask,” she intoned.
With slow, ritualistic care, she reshuffled the cards and laid them in a tight stack. Her voice deepened, becoming distant and ceremonial.
“Let the cards speak of the one who walks unseen… Reveal the face behind the Seven of Swords. Who are they? What stirs their hand? And what will be taken from the vault of this world?”
She laid out three cards face down. Then, without hesitation, she turned the first one.
The Hermit, reversed.
“This… is someone ancient in spirit,” she said, peering down at the figure. “Alone by design. A soul who walks apart from others, burdened by knowledge he cannot share. Reversed, the Hermit hides his purpose—even from those closest to him.”
She leaned closer.
“He does not steal for gain. He steals because he must. Because he sees what no one else dares to look at.”
My whole body went still.
That sounded like Dumbledore.
And he wasn’t here. Hadn’t been here since I started pulling the same bloody card, over and over.
She turned the second card.
Seven of Swords.
“There it is again,” she whispered, and her fingers hovered like the card was warm. “The thief’s hand. But more than that, this card speaks of strategy. Of acting in the shadows. A necessary deception. He moves quietly, dishonourably perhaps, but only because the war he fights is not a fair one.”
Her eyes gleamed.
“He knows the enemy watches. So he does not speak of it. He carries the weight himself.”
That could be anyone, I thought. Dumbledore. Draco. Snape. Even me.
But I didn’t say it.
I didn’t want to give the thought room to grow.
Then she turned the third card.
The Tower.
My stomach dropped.
I hated that card. Ever since I first saw it, I’d hated it. For me, the Tower had always meant one thing.
Dumbledore’s death.
Trelawney looked grave now, her voice a soft tremble.
“And here… destruction. Sudden. Catastrophic. Something will fall, Ron. Something sacred—yes, stolen, but also shattered. This theft changes everything.” She didn’t look away from the card. “It is the theft of something cursed. Something so heavily guarded, its removal will rip apart more than just a vault. It will shatter a fate.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“The cost will be high. For the thief. For the world.”
I couldn’t move. I didn’t even blink. Because I knew. Somewhere inside me, I knew.
Whatever was happening, it was Dumbledore. It had to be.
And whatever he was doing—whatever he’d already done —there was no going back from it.
I started to speak.
“Professor—”
But then everything in the room changed.
The lamps flickered. The air grew thick. And Professor Trelawney’s eyes rolled back in her head.
Her limbs went rigid in the chair.
And when she spoke, it was with a voice that was not hers—louder, rawer, scraped from the inside of something ancient and broken:
“The soul-splitter’s chain is broken. Only two links remain.
One coils. One walks. Both bleed his life.
The thief has entered fire, and he shall not return.
The red hand must steady the scale.
One friend must fall for the other to rise.
The end comes walking on two paths—
And one path ends in death… that was always meant to live.”
Then her head fell forward with a grunt.
A heartbeat later, she blinked and straightened, adjusting her shawl with a confused expression.
“Oh—oh dear, I’m terribly sorry, Mr Weasley. I must have drifted off for a moment. How embarrassing.”
I didn’t say a word.
Couldn’t.
She didn’t know. She never knew when it happened. But I knew.
That was a real prophecy.
And I didn’t know what to do with it.
I stood slowly.
“Thank you, Professor,” I said, voice too calm for how I felt. “This was… helpful.”
She smiled gently, already pulling the deck back into her hands.
“Blessings on your path, dear boy.”
I nodded and turned away, opening the trap door with numb fingers.
I descended in silence.
The stairs spiralled endlessly downward, but my thoughts still spun faster. My stomach felt like ice. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
The prophecy echoed in my mind. Again and again.
“One friend must fall for the other to rise.”
My chest felt tight. Like my lungs couldn’t hold enough air.
Dumbledore was the Hermit. The thief. The one walking into fire. Whatever he was doing, it was going to cost him. And maybe more than just him.
Whatever that meant.
Whatever any of it meant.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to stop it.
All I could do was walk.
And try not to look at the Tower still rising behind my eyes.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I drifted in and out, head full of smoke and shouts and fire. I kept hearing her voice. That awful, rasping voice that wasn’t hers.
One friend must fall…
By morning, the words had stopped being just prophecy. They were facts. Like gravity. Like the cold.
I went through the motions of getting dressed. Washed my face, brushed my hair. Sat at the Slytherin table. I barely touched my eggs. I kept glancing up at the Head Table.
Still no Dumbledore.
Just McGonagall, surveilling the students, Snape, stiff as a board. Other professors were chatting happily.
I tried not to stare. I really did.
But I must’ve checked Dumbledore’s seat fifty times before Harry nudged me gently with his elbow.
“Nothing’s changed since five minutes ago, you know,” he said, trying to sound light. It didn’t land.
I gave him a faint nod, enough to keep him from asking questions. He didn’t push. He knew that look on my face. The one I wore when I couldn’t speak the truth out loud.
Hermione joined us halfway through the meal, dropped into the seat beside me, and eyed my untouched plate.
“You all right?” she asked in a whisper. “You look like you’ve been hexed.”
“Didn’t sleep,” I said. Which was true. Just not all of it.
She gave me a look like she wanted to say more, but then she glanced at Harry and pressed her lips shut. Probably thought it was about him. That I was worried again. She wasn’t wrong.
But this time, the danger wasn’t him.
It was me.
It was Dumbledore.
It was… everything.
I didn’t do a card reading after breakfast. First time in weeks.
The deck was in my robe pocket, like always. But my fingers hovered just over the edge of the lid and didn’t open it.
I was too afraid.
Afraid I’d pull the same card again.
Afraid I wouldn’t.
So I sat in the common room most of the morning, pretending to study. Mostly just staring at the same three sentences in my Transfiguration notes, letting the words blur and repeat until they were just patterns of ink.
By the time Divination rolled around, the sky was greying, and the spiral staircase to the North Tower felt twice as long as usual.
I was the last to climb up the ladder.
The trap door was open.
Trelawney greeted me like nothing had happened.
“Ah, Mr Weasley. You’ve brought a fog with you today,” she said dreamily, eyes glittering behind her glasses. “Your aura is practically shrouded.”
I sat without answering. She didn’t seem to notice.
The usual soft incense curled in the air. Lavender and myrrh. I felt sick.
Lavender Brown was already at a table with Parvati, the two of them whispering about tea leaves and someone’s supposed engagement line.
I kept my head down. I didn’t pull out my notes. I didn’t speak.
When Trelawney began lecturing about Numerology, I barely heard her.
My eyes kept sliding to her— the real her. The one who’d gone still and cold and started spitting out fate like it hurt.
She had no idea. Not a clue. She’d called it “drifting off.” Said she was sorry.
Sorry. For revealing that one friend must fall for the other to rise.
I didn’t know which one of us was the one that had to fall.
And worse—I didn’t know if I’d have to be the one to let it happen.
After class, I didn’t talk to anyone.
I walked the long way back down, alone. The castle corridors felt like they were watching me.
I skipped dinner. Just couldn’t sit there and pretend everything was fine. Couldn’t watch Harry laugh at something Ginny said. Couldn’t see Hermione go still when she noticed the head table still hadn’t filled.
Instead, I stayed in the Slytherin common room, head down, staring at the fire until it was nearly time.
Then I left.
Snape was waiting when I arrived.
His arms were crossed, expression unreadable as always. There was no flicker of recognition in his face—not that anything was wrong, not that I was off. He just looked at me, and then toward the practice space, and said:
“Begin.”
No warm-up. No questions. No hesitation.
I dropped into stance and let instinct take over. Not because I was ready. But because I needed something to push against.
“ Legilimens. ”
The world cracked open.
A memory surged—Trelawney’s voice, cold and inhuman, speaking of fire and chains and death. I slammed it back down, hard. Forced it behind my wall.
Another image tried to surface—Dumbledore’s empty chair. I shoved it down too.
I was angry, sharp. More vicious than usual. Snape noticed. He didn’t say anything. He just pushed harder.
By the time we stopped, my breathing was ragged, my shirt damp, and my head buzzing like a cursed mirror.
Snape circled me once.
“You are holding back,” he said, voice low.
“I’m protecting myself,” I shot back, too tired to lie.
Something flickered in his expression, then vanished.
He didn’t press.
“Go.”
I nodded and left.
By the time I got back to my dorm, everyone else was already in bed.
I sat on mine, lit my wand, and stared at the card deck in my hand.
I didn’t open it.
Not tonight.
Not with the Tower still standing, waiting to fall.
Something changed at Sunday’s meals.
The four Heads of House were absent from the High Table, their chairs left conspicuously empty.
When I drew a card, it wasn’t the Seven of Swords anymore.
It was the Tower.
Monday morning made dreadful, perfect sense.
I hadn’t even touched my toast. The Hall was buzzing with the low hum of students talking over each other, rustling newspapers and passing platters of eggs and sausages. I was only half-aware of it. I was already tense—wired so tightly from the past two days that it felt like I was bracing for something before I knew what.
Then the owl post arrived.
I didn’t notice the paper land next to me until Harry muttered,
“Blimey, front page.”
My eyes dropped to the Daily Prophet spread across the Slytherin table.
BREAK-IN AT GRINGOTTS: VAULT BREACHED IN NIGHT RAID
And just like that, my blood ran cold.
I didn’t need to read the details. I didn’t care who the Prophet guessed the vault belonged to, or what they speculated had been stolen, or whether it was a lone thief or a team. I didn’t need any of that.
Because I knew.
I knew.
Dumbledore had broken into Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault.
He had gone after the Cup.
He had done it alone.
And now he was—
I stared at the Prophet, but the words blurred. I wasn’t reading anymore. Just... staring. Like I could burn a hole through the ink and see the truth more clearly if I stared hard enough.
I didn’t even hear the staff room door open at first.
But the change in the room’s noise caught me. Conversations trailed off. A few heads turned.
Then I saw her.
McGonagall.
She stepped into the Great Hall from the door behind the High Table, pale as parchment and moving fast—straight toward the Slytherin table.
I stood up before she reached me.
She didn’t have to say a word.
I stepped around the bench and met her halfway. Her voice was tight.
“Come with me, Mr Weasley. Quickly.”
We didn’t take the main door.
She led me straight to the staff room behind the head table. I barely registered the clatter of cutlery and chairs behind me as I followed her across the room, toward the fireplace. She snatched a pot from the mantel and offered it to me.
“The Hospital Wing,” she said. “Pomfrey’s office. Say it clearly.”
I took a handful of Floo powder, barely trusting my fingers not to shake. I stepped into the grate.
“Pomfrey’s office!”
Green flames swallowed me, and the world twisted.
I stumbled out into a small, neat office lined with potion shelves and parchment stacks. It smelled like antiseptic and old magic.
McGonagall stepped out of the fire behind me, took one look at me, and touched my arm.
“This way.”
We moved through a side door, out into the bright, sterile light of the hospital wing.
That’s when I saw them.
Moody.
Shacklebolt.
Snape.
And—
Aberforth.
That’s what did it.
The moment I saw him, standing rigid with arms crossed and grief carved into the lines of his face—that’s when it clicked.
They weren’t just here for instructions.
They were here to say goodbye.
There was a curtain drawn along the side of the room, blocking the nearest bed from view, set up so that people walking in wouldn’t see straightaway.
The others were already positioned facing it.
I walked forward.
Passed the people standing there. I didn’t register much about them.
And then I stepped past the curtain.
There he was.
Dumbledore.
Lying on the bed.
He looked smaller than I remembered. The light from the window made his skin look like thin paper, and every breath was a shallow shift in his chest. His hands were folded loosely over the blanket. His face was pale. Empty.
But his eyes were open.
And when he saw me, they lit—sharp and bright and so very present. Like everything in him that was still alive had been waiting for me, and only me.
He smiled. Not weakly. Relieved.
He turned his head slightly toward Snape, who stood just beside the bed, close at hand. Dumbledore made a subtle motion with his fingers—just enough.
Snape met his eyes. Then looked at me.
He didn’t ask for confirmation. He just raised his wand and began casting the privacy wards—silent, fluid, precise. Layers of magic swept over us like gauze being drawn across a room.
The hospital wing dimmed behind it.
I stepped closer and sat carefully at Dumbledore’s bedside, the weight in my chest heavier than anything I’d ever felt. He looked at me like I was the last thing he needed to see.
I didn’t speak.
I just waited.
“You came,” Dumbledore said, voice barely above a whisper, but still steady. “Thank you, my dear boy. I feared I would not see you again in time.”
I swallowed hard, my throat too tight to speak.
He shifted his good hand—the left—and tapped the blanket draped over him with a faint tremble.
“There’s a box… just beneath my hand. Take it.”
I leaned forward and gently slid my fingers beneath his wrist, and there it was—small, metal, covered in dark warding runes. Cool to the touch, but thrumming faintly. I lifted it and cradled it in my lap. I knew without needing to ask. The weight, the feel of it— the Cup was inside.
“I am sorry,” Dumbledore said, each syllable now costing him breath. “That you will have to destroy it… alone.”
My throat clenched painfully. But I pushed past it, cleared it, and said quietly,
“There’s nothing to apologise for. I’ll do it.”
My hand clenched over the box. Tighter.
Dumbledore gave a small nod, eyes glassy but fierce.
“Good. Then… there is one more item. I entrusted the Sword of Gryffindor to you. I have already asked Minerva to place it in your hands when you ask for it. She won’t refuse you.” A pause. A spark of warmth touched his expression. “She won’t question you.”
He let that settle before adding,
“Just as the others won’t question you about… the wand.”
I blinked. Frowned.
“The wand?”
He lifted his right arm—not easily. The fingers twitched, struggling, until he managed to draw a slender wand from within his sleeve and hold it lightly in his injured, blackened hand. The Elder Wand.
My heart stopped.
“I had hoped for something more dramatic,” he murmured. “Some grand symbolic passing of power. But time does not grant us ceremony. So… we must do it now.”
He looked at me, clear and direct.
“Disarm me.”
The silence weighed on me like a stone slab. I knew Snape and the others couldn’t hear us behind the wards, but they were still there. Watching. And this felt like something private. Something… sacred.
I didn’t want to do it. I really didn’t want to do it.
But there wasn’t time.
I drew my wand.
And without a word, I cast it.
Expelliarmus.
The Elder Wand snapped from his fingers and soared through the air, landing neatly in my hand. It was warm. And humming.
I couldn’t look at it. I just lowered it quickly and laid it on top of the box in my lap, like if I didn’t hold it, maybe it wouldn’t be real.
Dumbledore exhaled, a sound almost like relief.
“Now… I leave it in your care. Until Harry needs it. At the end.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.
He turned his head slightly, and his right hand—ruined and stiff—shifted toward me again.
“And… the ring.”
I looked at his blackened fingers. The Gaunt ring was still there, nestled against burned, gnarled skin. I hesitated.
This felt wrong.
Like robbing the last possessions of a dead man.
But he wasn’t dead.
Not yet.
So I reached out and carefully slid the ring from his finger. It stuck, then came loose. I placed it beside the wand. Next to the box.
He watched me do it. His gaze didn’t waver.
“You must protect Harry,” he whispered. “Until the end. But do not spare him the truth forever. He must know what he is… what he carries.”
I nodded slowly, throat raw.
He looked past me for a moment, at the faint outlines of the figures beyond the ward.
“Severus will be with you when the time comes to tell him.”
Then his eyes returned to mine.
“I have placed terrible burdens in your hands,” he said softly. “And yet… I have never doubted you. Not once. Not when you carry yourself like someone twice your age.”
The air between us seemed to still. His voice had grown thinner, fading at the edges. But there was no fear in it. No desperation. Just quiet trust.
“You will have to finish alone… what we began together,” he said.
I sat straighter.
“I’ll see to it that Voldemort is vanquished. And that he never comes back.”
His eyes closed briefly. A shallow breath passed between his lips.
“I trust you.”
The silence stretched.
I didn’t try to hide the tears that leaked out of me now. Just wiped them away with my sleeve and breathed slowly until I could speak again.
Then I looked at him—really looked at him.
“You’ve only asked me for selfless things,” I said. “Things for the greater good. So… can I do something for you? Just you. Something selfish, if you want. Because you’ve earned it.”
A flicker of something moved through his eyes. Warmer than relief. Something like hope.
“There is… one thing,” he said, voice thinner now, like gauze unravelling. “Something I asked you once… long ago. And something you said you would tell me, if I asked.”
The words came before he even finished.
I knew.
“Since when, Ron?” he asked. “How long have you known?”
I leaned closer. Looked him in the face. No fear. Just truth.
And I said it:
“Since long before I was born.”
Something shifted in Dumbledore’s face.
At first, it was awe—quiet, still awe, like he was watching the last piece of a centuries-old puzzle fall into place. His eyes, though dimmed by the weight of death, shone with the clarity of understanding. And then that awe gave way to something deeper.
Gratitude.
Like I’d given him something he’d waited his whole life to receive—not a weapon, or an answer, but permission. To rest. To stop wondering.
And then came peace. The kind that sank through him like warm light. That smoothed the edges of his face and softened the brittle tension in his body. He looked… relieved. Not just to have said his piece. But to know.
He reached out, slowly, with fingers that trembled and twitched and finally found mine. He took my hand in his.
His touch was frail but warm.
His voice, though faint, was clear.
“Ron… may I ask… what is it like, the other side?”
I looked at him.
Really looked.
And something in me shifted, too.
My grief changed shape. It didn’t vanish—it never would—but the sharp edge of it dulled. Because that question pulled something else to the surface—something I’d buried beneath the fear of losing him.
This wasn’t the end.
He was leaving—but not gone. Not forever. He was going somewhere.
So I said the only true thing I could.
“The greatest adventure.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, hard and bright. That same old glint. Mischief and wonder and something ancient, all wrapped together in a single spark of knowing.
Then he smiled.
A small, soft smile. Peaceful.
And he closed his eyes.
He let out a final breath—gentle, like a sigh after a long journey.
And he fell silent.
I knew he was gone.
But I didn’t move.
I sat there with his hand still in mine, watching the way the lines of his face had settled. So calm. So still. Like he was already dreaming something marvellous.
The tears came.
Not bitter ones.
Not hopeless.
They just came. Soft, steady, quiet.
Sad—but not only sad. There was joy in it, too. And relief. And grief, yes—but grief like the end of a long chapter. Not the end of the book.
Because I knew.
I knew his next life would be grand. Because he’d earned it. He’d done so much good in this one.
He was off on his great adventure now.
And I knew—he’d love it.
Chapter 87: INTERLUDE VI
Summary:
Dumbledore's last moments, from different points of view.
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE
10 February 1997
“You’ve only asked me for selfless things. Things for the greater good. So… can I do something for you? Just you. Something selfish, if you want. Because you’ve earned it.”
Hope. Albus had not expected that. But it sparked, faint and bright, in his heart.
“There is… one thing,” he said, voice nearly gone. “Something I asked you once… long ago. And something you said you would tell me, if I asked.”
He saw it dawn in Ron’s face. The recognition. The moment suspended between two lives.
“Since when, Ron?” he asked. “How long have you known?”
Ron leaned closer. Steady. Certain.
“Since long before I was born.”
Albus felt awe crash into him, quiet and holy. Like a bell rung in the heart. Understanding filled every broken part of him.
It had always been Ron.
And with awe came gratitude. That he had lived to hear it. That he could go now, unburdened by the last mystery.
And then, peace.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and took Ron’s hand. Warm. Solid. Real.
“Ron… may I ask… what is it like, the other side?”
The silence after that was not empty. It was full. Full of something sacred.
Ron looked at him, and the grief in his eyes changed shape.
“The greatest adventure.”
And that was the answer Albus had always believed, but never heard aloud. Until now.
He smiled. A small, quiet smile.
And he closed his eyes.
And let go.
Poppy had seen death approach before.
She had watched the light in many faces flicker low, watched the skin pull taut around the edges of the world. Albus Dumbledore’s dying was not unusual in its shape. It followed the same patterns she had witnessed too many times to count: the breathing slowing, the magic dimming, the skin turning thin as frost.
But what she saw now was not medical.
That was something else.
When Minerva stepped through the hospital wing doors with Ronald Weasley at her heels, Pomfrey didn’t think of prophecies or battles or artefacts. She thought: he’s just a boy.
A boy with pale cheeks and too-steady eyes.
A boy who did not falter.
She stayed just outside the curtain, close enough to monitor the wards, far enough to give space. But her eyes stayed trained on them—the boy and the man. The student and the headmaster. Except it wasn’t that anymore. Not here. Not now.
Ron Weasley stepped into the heart of a farewell, and he did not flinch.
She watched him approach the bed. His posture shifted—shoulders square, jaw set—but his movements were gentle. The kind she had seen in only the best kind of caretakers. There was no fear in him. Just grief, already present, already accepted. It lived behind his eyes.
He was already mourning. And yet he was present. Entirely.
She couldn’t hear their voices. The privacy ward was too strong. But the silence did not mean absence. It meant reverence.
She watched Dumbledore’s eyes as he looked at Ron, lit with recognition. Lit with something else, too. Relief.
The kind that didn’t come from being heard, but from being understood.
The boy reached for something beneath the blanket. Pomfrey didn’t care what. She saw the way his hands moved—calm, precise. She saw the quiet commitment in his jaw.
Then something was placed in his lap. He looked at it only briefly. Then he nodded.
There was no question.
Only promise.
She didn’t track the next exchange—not the object, not the spell. She didn’t need to.
What she saw was a boy drawing his wand with a look of pain and reverence, and casting something that left his expression quiet but strained. His hand shook, just slightly, as he caught what Dumbledore gave.
And then he laid it down as if it were holy.
He accepted each gesture. Each movement. Each farewell.
Not with pride. Not even with sorrow.
With dignity.
His shoulders stayed firm. His head bowed only briefly. He did not crumble.
And Dumbledore—dear Albus—grew smaller with every breath, but he never looked afraid. Not once. He watched the boy with eyes that glowed with clarity and love. Yes, Pomfrey thought. Love. Not the sentimental kind. Something deeper. Something rare.
When Dumbledore reached out and took Ron’s hand, she felt it in her chest.
It wasn’t part of a ritual. It wasn’t a passing of a crown.
It was something human. Fragile. Immense.
She saw the moment Ron said something, just a few words.
And she watched Albus Dumbledore smile.
Not faintly.
Not weakly.
He smiled like someone who had been searching for something all his life, and had finally found it in the last place he would ever look.
His eyes closed.
His breath left him.
And the charm that monitored his heartbeat let out a single, clear note.
Flat. Final.
Pomfrey didn’t move. She didn’t cry.
She watched the boy.
He did not rise.
He sat, holding the hand of a man he had loved, tears on his cheeks—but still. Steady. As if keeping vigil over the peace he had helped create.
There was no collapse. No sobbing.
Only silence.
A boy, grieving with grace.
And a man, finally at rest.
Poppy Pomfrey, who had tended to broken bodies for decades, saw something she had only glimpsed in the deepest hours of loss.
This was not just a farewell.
It was a gift.
And Ron Weasley had given it.
Minerva McGonagall had been many things in her life—a teacher, a scholar, a protector of children, and, when duty demanded it, a warrior. But she had never been asked to do something that made her feel quite so lost as the request Albus had whispered to her just minutes ago:
“Fetch Ron Weasley.”
She had stared at him. Not Potter?
Not the Chosen One? Not the boy whose name had been bound to prophecy and peril since the beginning?
But she had not questioned it aloud. Not then.
Just as she had not questioned, hours ago, when Albus had taken her aside and said with that tired, half-smiling gentleness: “Minerva, if Ronald asks you for the Sword of Gryffindor, you must give it to him. And you must not ask why.”
She hadn't understood that either. Still didn't. Ronald Weasley was brave and bright and loyal—yes, of course. But why him? Why this quiet undercurrent of trust she was now being commanded to act on without understanding?
She had gone to the Great Hall quickly, ignoring her own unease, and when she told Ron to follow her, he did without a word. That had unsettled her, too. No questions. Just a quiet, immediate understanding.
Now they stood outside the privacy ward that Severus had cast around the bed. She could not hear what was being said. None of them could. But they could see.
And what she saw made her breath catch.
Ron approached Albus with the reverence of someone standing before a monument. Albus, frail and fading, smiled at him with a warmth Minerva hadn't seen on his face since before Christmas.
Then Albus gestured to something. A box. And Ron took it. Cradled it.
That box.
The one Albus had kept close ever since Pomfrey admitted him to the hospital wing. He had let no one touch it. Had barely let it out of arm’s reach. Minerva had assumed it was a personal magical artefact—a talisman, perhaps. But now it sat in Ron Weasley's lap.
And then—the wand.
Minerva felt her knees lock when she saw Albus draw the wand from his sleeve.
And when Ron, slowly, reluctantly, raised his own wand and cast a disarming charm—when the wand leapt from Albus’s fingers and landed in Ron’s hand—Minerva stepped forward without thinking.
Snape caught her movement and turned sharply, just enough to meet her eyes.
He gave a single, slight shake of the head.
Minerva stopped.
She didn’t understand. But something in Severus’ eyes said: This must happen.
So she remained still.
She watched as Albus extended his ruined hand, and Ron took the ring from his blackened fingers with care. She saw Ron wipe his eyes. Saw him speak. Saw Albus smile—truly smile—for the first time in what felt like years.
Then Dumbledore reached out, took Ron’s hand, and closed his eyes.
A soft chime broke the silence.
The monitoring spell had been quiet until now, softly pulsing over the headboard.
Now, it let out a final, harmonic note.
A steady, clear tone.
Then silence.
Minerva McGonagall clutched her hands together in front of her chest.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned.
She still didn’t understand.
But Ron Weasley held Albus Dumbledore's hand as he died.
And somehow, impossibly, she felt that it was right.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had not expected to be summoned before breakfast.
He’d felt the pull of urgency from the moment Minerva’s message arrived—short, clipped, and absolute. Come to Hogwarts. Dumbledore is dying.
That alone had made him drop everything.
He wasn’t Dumbledore’s friend in the way some of the others were. Not like Moody, who had once called him Albus without a second thought. Not like Minerva, whose loyalty was older than the first war. Not even like Snape, whose loyalty came with blood in its teeth.
Kingsley had always been a soldier. A trusted one, yes. Efficient, reliable, calm under pressure. Dumbledore gave him tasks because he knew they would be done. Because Kingsley never needed to understand the entire puzzle to place a piece.
Still, standing in the hospital wing that morning, he felt the weight of that puzzle pressing in around them. The ward Snape had cast muffled sound but left the scene clear as glass.
And what Kingsley saw shook something loose in him.
Ron Weasley.
He hadn't expected him. Not at the end.
Dumbledore had asked for Kingsley, had spoken with Moody, had exchanged quiet words with his brother.
And then, finally, he'd asked for the Weasley boy.
Kingsley watched the boy step past the ward and into Dumbledore’s presence with no hesitation. Not even awe. Just stillness. As if he’d been there before.
Ron sat. Dumbledore smiled.
Kingsley glanced at the others. Moody’s jaw was tight. McGonagall looked pale and uncertain. Aberforth was stone.
But Kingsley kept his eyes on the boy.
The box changed hands. That box. The one no one had been allowed to touch. It landed in Ron's lap with reverence.
Then came the wand.
And Kingsley did not move when Ron raised his wand.
He trusted the process.
The wand flew into Ron’s hand like it had been waiting for him.
Kingsley felt the first ripple of something strange settle in his chest. Not doubt. Not fear.
Just recognition.
He watched as Ron received the ring, the third relic, and placed it beside the wand. As the boy—this quiet, awkward boy who had always hovered just out of the spotlight—wiped his face with quiet, unashamed grief.
And Dumbledore smiled.
Kingsley had seen people die before. Many. Too many. Some clinging, some raging, some pleading for five more minutes. But never like this.
Never with a smile like that.
And then, Dumbledore reached out. Took Ron’s hand. Closed his eyes.
The monitoring spell gave its final, soft chime.
And Albus Dumbledore was gone.
Kingsley exhaled slowly.
He looked at Ron Weasley—at the wand, the box, the ring resting in his lap.
At the way his shoulders stayed square despite the tears.
At the way his hand remained closed around Dumbledore’s.
And then Kingsley understood.
Dumbledore hadn’t just passed on information. He hadn’t even just passed on legacy.
He had passed the plan.
Ron didn’t just carry a burden.
He carried the endgame.
And Kingsley, who had always been a man who followed orders without needing to see the full map, finally saw the centrepiece of it.
And it was a boy no one had expected.
But Dumbledore had.
So Kingsley did what he did best.
He accepted it.
And he waited for his next order—from Ron Weasley.
The Patronus came at dawn.
Snape’s doe struck through the wall of Alastor Moody’s home like a blade of cold light, and the message it carried was brief:
“Come to Hogwarts. Now.”
Moody knew before his eye even clicked to focus that it was about Albus.
He arrived through the Floo not twenty minutes later. And by then, Dumbledore was already on his deathbed.
Albus was weaker than he’d ever seen him. Grey and thin and still, but his eyes were sharp—so sharp they cut through the haze of the ward like steel.
“Alastor,” he said, with the trace of a smile. “Thank you for coming.”
Moody had pulled the chair close, sat without protest, and said the only thing worth saying.
“What do you need?”
And Albus had told him.
He gave Moody the reins of the Order—no fanfare, no ceremony. Just a name, a glance, and the whole war sliding into Moody’s hands. He laid out the state of their current operations, the ones no one else knew: hidden contacts, old promises, debts still unpaid. He gave him a key that didn’t look like a key, and a list of names not written down.
Then he said something Moody had expected but wasn’t glad about.
“You must protect Severus.”
Moody’s mouth twisted.
He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the man, didn’t trust him, didn’t pretend otherwise.
But he nodded.
Because Albus asked.
And then Albus had looked him in the eye, long and level.
“You will also protect Harry.”
That he expected, too. Of course. Of course, Albus would ask that.
But what followed caught him flat-footed.
“And you will protect Ron Weasley.”
Moody blinked.
“Why him?”
Albus only smiled faintly.
“Because he must be protected.”
No prophecy. No explanation. Just a quiet certainty.
Moody didn’t argue. But it stayed with him.
Long after Kingsley arrived. Long after Aberforth stepped in, gruff and silent. Long after Snape came to stand sentinel.
And then Dumbledore asked for Ronald Weasley.
Not Harry Potter.
Ronald Weasley.
The boy arrived and sat where they had all sat at one point this morning.
Now, Moody stood with the others, silent, outside the privacy wards Snape had placed.
He watched the boy—no, not a boy, not really—step through the invisible veil and sit beside Albus.
Watched Dumbledore give him the box.
The box. The one he hadn’t let anyone touch since collapsing into the hospital wing. That alone would’ve been enough to make Moody lean forward.
But then Ron disarmed him.
Moody stiffened.
His magical eye spun, flicking between wands. Between hands. Between hearts.
He made a half-step forward, instinct screaming. But Albus knew what he was doing.
So Moody stopped.
He didn’t understand.
Not even as he watched the ring being handed over. The wand placed in the boy’s lap. The way Ron wiped his eyes like a man forty years older than he was.
And then—Albus smiled.
Really smiled.
He reached out, took Ron’s hand in his.
Moody hadn't seen that expression on Albus' face since before the war. Not the first war. The one before that.
And then the soft chime rang.
The heart monitor spell.
The tone held. Then faded.
Gone.
Moody didn’t move.
He stared through the ward, at the boy still holding his friend’s hand.
His friend.
Albus.
Brilliant, reckless, infuriating Albus.
Who had built plans within plans, trusted people no one else dared to, carried secrets like swords, and somehow still smiled like the world wasn’t broken.
And who had given everything—every last secret, every last treasure, every last breath—not to the boy the world watched, but the boy no one had expected.
Alastor Moody had seen a great many things in his life.
But as he stood there, watching Ron Weasley cradle the pieces of the war in his lap, Moody thought:
Albus always did know where to place his trust.
Aberforth Dumbledore didn’t pretend to understand his brother’s mind.
He’d stopped trying to untangle Albus’s schemes long ago. They always led to more questions. More secrets. More broken people.
But when the message came—Albus was dying—he came.
Not because he forgave him. Not because he owed him. But because he was his brother.
He stood at the edge of the hospital wing, arms crossed, shoulders square. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. Just watched as the others filed in. Moody, grim as ever. Shacklebolt, calm and alert. McGonagall, quietly unravelling.
Snape was already there, of course. Circling like a damned crow.
Then Albus gave out his final orders. Quiet words, murmured one by one. Names, warnings, instructions. Aberforth watched it all without blinking.
He expected Harry Potter to be summoned last. The golden boy. The centre of it all.
But it wasn’t Harry.
It was Ron Weasley.
That got under Aberforth’s skin.
Weasley. The one who’d come skulking into the Hog’s Head to pass a message to that thief, Mundungus. Sharp kid, he’d given him that. Polite. Didn’t act like he belonged in the centre of anything.
And yet here he was.
Here, at the end of Albus Dumbledore’s life, walking into the privacy ward like he’d always meant to be there.
Aberforth watched.
He watched Ron sit. Watched Albus smile.
He watched the boy accept a box that Albus had refused to let anyone else touch.
That alone made Aberforth shift his weight.
Then came the wand.
That wand.
Aberforth sucked in a breath through his teeth. Recognition hit like ice.
And when Ron disarmed Albus—hesitantly, slowly, but cleanly—Aberforth took a step forward without meaning to.
McGonagall did too.
But Snape stopped them both with a look.
Aberforth held still.
Watched the ring passed over.
Watched the boy weep.
And Albus—Albus smiled.
That was what undid him.
Not the wand. Not the box. Not the quiet reverence.
The smile.
It was the kind of smile Albus hadn’t worn since they were children.
It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t pride.
It was peace.
And Albus reached out, took the boy’s hand, and closed his eyes.
The spell monitoring his heartbeat gave its final chime.
Aberforth felt something in his chest twist.
It was always a child, wasn’t it?
Ariana.
Harry.
And now Ron.
But this time, there was no manipulation in it.
He saw it now. Clear as glass.
Albus hadn’t used the boy.
He had trusted him.
Given him everything.
Aberforth looked at Ron, holding his brother’s hand, the pieces of the war in his lap, tears sliding down his face without shame.
And for the first time in decades, Aberforth did not feel angry at his brother.
He felt proud.
Because somehow, Albus had found the one person in the world he could die beside without fear.
And it wasn’t a hero.
It was a Weasley boy in quiet grief.
And somehow, that felt right.
Severus Snape had seen death before.
He had prepared men to meet it. Had delivered it himself. Had prevented it, bent it back, wrung it away from throats that were never meant to go silent.
But nothing prepared him for this.
Not this bed. Not this man.
Not Albus Dumbledore, undone by time and secrets and his own bloody choices.
When the Patronus reached Moody, Kingsley, McGonagall, Aberforth—Severus already knew. He had known the moment Albus arrived before dawn, dragging breath like it cost him something. Pomfrey had nearly fainted. Snape had taken over.
They tried everything.
Every root. Every draught. Every rune.
Nothing worked.
And in the stillness after that failure, Albus had called him closer and placed the war in his hands.
He named Draco. He named Potter. He named the Dark Lord. But last of all, with a clarity that rattled Severus to the bone, he named Ron Weasley.
“You must protect him, Severus. At all costs. Do not question him. Not yet. Do not ask. You will know when the time comes.”
Severus hadn’t answered. He had only stared. And Albus, ever maddening, had given a small smile.
“He will not fail.”
Severus did not understand. He still didn’t.
And now, standing closest to the ward, he watched the boy enter.
Weasley. His pupil. His protege.
The boy to whom Albus had once said, after a long, quiet talk, “I would go so far as to say it may well have been one of the most pivotal conversations I have had in my entire life.”
Severus had not been told what was said that day. Albus had refused him.
Now he watched, silent, as the same boy was summoned.
And given the box.
The box Albus had clutched to his chest like lifeblood since his return. The one he had forbidden either Severus or Pomfrey to touch.
Severus felt his stomach twist.
Then came the wand.
Albus held it out, and Snape couldn't stop himself from leaning closer, breath tight.
And Ron raised his wand. Trembled.
The wand flew into his hand.
Severus’s instinct was immediate.
Protect him.
If the Dark Lord knew—
If anyone knew—
Ron Weasley was no longer a thorn in Malfoy’s side. He was no longer a clever child playing spy.
He was now a fulcrum. A hinge in the war.
Severus would protect him. He would die for him. He knew it as certainly as he knew the taste of Wolfsbane.
But he did not understand.
Not the wand. Not the box.
And not the ring.
The ring that had cursed Albus. That had burned through bone and time and left a death sentence in its wake.
When Albus held it out to the boy, Severus flinched. Hands itched to break the ward, to seize the ring away.
But he didn’t move.
Because Albus had said: “His safety is paramount.”
So Severus did nothing.
He watched Ron take the ring and place it beside the wand, solemn as a priest.
And Severus looked at his face.
So young.
But not. Not anymore.
Grave. Focused. Aware.
He understood something none of them did. Severus could see it. Could feel it, watching him receive the final pieces. The weight of everything that came after.
He carries the plan, Snape thought. Not just a burden. The plan itself.
And he hated it. Hated that this boy, of all people, bore it alone.
Ron leaned in and spoke something. Severus couldn't hear it, but he saw the shift.
Albus's eyes widened in awe.
Then softened.
Then, impossibly, he smiled.
Not a quiet parting smile. Not duty.
It was something far older. Deeper. Like reverence.
He reached out and took Ron’s hand.
And he closed his eyes.
Snape heard the spell chime softly.
Albus Dumbledore had died.
But Snape didn’t look at the body.
He looked at Ron.
Tears fell silently down his cheeks. But his face—Severus couldn't name it.
It was grief. But not only grief.
Something sacred. Something beyond.
Severus longed to understand it.
And he knew, one day, Ron would tell him.
But not yet.
So he stood there, still as stone.
And watched the boy who now held the future in his lap.
And felt the first quiet pulse of reverence in his own chest.
For him.
Chapter 88: BOOK SIX - THE ONE LEFT BEHIND
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
THE ONE LEFT BEHIND
The wards fell with a soft, near-silent shift in the air. Like a curtain drawing back.
I didn’t look up.
I still held his hand.
It was cold now, but not wrong. Just still. Just finished.
His smile was still there. Faint. Peaceful.
The line across my chest, the one I hadn’t even noticed forming, began to ache. Not from shock. Not even from grief, exactly.
It ached from the weight of knowing.
He was gone.
He trusted me with the end.
I heard footsteps approaching, but didn’t flinch. Careful. Deliberate. I knew it was Snape before I saw him.
He didn’t speak right away. I still didn’t look up. Couldn’t. My throat felt scraped raw, my eyes stung, but I didn’t bother wiping them again. The tears had stopped falling. They just… stayed. A film over everything.
Then the footsteps stopped.
And I felt movement beside me—quiet, close—and I turned my head just enough to see him lower himself to the floor.
He knelt.
Not beside the bed—beside me.
That startled something in me. Not a jolt. Not a shock. Just… something I hadn’t expected from anyone. Least of all him.
He didn’t touch me. He didn’t reach for Albus’s hand or the wand or the box or the ring.
He just looked at me.
“Ron,” he said softly.
I turned to face him fully.
His expression wasn’t composed. It wasn’t even guarded. It was… bare. Raw in a way I’d never seen on him. Not anger. Not sorrow.
Something deeper. Something that saw me.
“He was proud of you,” Snape said.
I swallowed. My voice didn’t work.
He looked down for a moment, as if bracing himself, then back at me again. His tone stayed quiet.
“So am I.”
That did it.
Not in a collapsing way. Not a break.
But something inside me shifted. Like the moment when pain becomes healing.
When silence becomes something you can breathe in.
Snape nodded slightly, like he understood what I couldn’t say.
Then he said,
“We have to go. Not far. But you shouldn’t be here when they come.”
I looked at Dumbledore’s face one last time.
And I let go of his hand.
I stood slowly. Snape rose with me. He didn’t touch my shoulder. He didn’t need to.
He was there.
That was enough.
Snape steered me gently—not touching, just guiding with a tilt of his head and the faintest motion of his arm—toward a chair by the wall. I sat down, just out of the way, just far enough that I couldn’t see Dumbledore anymore. Just enough to breathe without choking on it.
I heard voices a few feet away. Moody and Shacklebolt. One of them muttered something to Snape, and he said something low in return, but I didn’t catch any of it. I didn’t care to.
I looked down.
The box rested in my lap, and the wand and ring beside it. Two of these things weren’t mine. Not really. I was only holding them until Harry needed them.
But one of them was mine. Mine to deal with. Mine to destroy.
Snape returned silently. I glanced up at him. My voice felt stiff in my throat, but I forced it out.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I know you two were close.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me.
And for a moment, he looked startled. Like I’d said something he hadn’t prepared for.
Then he lowered his gaze.
And that… startled me.
He inclined his head, slight but unmistakable.
“Thank you, Mr Weasley,” he said at last.
The silence that followed felt full and empty at the same time. Full of all the things Dumbledore had said to me. Empty in the shape of him now that he was gone.
Snape’s voice came again, quieter now.
“You cannot carry that wand openly. If word spreads that you disarmed him… that you hold its allegiance…”
His eyes flicked toward the box again, just briefly. Measuring danger. Calculating risk. Always.
“Of course,” I said, keeping my voice even. “That’s not the purpose.”
I slipped the wand into the inner pocket of my robes, feeling its weight settle against my chest.
Then I reached up, brushing aside my hair and opening the clasp of the necklace around my neck. The Vow of Silence Dumbledore had given me last year still hung there, the bead faded now, like something dimmed with mourning.
I slid the Gaunt ring onto the chain next to the Vow. It clinked softly against the charm as I fastened it and tucked both pendants back beneath my shirt.
My fingers brushed the box next. Cold. Heavy. Humming with something dark.
I traced one of the warding runes with my thumb.
“I can’t deal with it today,” I murmured. “But I can’t leave it in the dormitory either. Not with Draco sniffing around.”
I hesitated, then looked at Snape.
“Could you… just for a few days at most, keep it safe for me?”
His expression didn’t shift, not visibly. But I thought I saw something settle in his shoulders. Some quiet resolution.
“Please,” I added. “Don’t open it.”
His gaze held mine.
“You have my word.”
I nodded and passed him the box with both hands.
“Thank you.”
He held it with care. Not curiosity. Not suspicion. Just… responsibility.
For the first time all day, I let myself breathe properly.
The Great Hall was louder than usual.
No professors sat at the head table. Not even Sprout. Not even Sinistra. Just… empty chairs and untouched cutlery. And lunch, for the first time in living memory, was late.
Which never happened.
The students around me were restless. Shouting across tables, speculating, teasing, arguing. Some were making a game of it—who could guess the reason. Others whispered darkly about another attack, a resignation, maybe a scandal.
I didn't care. Not about their theories. I already knew the truth.
I drifted to the Slytherin table without a word and slid into my usual seat beside Harry. He’d been laughing at something Theo said, but when he caught my face, he stilled.
“What happened with McGonagall?” he asked quietly, leaning in.
I pressed my lips together. There were a dozen answers to that question, and none of them fit into a whisper. So I said, low,
“I’ll tell you after lunch.”
Harry nodded, but he didn’t look away from me. Even when the sound of a door creaking open turned everyone’s head.
The staff room entrance. Behind the head table.
They came out one by one. Professors. Grave. Pale. Some with red-rimmed eyes. Hagrid stumbled out nearly last, clutching a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase and crying into it with audible sobs. Pomona Sprout had a hand on his back. Flitwick was openly trembling.
McGonagall came last. She didn’t sit. She walked to the front of the table, wand already raised. Her face was tight and pale. No one needed to be told to hush. The room fell still the moment she opened her mouth.
“Sonorus.”
The spell echoed like a stone dropped in water.
She swallowed once. Then:
“It is my sad duty to inform you all… that Professor Dumbledore passed away this morning.”
The air left the room in one collective gasp.
I heard someone’s fork clatter on the table. A girl sobbed somewhere near the Ravenclaws. Hagrid wailed again, and someone beside him held his arm.
McGonagall continued, voice brittle but steady:
“He died peacefully, in the hospital wing, under the care of Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape. We are cancelling all classes today and tomorrow to give students and staff time to process this loss.”
A pause.
“Food will be served now. Those who wish to return to their common rooms may do so.”
She released the spell and sat down slowly, like all her joints ached.
Then—finally—the food appeared.
No one moved at first. Then, in awkward, stilted motions, people began to fill their plates. Some barely touched anything. Others seemed to eat just to have something to do with their hands.
Across the table, I heard Theo and Zabini talking to each other in low voices.
I tuned them out.
Harry still hadn’t touched his food. He was watching me again. Intently.
Like I held the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t even want to solve.
I met his eyes and shook my head.
“Later,” I said quietly.
He nodded. And finally looked down at his plate.
We ate in silence.
Around us, the mood twisted and fractured. Grief and confusion sat heavy in the air, too heavy for one room to hold. Some students lingered. Others sat hunched over half-finished meals. A few first-years were crying openly, comforted by older students.
No one said a word to me.
But I could feel the attention like static. Glances. Whispers. Wondering. Theories already taking shape.
After what felt like hours, Harry set down his fork and pushed back his plate. I did the same.
We stood and moved toward the doors.
Hermione was already there, waiting near the Entrance Hall with Luna and Ginny. They must’ve seen us leave. Their faces were unreadable—except Ginny, whose eyes were red, and Luna, whose hand was gently resting on her arm.
I stopped beside them.
“Let’s take a stroll outside,” I said quietly.
No one objected. We all needed the air.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Draco Malfoy had just spilt out of the Great Hall, scanning the crowd like a dog on a leash too long. Then his eyes found me. We locked eyes.
He frowned. Caught. Then, very deliberately, turned on his heel and started walking toward the dungeons.
But I knew better.
My wand was already in my sleeve, angled just enough that I could raise it in an instant. If I were him, I’d double back too. He wouldn’t give up that easily—not when he still thought I was the key to whatever he was trying to prove.
We moved together through the Entrance Hall and toward the courtyard. The castle was quieter than it should’ve been. The kind of quiet that followed awful news—thick, dragging silence that settled in your chest.
We stepped out into the courtyard. The air was cold and still, and the stone walls trapped the wind into soft echoes. Deserted. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing.
Hermione opened her mouth.
“Ron, wha—”
I didn’t let her finish. I raised my wand and cast, clearly:
“Homenum revelio.”
The magic pushed outward, invisible to the eye but unmistakable to the senses. A tug behind my navel, a thrum of awareness.
Sure enough. Someone was here.
I turned my head toward the far column—behind it, the shimmer of disillusionment. The shape of someone breathing too fast.
I didn’t sigh. I didn’t roll my eyes. I just said, flat and loud, my voice bouncing off the stone:
“Get lost, Malfoy.”
The invisible shape didn’t move.
So I marched over. My fingers found the front of his robes—Disillusionment charm or not, cloth was cloth—and I yanked hard, slamming the figure against the pillar. A crack of contact rang out, and the charm shattered like glass.
There he was.
Draco Malfoy. Pale, wide-eyed, and scared out of his skin.
I didn’t care.
“I’m not in the mood today, Malfoy,” I said, low and venomous. “So scram.”
I pulled him off the column and shoved him with both hands. He stumbled back, lost his footing, and hit the flagstones with a thud. For a second, he just sat there—then scrambled up, shot me a terrified look, and bolted.
Gone.
I turned back to the others. One more flick of my wand.
“Homenum revelio.”
Nothing else. Just us.
I exhaled, lowered my wand, and faced my friends.
They were all staring at me.
Hermione had gone rigid, one hand hovering like she’d been about to reach out and stopped herself. Ginny looked stunned, her mouth slightly open, and Luna… Luna just looked thoughtful. But even she blinked slowly, like trying to assess whether I’d really just thrown Draco Malfoy into the stone like a sack of dungbombs. And Harry… Harry’s gaze was steady, searching.
No one spoke.
I exhaled slowly and rubbed the heel of my hand across my face. Then, I raised my wand and flicked it. Muffliato.
The hum settled over us like a blanket.
They were still staring.
“I’m sorry,” I said after a moment, softer now. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t frighten us,” Hermione said, but it was too quick, too brittle to be true.
“No,” Luna added gently, “just surprised.”
“It’s not like you to—” Ginny began, then stopped herself.
I gave a tired shrug.
“It’s been… a long day.”
They didn’t argue.
It was Harry who finally broke the silence, voice low but direct.
“Ron. This morning. When McGonagall came to get you. Was it about… this?”
I didn’t ask what he meant. I knew.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It was.”
“You were there?” he asked. “When it happened?”
I nodded.
Hermione’s brow furrowed.
“But why you? Why would Dumbledore…?”
I met her eyes. She didn’t finish the question, but she didn’t need to.
“He asked for me,” I said simply. “That’s all. He wanted to say something. So I went.”
They were quiet again. Not judging. Just trying to wrap their heads around it.
Ginny looked down.
“Did he suffer?”
“No,” I said. “He was tired. But peaceful. Really peaceful.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not any of it.
Luna tilted her head.
“And what did he say to you?”
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know, but because I couldn’t tell them. Not now. Not yet.
“He said…” I cleared my throat. “He said some things that matter. That’s all.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. She just nodded slowly.
Harry didn’t look away from me.
“There’s more.”
“There’s always more,” I said, managing the faintest smile. “But I’ll tell you when I can. Just… not today.”
I looked at them all in turn.
“Please,” I added. “Just trust me.”
Hermione reached out, finally, and touched my arm.
“We do.”
Ginny gave a small nod.
“Of course we do.”
Luna was still watching me closely, but she only said,
“I’m glad he wasn’t alone.”
And that, more than anything, nearly undid me.
I looked away, blinking hard, and let the hum of the Muffliato fill the quiet for a few more seconds before I ended the spell with a flick.
The courtyard held its breath around us.
I didn’t know what would come next.
But I knew I would face it alone.
I spent the rest of the day hiding behind my clouds.
Not real ones—though the sky was overcast, as if the weather itself couldn’t be bothered to pretend everything was normal. No, these clouds were the kind I carried with me. The ones I pulled around myself like a thick, grey cloak. Soft and heavy and muting the world.
It was easier that way. To blur everything at the edges.
Because I couldn’t afford to think too hard. Not yet.
I hadn’t realised until Dumbledore died just how much of a relief it had been, knowing I could tell someone the truth—the whole truth—without lying about where I got it from. That I could walk into his office and say, “This is going to happen,” and he’d nod and listen, and maybe even say, “Yes, I thought as much.”
Now I was alone with it again.
The foreknowledge.
The burden.
The ticking clock.
I was the only one left who knew about Nagini. About Harry. About what that meant—what had to happen if Voldemort wasn’t to win. And I was the only one who could stop it from happening the way it did last time. If I failed now, there was no backup. No second pair of eyes watching the same prophecy unfold. No wise old man behind the curtain to catch what I missed.
Just me.
I had to be the strong link. The hinge. The bloody fulcrum.
Because I was all that was left.
And I couldn’t tell Snape. Not yet. Not until the moment was right—or until there was no other choice. I trusted him more than anyone. But this was too dangerous, too specific. And if Voldemort got wind of it—if any of this slipped through the cracks—all would be lost.
And I couldn’t tell Harry. He wasn’t ready. Neither of us was. The truth would blow everything wide open, and we’d never be able to put the pieces back.
So I didn’t think.
Not really.
I let my feet carry me around the castle, trailing after my friends, nodding when they spoke. They wouldn’t leave me alone, not even for a minute—and I didn’t ask them to. I let them hold space beside me. Let Hermione make gentle suggestions and Ginny touch my arm and Luna keep offering me half of whatever snack she had in her bag. Let Harry walk in silence beside me, eyes flicking over now and again like he was trying to figure out what he wasn’t allowed to ask.
They meant well. They were just trying to help.
And it was fine. For a day.
I could take the day off from thinking. It wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. There’d be time enough to plan later, to unravel this new mess and figure out how to hold everything together without snapping. But not now. Not yet.
Today was about mourning.
About the shifting weight in my chest—the sudden lightness where Dumbledore used to be, and the crushing gravity of everything that had been handed to me in his place.
So I let the clouds roll in. Let them wrap around me, soft and dull and muffling.
Waited for the storm to pass.
For my emotions to settle into something quieter.
Something manageable.
Something I could carry.
Because tomorrow, I’d have to.
But not today.
Today, I just hid.
And for a little while, the world let me.
Someone screamed.
I woke up.
Harry.
He was thrashing, screaming like something was ripping him apart from the inside.
“Harry!” I was already scrambling up to his bunk, but he didn’t hear me. His eyes were wide open and unseeing. He was rigid, then convulsing, twisting violently in his sheets like he was being strangled by something I couldn’t see.
I climbed onto his bed and grabbed his shoulders.
“Harry, it’s me—it’s Ron—wake up!”
Nothing.
Bloody nothing.
He kept screaming—raw, broken howls that didn’t sound like him at all.
I swore and hauled him up. He was dead weight and flailing, but I got him into my arms and dragged him down to the floor, laying him out on the cold stone. He hit it hard, and still didn’t wake.
“Theo!” I snapped. “Get Snape. Now!”
Theo, pale and startled, bolted without a word.
Harry’s legs jerked, his heel hitting the side of a bedpost with a sickening thud.
“Shit—Harry, stop—!”
Zabini was there before I even registered him. He crouched on Harry’s other side and muttered a quick spell. Harry’s legs stilled, locked gently into place.
“Thanks,” I breathed, then slid my hands to cradle Harry’s head in my lap, keeping him from thrashing into the floor. I caught his wrists, held them down when they tried to claw at nothing.
“It’s okay,” I muttered, over and over again. “You’re safe. You’re here. I’ve got you.”
And then—
The door burst open.
Snape swept in like a thunderclap, robes trailing, wand already raised.
He didn’t ask what was wrong.
He saw Harry, saw me holding him down, and acted.
Snape didn’t waste time. He knelt beside us with sharp, clinical grace, eyes flicking over Harry’s contorted body, his flaring magic, his clenched jaw.
“Mr Weasley, move your hands—carefully.”
I obeyed, carefully easing Harry’s head from my lap. Snape replaced my hands with his own wand.
“Mobilis Corpus,” he murmured. A soft pulse of light wrapped around Harry’s body, lifting him a few inches from the floor. He stopped flailing instantly—not because he was calm, but because Snape’s magic held him immobile in the air, like a stasis field.
His screams quieted to strangled gasps. His body was still rigid, twitching, eyes open but glassy. He looked dead and burning at the same time.
Snape’s lips thinned. He flicked his wand again, casting a silencing charm around Harry’s floating body. The dormitory fell eerily quiet.
Then, with a sharp breath through his nose, Snape looked at me.
“You’re coming,” he said, voice like steel. “Everyone, back to bed. Keep quiet.”
Without waiting for answers, Snape turned and led Harry’s floating body toward the door, moving with urgency and a controlled fury that dared anyone to get in his way.
I followed.
He didn’t go to the hospital wing.
He went deeper into the dungeons. Into his private quarters, where no one would question, no one would stare.
Where Harry could scream all he wanted and still be safe.
Snape’s quarters were dim and cool, the only light a few low-burning sconces casting orange halos across the stone. The fireplace was dead, the silence almost sacred.
He guided Harry’s suspended body onto a long, dark sofa near the hearth, removing the spell with a soft, practised flick. Harry settled with a dull thump of weight, limp now but far from at peace. His hands twitched, breath catching irregularly. Eyes open—still not seeing.
Snape knelt beside him again, sleeves pushed back to the elbows now, face set in a frown that wasn’t anger. It was something tighter. Wearier.
He stripped the silencing charm off with a flick, but the room stayed quiet. Harry wasn’t screaming anymore. Just breathing. Like he’d run miles barefoot across broken glass.
“He’s not fully conscious,” I said, voice low. I stood just a step behind Snape. “But it’s stopped?”
“No,” Snape said flatly. “It’s only submerged.”
He pulled a small case from under the side table. With precise movements, he opened it, selected two phials, and uncorked the first—a pearly draught. Calming. The second, dark blue. Dreamless sleep.
“I will need your help to make him drink this,” he said without looking at me. “Gently.”
Together, we tilted Harry’s head. I held his jaw steady. Snape coaxed the liquid past his lips with care, murmuring an incantation between doses to encourage shallow swallowing.
After the last drop, Harry's eyes fluttered. His limbs gave one final tremor… then stilled. His chest rose and fell evenly at last.
Snape stood slowly. I looked down at Harry—finally, he looked asleep. No more pain. But his face was pale with exhaustion.
“I’ve never seen it that bad,” I said softly.
Snape didn’t respond at first. He was staring at Harry with narrowed, unreadable eyes. Then finally, he spoke—so quiet I almost missed it.
“Neither have I.”
My heart was still hammering, but my mind had already slipped past the panic, reaching, turning, sorting pieces.
Voldemort must’ve just found out.
That it was her vault.
Bellatrix.
Voldemort trusted her more than most. And she failed to protect what he gave her.
That’s what snapped.
That’s what cracked open the vision.
He knew.
He knew the Cup was gone.
And the game had changed again.
I sat back on my heels, watching the rise and fall of Harry’s chest. The calm after the storm. He looked like a corpse in a borrowed moment of peace.
Snape hadn’t moved. He stood like a statue, watching Harry with eyes that didn’t blink. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the tension in his throat. It struck me, for the first time, that this had rattled him too.
I swallowed. My voice felt like it was dragging itself up from a well.
Voldemort knew.
And if he knew about that, he would check the others. He would go to the shack. The cave. Each little shrine where he had buried a piece of himself like a dragon hoarding bones. And he would find only absence. Absence and failure.
The fake locket might delay him—might muddy the waters, cast some doubt. But not for long. Not enough.
The ring was gone. The locket, real one, gone. The diadem, gone, too. The Diary long destroyed.
Which meant Harry would suffer through more of these visions. Maybe worse. Maybe much worse. I knew that. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t.
And Snape…
He’d be summoned soon, no doubt. Questioned. Searched. If Voldemort suspected Dumbledore was involved in the thefts—and he would—Snape would be the one forced to stand in the fire and lie through his teeth.
He should know what’s coming.
But it still felt like a choice I didn’t want to make. Giving even part of it away. Even hinting at how much I saw coming.
Still…
Harry needed protection.
And Snape needed warning.
I glanced at him. He hadn’t moved, but something in his eyes had shifted. He was already thinking ahead, too.
So I took the plunge.
“…There will be other visions,” I said quietly. “In the next few days. They might get worse.”
Snape looked at me sharply.
“Harry will need help,” I added. “Occlumency won’t work. Not now.”
For a moment, the only sound was Harry’s steady, exhausted breathing.
Then Snape nodded once, grim and resigned. And somehow, that felt heavier than anything he could have said.
“I will keep him safe.”
His voice was low but firm. A vow, not a comfort.
Then, after a pause, his eyes met mine again.
“If he dreams again—wake me.”
That was it. A compact forged in silence. And in that moment, I knew:
He believed me.
He was listening.
And I wasn’t alone. Not entirely.
But still… I couldn’t tell him the truth. Not about why I knew what I knew. Not yet. Not until it was over. Until Harry was safe, and the Horcruxes were gone, and the storm had passed. I couldn’t hand him that truth and expect him to survive it unscathed.
But I could do something else. I could help him prepare.
“I need to warn you about something else,” I said, voice low again.
Snape turned to me, not impatient, just waiting. Expectant.
“He’ll summon you soon.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. I kept going.
“He’ll want to know if Dumbledore was behind the break-in at Gringotts.”
The silence between us thickened.
“He’ll suspect it,” I said. “He won’t have proof. But he’ll be desperate to know.”
Snape’s jaw twitched. I could almost see the scenarios forming behind his eyes.
“It’s fine if he believes Dumbledore did it,” I went on. “Let him. It might even help. Might make him think the trail ends here. That the game died with Dumbledore.”
Snape gave a very faint nod—still listening.
“But what he mustn’t believe,” I said quietly, “is that someone else knew about it. That someone might be continuing it.”
Snape’s gaze sharpened again. I didn’t flinch.
“Tell him Dumbledore was secretive. That he didn’t trust anyone with his plans. That he was gone from the school for the last week, and no one knew where he went. And when he came back, he was already dying.”
Snape’s face was blank. Stone. But I could see the calculations flickering behind his eyes, fast and dark. He wasn’t just listening now. He was preparing.
“If he asks whether Dumbledore said anything before he died,” I added, “tell him he said nothing. That he couldn’t speak anymore. That he died with his secrets.”
Snape didn’t speak for a moment. Then:
“…You’ve thought of everything.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t agree. I didn’t feel like I had.
But someone had to think ahead. Someone had to leave nothing to chance.
Because if Voldemort guessed the truth—if he even sensed that Dumbledore passed something on—he’d tear the world apart looking for it.
And I couldn’t let him find it. Not in Snape’s mind.
Not in me.
Not in Harry.
Snape gave one more slow, measured nod. He didn’t say anything for a long time.
I’d given him everything he needed to survive the days ahead—what Voldemort would ask, what he should say, what to never let slip. And now he just stared at me, his face still blank, except for something sharp at the edges. Not quite anger. Not disbelief either.
Something closer to fear.
“You think like him,” he said quietly.
I didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“That’s not always a compliment.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”
I kept my eyes on Harry. He looked almost peaceful now. It was the first time in hours that he didn’t look like he was in pain. But I could still feel it—coiled under my skin, waiting to start again. I knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.
“You’re asking me to lie to him,” Snape said. Still calm, but there was tension under it. “To lie precisely. Convincingly. Without hesitation. Under scrutiny.”
“I am,” I said.
“And to do it without knowing why.”
I looked up at him.
“You don’t need to know why. Just trust that if he finds out what Dumbledore left behind… It’s over. ”
Snape’s eyes drifted to Harry, still unconscious. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but whatever it was, it hurt. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Then he looked back at me.
“I will lie for you,” he said. “For him. For whatever this is.”
His voice was low. Steady. Dead serious.
“But be warned, Mr Weasley—if he suspects, even slightly, that I am hiding something…”
I cut him off.
“Then don’t hide. Deny. Make it believable. You’re good at that.”
There was a sound from him—not quite a laugh, but not just breath either. Like something bitter got caught halfway out.
“I am,” he muttered. “And that, too, is not always a compliment.”
We didn’t say anything after that.
There was nothing else to say.
He turned back toward Harry, wand still in his hand, and I watched the way his shoulders shifted, tense, but ready. Prepared. Already building the story in his head.
I sat back on my heels, letting the silence fill the room. Letting the weight of it settle around me.
Snape didn’t ask me how I knew what I knew.
He didn’t ask why it had to be said.
He just listened.
Chapter 89: BOOK SIX - VISIONS AND GRIEF
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
VISIONS AND GRIEF
I stayed on edge the entire day.
Harry hadn’t had another vision since the first one—the one where Voldemort found out about the vault. I could still hear the sound of his screams in my head, could still see the way he thrashed, the way he’d looked when it was finally over. Like a corpse in a borrowed moment of peace.
Snape had given him another calming draught before letting him leave. I didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on Harry’s face, or how tense his hands were. He didn’t tell me to watch Harry. He ordered it. As if I needed it.
I didn’t leave Harry’s side all day. I wouldn’t.
The Prophet hit the stands that morning, front page blazing with Dumbledore’s name. The official headline was restrained—“Tragedy at Hogwarts: Dumbledore Dead”—but the article was anything but. Speculation, contradictions, anonymous Ministry sources. Fudge was named twice, not quoted. I knew what that meant. The Ministry was circling like vultures.
Rumours at school said a Ministry delegation had arrived sometime after midnight, that they’d demanded access to Dumbledore’s quarters, that portraits had been awakened and questioned. I couldn’t confirm any of it. I’d spent nearly the whole day holed up in the Library with Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna. All of us quiet. All of us acting like we weren’t watching Harry like hawks.
No new vision that night, either. But I didn’t relax. I didn’t let myself.
Two days after Dumbledore’s death, it was made official: McGonagall was Headmistress. Flitwick her Deputy. The Prophet published her statement—brief, dignified, with not a single word wasted. It made me ache a little, how neatly she wrote her grief into the margins.
Classes resumed that same morning.
In Ancient Runes, Babbling looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She didn’t mention the test we were meant to take. Just gave us group translation work and sat behind her desk like she didn’t want to be looked at. I was fine with that. I didn’t want to be looked at either.
But people were looking.
They didn’t talk to me. Not directly. But I could hear them. See their glances. Feel them brush against me in whispers and half-formed thoughts.
I’d known it was coming. McGonagall had summoned me at breakfast in front of the entire Great Hall. I hadn’t come back for lessons. Then she’d announced Dumbledore’s death at lunch.
People weren’t stupid. They’d put it together.
And now it was accepted fact: I had been with Dumbledore when he died.
Theories were flying. Why had I been there? What did he tell me? Did he give me something? Did he pass on a secret, a mission, a message meant only for me?
Some were wild. That I was his heir. His hidden grandson. That he’d made me his magical successor. That I was meant to be the next Headmaster. The next Chief Warlock. The youngest in centuries.
Others were darker. That I’d been the last to see him alive. That I knew how he died. That I was keeping it quiet. That maybe I’d been part of it.
None of them were close enough to be true.
But too many of them were close enough to be dangerous.
I kept my mouth shut. Said nothing. Gave them nothing.
I wanted to retreat into my Occlumency clouds—to push all of this aside and sink into the calm nothingness I used to survive things like this—but I couldn’t. Not while Harry might have another vision. I had to be alert. Present. Ready to catch him before he hit the floor again.
So I didn’t hide. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t stop watching him.
He was quiet during Runes, distracted. He translated most of the passage wrong before Hermione gently corrected him. He nodded, didn’t speak. His hand trembled slightly when he reached for his quill.
I watched him. The rise of his shoulders. The way he blinked too often.
And I waited.
Because it wasn’t over.
Not for him.
Not for me.
Not yet.
Lunch came with the weight of the whole castle pressing down. Theo sat with us again, like he often did, quiet and steady. He poked at his plate before saying,
“People are leaving flowers by the Headmaster’s Office. Notes too. Tracey’s got a card going around for our year. For anyone who wants to sign it.”
I nodded faintly, noncommittal. Harry shrugged, barely looking up. The three of us returned to eating in silence.
After lunch, we headed to Defence. Double period.
Snape taught as usual. Precise. Focused. A little too sharp, if you didn’t know him. But I did. I knew the way his shoulders were held too tight today, the way he paused too long after each demonstration. The way he didn’t correct anyone unless they truly bungled the spell.
He was holding himself together by habit alone. I could see it. Dumbledore had been his protector, his mentor. Maybe the only person who ever gave him real shelter. It wasn’t a simple relationship, but it was real. Deep. And now it was gone.
I wanted to say something. Anything. Just to let him know he wasn’t alone in this. But I didn’t know how to start. Would it help or make it worse?
I clenched my fingers around my wand and kept my feelings to myself.
Then Harry screamed.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his forehead. His glasses clattered on the flagstone. Blood was trickling down from his scar.
The room froze.
Snape was at his side in a second. I was half a step behind.
“Class dismissed,” Snape snapped. “Out. Now.”
The room emptied in a rush of confusion and whispers. I helped lift Harry. He was still writhing in pain, murmuring nonsense. Snape took one side, and I took the other; together, we hauled him toward the hospital wing.
Pomfrey gasped when she saw him.
“What happened—?”
“No time,” Snape said. “Clear a bed. Close the curtains. Privacy wards, now.”
We got Harry onto the mattress. He was pale, twitching slightly, like he was still caught between two worlds. Pomfrey flicked her wand and the air shimmered around us. She went to fetch a potion, but—
Harry stirred.
His eyes fluttered open. He blinked at us, dazed.
“He’s scared,” he croaked. “He’s… angry and scared. So scared…”
Snape stilled. His entire expression shifted.
“Madam Pomfrey,” he said quietly. “If you please.”
She hesitated, then nodded and left the ward, closing the curtains behind her.
Snape knelt beside the bed. His voice was low. Careful.
“Harry. Focus. What did you see?”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
“He was outside a shack. Dirty. Old. In the woods. He knew it should’ve been there. He—he destroyed everything. The shack, the trees, the ground. He was furious. He was afraid. It wasn’t there anymore.”
My stomach turned. The Gaunt shack. The ring. The realisation hit like a falling stone. He knew , now.
I didn’t say anything. Just glanced at Snape. He was looking at me.
He knew. He was trying to read me. But he didn’t ask—not yet.
I cleared my throat.
“Should he stay?” I said, careful with the phrasing.
Snape’s answer was immediate.
“Yes. He should remain under observation.”
He stood and crossed the room to Pomfrey’s office. I heard low murmuring through the curtain. When he returned, Harry was sitting up, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. “You don’t need to keep me here.”
Snape looked down at him, face blank.
“You are not leaving until I’m certain your mind is your own again.”
Harry looked ready to argue, but Snape handed him a calming draught.
“Drink it.”
He did. Slowly.
I pulled the chair closer and sat beside him. He was blinking heavily, the potion already working.
“He was scared,” Harry said again, voice slurring a bit. “That’s good, right? That’s… good for our side? Right? What was this shack about?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe it was his summer cottage.”
He chuckled weakly.
Some time later, Hermione appeared at the edge of the curtain with our schoolbags. She knelt by the bed, brushing Harry’s hair from his face.
“What happened?” she whispered.
Harry told her, slowly. She sat back and started theorising, asking questions. Harry joined in, half-asleep and slurring.
I stayed silent.
I didn’t need to theorise. I already knew. And for the first time in hours, I let my thoughts drift somewhere else.
Because the ring was gone. The cave next. Then the visions would get worse.
And Harry needed me sharp when they did.
It was almost dinner when Harry insisted again that he was fine, that he could go to the Great Hall. He sat up, legs swinging off the bed, determined.
“I’m alright,” he said. “I’m starving. Let’s just—”
Then he collapsed.
I lunged forward and caught him before he hit the floor. His body went rigid in my arms, a scream tearing from his throat—louder, rawer, more terrible than anything we’d heard before. Pomfrey was at his side in an instant, wand flashing. She levitated him gently back to the bed while he screamed like he was being torn open from the inside.
Hermione gasped and stumbled back, horrified.
“What’s happening—Ron, what’s—”
“Help me hold him,” I said, already climbing onto the bed. “Now.”
Together, Pomfrey and I secured him. I held down his chest and shoulders while she pinned his legs and used a charm to force the calming draught down his throat without choking him. It didn’t help. He flailed and shrieked, the scream rising again until it felt like the whole castle would crack open from the sound.
Pomfrey's face was pale. She turned sharply and ran to her office.
“Help me keep him put!” I shouted at Hermione, already casting a cushioning charm beneath Harry’s flailing limbs. Blaise would’ve done it if he were here. Or Theo. I didn’t even need to look—I knew Hermione was frozen with fear.
Then the door banged open and Snape swept in behind Pomfrey, black robes billowing. His wand was already out. He didn’t ask questions. He just moved straight to Harry’s side. In one hand, he carried a vial of a thicker, amber-coloured draught.
Together, they worked. He tipped the stronger potion between Harry’s lips while Pomfrey murmured spells to ease his convulsions. For a moment, I wasn’t sure it would work, but then Harry gave one last strangled cry, like something inside him had finally torn loose.
And then—stillness.
His breathing was ragged, shallow, but he wasn’t screaming anymore. Pomfrey began releasing the restraint spells. His limbs fell limp. His chest rose and fell, uneven but alive.
His eyes opened slowly.
He blinked, lost.
“What…?”
Hermione rushed forward, glasses in hand, and gently slipped them onto his nose.
“Don’t move,” Pomfrey ordered, already casting diagnosis charms, one after another. Her voice was brisk but her hands were gentle.
“Where is the pain? Do you feel pressure? Is your vision clear?”
Harry nodded weakly.
“Head… and scar…”
Pomfrey didn’t hesitate—she bustled away again, muttering to herself. Meanwhile, Snape moved to the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing as he looked down at Harry.
“What did you see?” he asked. His voice was low, even, too calm.
Harry winced, blinking blearily.
“A cave. Big. Dark. Black water. Voldemort was there… he found a locket. But it was empty. Just a message.”
Snape’s expression didn’t flicker. But I saw it—I saw his eyes dart briefly to me.
I didn’t say anything. Just held that look.
He knew I knew.
But with Harry lying there, pale and shaking, neither of us said it out loud.
Pomfrey came back with an antiseptic and gently cleaned Harry’s scar. It was bleeding again, sluggish red down his temple. She applied salve, then handed him a potion for the pain. He drank without protest.
Snape moved aside with her and they spoke quietly in her office. Hermione leaned over Harry, her hands fluttering uselessly.
“Do you feel dizzy? Sick? Anything else?”
He shook his head slowly.
“The potion’s helping… I think. The headache’s almost gone…”
He sounded groggy. Like he’d been punched and left to float.
“Rest,” I told him. “Sleep if you can.”
He didn’t argue. Just closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.
When Pomfrey and Snape returned, Pomfrey looked us over and said,
“He’s staying the night. No argument. Go have dinner.”
I wanted to stay, but I didn’t fight her either. Hermione and I nodded. Quietly, we gathered our things and left the hospital wing.
In the Great Hall, I followed Hermione to the Gryffindor table. Ginny was already there, waiting, face tense.
“Is it true?” she asked softly.
I looked at her.
“Depends what the rumours are.”
She didn’t smile.
“That he collapsed during class.”
Hermione nodded.
“Yes. Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape are with him.”
Ginny’s shoulders sank.
“Bloody hell.”
Dinner was subdued. Quiet conversations hummed around us like bees trapped under glass. I ate, barely tasting anything, my eyes fixed on the doors. On edge. I hoped that it was over.
But there was still the Diary and the Diadem. Would he take the risk of breaking into Azkaban to question Lucius about the Diary? Would he dare order someone to check on the Diadem? Both were risky and would require time to plan and execute.
At least, Harry would have a break in the visions.
Since Madam Pomfrey had clearly said not to come back after dinner, Hermione had peeled off to the Library with a stack of Ancient Runes translations. I returned to the Slytherin common room alone, hoping for quiet. It was dim, cool, and mercifully empty—most people still lingering at dinner or whispering in corridors about Harry’s latest collapse.
I sat by the fire for a while, pretending to read, but the words wouldn’t stick. I kept seeing Harry’s face contorted in pain, his scar bleeding, his voice raw from screaming. I shut the book after ten pages of staring and decided to call it an early night.
The hot shower helped a little—eased some of the tension in my shoulders, washed away the scent of fear that clung to my skin. I towelled my hair, stepped out—
And there he was.
Draco Malfoy, arms crossed, leaning against my bedpost like he owned the place.
I groaned, dropping the towel around my neck.
“What, do you have a radar that goes off when I’m naked?”
Draco blinked. His mouth opened like he was about to deliver a snide retort—then promptly shut again when he seemed to actually look at me. His cheeks went pink.
“You—That’s not—”
He shut up, cleared his throat and straightened up.
“I just thought it was curious. Bit dramatic, don’t you think? Twice in two days—Potter’s going for a record.”
I gave him a flat look, unimpressed.
“Funny,” Draco continued, ignoring me, though his ears were still red, “how McGonagall fetches you in a panic one day, and the next day Potter’s flailing about like he’s being Crucioed. Not related, of course.”
I didn’t blink. Just raised an eyebrow.
“Was there a point to this, or are you just testing material for a gossip column?”
He took a step closer, face curling in something between irritation and curiosity.
“Did Potter touch something he shouldn’t? Something Dumbledore left behind, maybe?”
I snorted. His mouth pressed into a line. He seemed to want to keep pushing, but I was tired, and mostly naked, and absolutely not in the mood.
“You do know,” I said dryly, “that you only ever try to talk to me when I’m fresh out of the shower? Should I be flattered or concerned?”
That shut him up.
Draco’s entire face went scarlet, and he floundered backwards like I’d slapped him.
“I—No— That’s not— I was just—”
He spun on his heel and stormed off, cloak flaring behind him, slamming the door to the dormitory behind him hard enough to rattle the hinges.
I clicked my tongue.
“Right, that’s normal,” I muttered to myself, dragging on a fresh shirt.
I finished getting ready in silence, the dormitory finally mine again. But sleep wouldn’t come easily.
I lay in bed long after the lights dimmed, staring at the canopy. Thinking of Harry. Of Voldemort. Of the shattered path ahead. Dumbledore was gone. The future rested on lies, secrets, and one threadbare plan I wasn’t even sure I could pull off.
And there was the new prophecy. The words had long slipped out of my mind, and the only thing I remembered was the dread at those words.
Snape found me after breakfast, quiet and grim as he stepped up beside me in the corridor just outside the Great Hall. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. I knew that look. Something had happened.
“Walk with me,” he said in a low voice.
I followed without question. We walked in silence through a side corridor, down a narrow staircase, and into one of the unused study rooms off the dungeons. The door clicked shut behind us, and the wards snapped into place with a hum I could feel in my teeth.
Then Snape turned to face me fully.
“Potter’s vision last night,” he said, voice flat. “It was of Narcissa Malfoy’s death. Torture and execution.”
My breath caught, but I didn’t flinch. I felt it like a weight behind my ribs, cold and settling. I’d hoped, stupidly, that Voldemort would want to question Lucius directly first. That Narcissa might be spared.
I shook my head slowly.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
“No,” Snape said. “It was not.”
I looked at him, my voice low.
“Has the news been officially shared? To the school?”
“No,” Snape said. “And there is only a slim chance it ever will be.”
That made me pause.
“Then… how will Draco be told?”
Snape didn’t answer at first. He just looked at me. Long and hard. The silence said enough. My stomach sank.
“You want me to tell him.”
Snape inclined his head slightly. It wasn’t a command. Not yet. But it would be.
I frowned.
“Shouldn’t we wait? See if someone warns Hogwarts officially? His family… that’s protocol, isn’t it?”
“The Dark Lord will not let the news out,” Snape said calmly. “If word spreads that Narcissa Malfoy was executed, it will unbalance the fear that keeps his followers obedient. He cannot afford them to feel that even privilege won’t protect them. And if the Ministry learns of her death, it will draw scrutiny to Malfoy Manor. He will not risk either.”
I clenched my jaw.
“So unless the Order tells Draco, he’ll never know.”
“Precisely,” Snape said.
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I just let the weight of it settle in. Draco—difficult, arrogant, grieving—left waiting for news that would never come. I could already see it: the way he scanned the post every morning, the way he pretended he wasn’t looking.
I drew in a breath, let it out slowly.
“And you can’t tell him,” I said, quieter now. “Not without breaking your cover.”
“No.”
“And McGonagall?”
“She cannot know,” Snape said. “She would do what is right, not what is wise. And Voldemort’s attention would turn to her, and to Draco.”
I nodded, slowly.
“Right.”
I rubbed a hand through my hair. My fingers caught a knot I hadn’t brushed out. I didn’t care.
“How am I supposed to tell him?” I asked, finally. My voice cracked, just slightly. “He’s just a…”
I stopped myself. He wasn’t a child. Not anymore. Not after all this.
“If he asks how I know,” I said, “what do I tell him?”
Snape was silent for a beat. Then, simply:
“Tell him you heard it from the Order. Which is, for all practical purposes, the truth.”
I exhaled sharply.
“He’ll ask why no one else told him.”
“And you’ll tell him,” Snape said, “that they couldn’t. That you were the only one who could.”
That hit me harder than I expected. The only one who could.
Of course I was.
I looked down at my shoes for a second, then back up at Snape.
“Alright,” I said quietly. “I’ll do it.”
Snape didn’t thank me. But he didn’t have to.
He just gave me a single, grave nod—and I knew exactly what it meant.
After lunch, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna were already getting up from the Gryffindor table, plates half-finished, ready to visit Harry at the Hospital Wing. Ginny turned to me when I didn’t follow.
“You coming?”
I shook my head.
“I’ve got a prefect duty for Snape. Could take a while. Don’t wait up for me.”
That earned me a concerned glance from Hermione, but she didn’t press. Luna just smiled gently, and Ginny nodded with a quiet “Good luck,” as if I were heading to an exam.
They left through the main doors. I stood up and stretched casually, then lingered in the Entrance Hall like I had all the time in the world. I didn’t. But I had to wait.
Sure enough, not even two minutes later, Draco peeked out of the Great Hall like a ferret sniffing a trap. His eyes scanned the crowd, then landed on me. I tilted my head, gave a small beckon with my fingers.
He frowned. But he came.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
His mouth curled.
“Finally tired of pretending I don’t exist?”
“Not now, Draco.” My voice was quiet. Firm. “Come. We’ll talk in private.”
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. But he followed me anyway.
I led him down into the dungeons. The air was cooler there, quieter. I chose the first empty classroom I knew would be undisturbed and slipped inside. He paused just before crossing the threshold.
I cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door, then a nonverbal Muffliato for good measure.
When I turned around, he had his wand in hand, not raised, but ready.
I made a point of slipping mine back into my pocket. Then I sat.
He didn’t move. Arms crossed, knuckles white around his wand.
“Sit down,” I said. “Please.”
His eyes narrowed, confused. Like he was trying to fit me into a shape that made sense. He didn’t find it, but he sat anyway, slowly, like it was a trap.
I took a deep breath. The clouds were there, in my mind, begging me to sink into them. But I pushed them back. Draco deserved more than that.
“I need to tell you something important,” I began. “It’s not a rumour. And it’s not something I want to say. But if I don’t, no one else will. And you have the right to know.”
He blinked.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s about your family. Your mum.”
His whole posture stiffened. Alarm. Panic.
“What about her? What happened?”
My throat closed up for a second. I swallowed.
“She’s gone. I’m sorry.”
He stared at me like I’d punched him.
“What do you mean, gone?”
I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.
“She’s gone , Draco.”
He shook his head.
“No. No, that’s—what are you saying—”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “Truly.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, his other fist clenched so hard his nails bit into his palm.
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“Someone I trust,” I said quietly.
He slumped forward, one hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other pulling at his hair like he could rip the grief out by force. Then he froze, eyes wide.
“How did she die?”
I hesitated.
“Answer the damned question!”
“She was… believed to have information,” I said. “He tortured her for it. Then he—”
I couldn’t finish it.
But he understood.
He made a sound I never wanted to hear again—raw and hollow. He stood, pacing, one hand still in his hair.
“Who did it?” he asked, voice cracking.
I looked at him.
“You already know who.”
He stopped pacing. His whole body shook.
“Was she alone?”
“I don’t know.”
He made a sound like something inside him had torn loose. And then he broke.
He didn’t hide it. Didn’t pretend. He sobbed—loud and painful, hunched over like he couldn’t bear the weight of it. I didn’t say anything. There was nothing I could say. I just sat there, quietly, while everything fell apart around him.
And I stayed. Because no one else would.
The Great Hall had been transformed again, but this time not for celebration. The long house tables were gone, replaced by quiet rows of simple wooden benches. A vast portrait of Dumbledore stood at the front, surrounded by flickering candles, wildflowers, and small, strange mementos that people had left behind. A pair of lemon sherbets in a little glass bowl. A scrap of a purple sock. A folded bit of parchment with a star drawn on it in ink. All of it meaningless to anyone else, but it had meant something to him.
I didn’t move closer. I stood near the back, where the candles didn’t quite reach, and kept my eyes on that painted face. The portrait was good—too good, really. It caught the light in Dumbledore’s eyes just right. The little lift of his brow. The way he always seemed to be just about to say something maddening or wise. Or both. It made my stomach ache.
Moody passed by and clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. No words—just pressure. A weight shared for a second. Then he moved on, gruff and limping, nodding at someone else.
Kingsley didn’t touch me, but his eyes met mine across the crowd. He inclined his head once. That was all. I nodded back.
Mum and Dad stood close. I could feel them watching me from time to time, the way Mum always had since I was little and too quiet. They didn’t speak either. Not here. Not during something like this. But I saw the way Mum wrung the edge of her cloak and the way Dad kept glancing at me like he wanted to ask a dozen questions and had swallowed every one of them for my sake.
I was grateful. And numb.
I stared at the candles for a while. At the strange little things people were placing at the foot of the portrait. I didn’t know if I should add something. What would I even give? A joke sweet from the twins? My prefect badge? A memory? He wasn’t here anymore. What use was a memento to a dead man?
I looked away. My gaze caught on someone standing apart from the crowd, still as a statue in the shadows near the edge of the hall. Snape.
He didn’t move. He barely blinked. But I knew that expression. I’d learned how to read him better than most. His grief was restrained—because everything about Snape was restrained—but it was there. In the set of his shoulders. In the tension at his jaw. He had lost someone important, too.
I didn’t go to him. I couldn’t. It would be noticed. Misunderstood. The wrong kind of attention. But he looked up at the same moment I did, and for a single heartbeat, our eyes met. Nothing less. Nothing more.
“Who’s that?” Harry whispered beside me, nodding subtly toward an older man leaning against the far wall, a scowl carved deep into his face. His beard was shorter than Dumbledore’s, but unmistakably the same shade. The same nose. The same tired eyes.
Hermione looked in that direction, too.
“Looks like Dumbledore,” Ginny added quietly. “Is he a relative?”
“That’s Aberforth,” I said under my breath. “His younger brother.”
The three of them looked back at me, surprised.
Harry blinked.
“Dumbledore had a brother?”
“Stop staring,” I muttered.
They turned away, chastened, and the moment passed. The rest of the wake dragged like a century. People took turns speaking, some quietly, some too loudly. Flitwick cried. Trelawney made a dramatic speech that earned a few raised eyebrows. Aberforth didn’t speak at all.
Eventually, the candles began to gutter low, and people started filtering out in ones and twos, murmuring their goodbyes. I turned to leave with the others, but Mum and Dad were suddenly at my side.
“Just a word, sweetheart,” Mum said gently, and I followed them into the Entrance Hall, away from the flow of teachers and prefects.
She wrapped me in her arms almost at once, pulling me close. Her eyes were already glistening.
“We heard what happened.”
I cast a quiet, nonverbal Muffliato around us. She didn’t notice.
“Are you all right, love?” she asked, pulling back just far enough to look into my face.
“I’ll be fine,” I said softly. “I’m handling it.”
“You shouldn’t have had to see that,” she whispered, her voice wobbling.
I looked at Dad. He stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder.
“We don’t need the details, son. Not unless you want to tell us,” he said. “Just know—we’re here. Always.”
I nodded, my throat thick.
“Thanks,” I said. “Both of you. I love you. Don’t worry.”
Mum gave me another hug, tighter this time. I closed my eyes for a second, just letting myself be held.
Then I pulled back and said,
“Harry’s waiting for me to go back to the common room.”
They didn’t protest. They let me go. I walked away, undoing the Muffliato with a flick of my wand, and disappeared into the castle’s quiet.
I wasn’t fine, not really. But I would be.
Chapter 90: BOOK SIX - SEVEN STEPS
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
SEVEN STEPS
The sky was grey. Thick clouds hung low over the Black Lake, pressing down on the world like a lid. It wasn’t snowing, thank Merlin, but the air was sharp and damp, the cold kind that crept into your coat and curled under your ribs. The most pitiful Valentine’s Day I could remember. Not that any of us were thinking about flowers or chocolates.
I stood with the rest of the Order, row two. Maybe three, depending on how you counted the ones behind me. Bill was on my left, George on my right. None of us spoke. Ginny was just behind us, silent too, and that silence somehow felt more unnatural than any noise could have been.
My eyes were drawn to the slow, quiet procession of chairs filling up. There was a strange, uneasy rhythm to it. Students were already seated—organised by year and house in a way that felt more clinical than respectful—but now came the others. So many others. Staff. Former staff. Order members, even the ones who hadn’t come to the wake last night. Faces I didn’t know. Faces I vaguely recognised. And faces I couldn’t stand.
Scrimgeour was one of the first I clocked, standing straight-backed and serious with Percy at his side. Percy nodded at us—at me—when they passed. I returned the gesture, barely. His eyes lingered. Maybe he knew. Maybe not.
Fudge waddled up next, flanked by his aides, his face appropriately grave but his eyes twitchy, as if searching for the nearest photographer. And then, of course, there was a photographer. And worse—Rita Skeeter, clutching her notebook like a wand. I stared at her, bitterly amused. Of course, she was here. Her press credentials should’ve been suspended longer, frankly. She was probably already halfway through writing some scandalous, saccharine rubbish about Dumbledore. The truth warped into something shiny enough to sell. I remembered that book from my other life. The one that made headlines. The one that sold lies for sympathy and silver.
I turned my eyes away.
But then I saw her.
Umbridge.
I tensed so hard it felt like my spine might snap. Bill’s head turned toward me immediately, and George glanced over, too.
“What?” Bill asked, low.
I didn’t answer. Just reached my right hand over to cover the scars on my left—the faint, shiny words that would never fade: I must follow the rules. Then I jerked my chin in her direction.
They both followed my gaze.
George muttered something vicious under his breath. Fred added his own curse a second later. Bill leaned in again, whispering directly into my ear.
“You going to be okay?”
I nodded, short and sharp. No room for softness. My eyes stuck to Umbridge like a curse until I forced myself to look away. It wasn’t her day. It was his.
So I looked back at the lake. The sky rippled over the surface, grey bleeding into grey, and then the ceremony began.
The merfolk sang first—low, lilting music that echoed across the water like a lament dredged from the depths. It was strange, alien, but it pierced something inside me. I didn't understand the words. I didn’t need to.
Then came the officiant. A wizard I didn’t recognise. His voice was stiff and formal, the kind of words you could copy out of a book. Polished. Distant. He might as well have been giving a eulogy for a stranger.
When he finished, the tomb rose from the ground, white stone blooming around the body like a final enchantment.
And then… he was gone.
Just like that.
And for the first time since that awful morning, I let myself feel it.
No clouds. No Occlumency walls. No plans or responsibilities to hide behind.
Just grief.
I should’ve felt regret, maybe. But I didn’t. Not in the usual way. I’d said everything that mattered. Even at the end, I’d told Dumbledore what needed to be said. No unfinished business. No unspoken truths.
What I regretted wasn’t words left unsaid—it was what I’d had, and lost.
The quiet faith.
That constant trust he gave me, wordless and weighty.
That sense that he saw more in me than anyone else ever had. That, no matter how chaotic things became, Dumbledore always had a plan. A map. A purpose.
Now that map was gone.
And I was lost.
He’d been my anchor. My counsel. My lighthouse.
And now the light was out.
There was no illusion of safety anymore. No margin of error. No powerful wizard in the background pulling strings for the greater good. The one man Voldemort had truly feared was gone. And now everyone would turn to Harry. Everyone would look to him like he had answers, like he had power. And I knew better than anyone— he didn’t. Not enough. Not alone.
And I had no shield strong enough to protect him. Not from the press. Not from the Ministry. Not from Voldemort. Not from what was coming.
There was no one left to shield us.
I closed my eyes.
All that was left in me were echoes. The echo of trust. Of safety. Of having time to plan. Time to prepare. Time to fall back if it all went wrong.
There would be no falling back now.
Only a leap forward. A mad, desperate dash to the end.
I opened my eyes again, and everything looked the same, but nothing felt the same.
Dumbledore was gone.
The Room shaped itself into what we needed without us asking.
It looked like a study tonight—low firelight, dark wood, bookshelves, and a round table between two armchairs. No office. No duelling dummies. No practice mats. No wands drawn. Just quiet. The kind of quiet where grief sat heavy in the walls.
Snape was already inside when I arrived, standing by the fire with his hands behind his back. He didn’t speak when I shut the door and cast the privacy spells. I didn’t either, not at first. We just stood there, as if talking too soon would break something we couldn’t put back together.
Finally, I said,
“We’re not doing Occlumency tonight, are we?”
His eyes flicked to mine.
“Only if your mind has begun to fray.”
I shook my head.
“It’s holding.”
He studied me for a long moment.
“Good. Because if it wasn't, I'd be forced to knock you unconscious and start from scratch.”
That was his way of easing the tension, I think.
I sat down heavily in the nearest chair.
Snape followed, his movements more measured. He didn’t sink. He lowered himself as if the chair were a post he was claiming.
“I told him,” I said.
His gaze sharpened.
“Draco,” I clarified. “About his mother.”
Snape said nothing at first. He let the fire crackle between us. Then, very softly,
“How did he take it?”
“How do you think?”
His expression didn’t change, but his fingers curled against the chair arm.
I stared into the fire for a moment. The silence between us was thicker now, like it didn’t want to be disturbed.
“He broke,” I said quietly. “At the end. He tried not to, but… He’s not made for this. He’s been hanging on by a thread all year, and this—” I stopped. “This cut the last one.”
Snape didn’t answer. His face was turned slightly, his gaze far off, like he could see Draco right now through the wall.
“I don’t know what he’ll do,” I said. “That’s what scares me. He could shut down completely. He could snap. Or… maybe he’ll finally see Voldemort for what he is.”
Snape’s mouth was a tight line.
“I think he already did,” I added. “But he didn’t have proof. Now he does. If Voldemort gives him another mission…”
I let the sentence dangle.
“We will need to know what it is,” Snape said softly.
I nodded.
“Exactly. Because now Voldemort’s desperate.”
“You say that with great certainty,” he said, each word measured, like he was tasting every implication. “So you know what it is that Voldemort fears. And why he’s unravelling.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He knew I wouldn’t answer this. So I steered the conversation back to where it needed to go.
“He’ll want one thing more than anything now,” I said, keeping my tone even. “He’ll want to check this room.”
Snape’s gaze changed, his posture going still in a way that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with calculation.
“The Room of Requirement?”
I nodded.
His lips thinned.
“Does he know of it?”
“Not exactly. One version of it. He will want in. To get something he left behind.”
“He’ll send someone.”
“Maybe. But not Draco. He doesn’t trust the Malfoys anymore. Not Lucius. Not after this week,” I said, then tilted my head, thinking hard. “No, I don’t think he will task someone with it. It’s too…delicate. He will want to do it himself. And for that, he might task Draco with finding a way into Hogwarts.”
Snape’s face didn’t move, but I saw the flicker in his eyes. He understood the implication. We were running out of time.
“Is there a way that Draco could find?”
“There are ways. You know that better than anyone. You’ve seen the Map. The school has weak points. But most of them are sealed, and the rest only work under very specific conditions. The biggest weak point…”
I trailed off. I thought of the Vanishing Cabinet, still unusable but not under Dumbledore’s protective wards anymore. The Cabinet was not secure. That needed to change.
I sat back straight, frowning under the weight of the realisation.
“There is a loose end that we absolutely need to take care of. You know what a Vanishing Cabinet is, I presume? There is one in Hogwarts. Dumbledore put some wards around it to trap anyone who tries to repair it. The risk was worth it at the time—to catch an unknown agent of Voldemort. But with Dumbledore gone, we need to get rid of it. Either put it elsewhere, out of the castle, or make it unrepairable. We can’t afford an attack from within when we are so vulnerable without Dumbledore.”
Snape sat straighter, too, listening to my explanation. He looked paler, and, dare I say, apprehensive.
“Where is it?”
“The Room of Hidden Things. It’s a version of the Room of Requirement.”
He breathed in through his nose. Then exhaled—quiet and sharp.
“We’ll check it. If it can be destroyed, we do so. If not, we’ll curse it beyond repair and anchor it in layers of protective magic no one without my clearance can touch.”
A pause. His voice lowered.
“You did well to bring this to me.”
I nodded distractedly, thinking hard. There were so many things to track, so many plans, traps and secrets. I didn’t know where to turn anymore. What was the most urgent? The Horcrux, surely.
“Did he summon you?” I asked. “To ask about Dumbledore?”
Snape looked at me for a few seconds before answering, tone flat.
“He did. Why do you ask?”
Too many reasons.
“Did you give him the real reason for Dumbledore’s death? Or does he believe that Draco killed him?”
“He knows the truth, and that Draco Malfoy had nothing to do with it.”
I nodded, already thinking of my next question.
“Does he know about the box? The ring? The wand?”
“No,” He said firmly. “He suspects nothing. The memory he was shown places McGonagall at his side. No artefacts were exchanged. Nothing.”
He marked a pause before adding:
“Your name never came up. You were not there.”
I nodded, but the words didn’t ease the knot behind my ribs. They couldn’t. Not with what I’d heard whispered between corridors and behind hands.
“There are rumours,” I said, voice low. “Around school. About me being there. Stupid ones, mostly, the usual nonsense.”
Snape arched an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth tightening, like he had already heard them.
“But some of them,” I continued, “some of them are close. Too close.” I leaned forward slightly. “What if one of those stories finds its way to him? What if someone believes it enough to pass it along?”
Snape’s gaze narrowed.
“You think he’ll give credence to school gossip?”
“I think he’s desperate,” I said, echoing my earlier words. “And desperate people start listening to things they’d normally ignore. If he hears my name tied to Dumbledore’s last moments—even as a rumour—what if that’s enough to make him dig?”
There was a long pause. Snape didn’t look away, didn’t blink. He just… studied me.
Then he said, cool and measured,
“You were erased from the memory. No trace remains. But yes—rumours are dangerous.”
Another pause.
“Do not give them weight by reacting to them,” he said finally. “That is the only way to keep them from growing teeth. Ignore them. Let them starve.”
I pressed my lips together. That was easier said than done.
But I understood the logic. I always did. I leaned back in my chair again, the fire crackling between us, and let the next silence stretch.
Until Snape shattered it in the worst manner possible.
“Dumbledore entrusted you with a task. What remains of it?”
I let out a humourless huff of laughter.
Not because it was funny. Just because… what else was there to do?
What remains of it?
Everything.
I didn’t say it out loud. Instead, I let the silence stretch as I peeled the question open in my head like layers of an old wound. The task. The thing that lived in the back of my skull like a second pulse. The reason I hadn’t fallen apart yet. Not completely.
The heart of it was simple. Make Voldemort mortal again.
Shatter what kept him tethered. Then let him be defeated. Let him die.
That objective split neatly, terribly, into three pieces.
Three Horcruxes. Three parts of a soul that shouldn’t still exist.
The Cup. Easy. Ridiculously easy, all things considered. I had the Cup, and I had access to the Sword. All I needed to do was to act on it.
Then Nagini. Trickier. Mobile. Dangerous. Alive. But even so—straightforward. I had the tool to destroy her, the means. It would come down to timing, to access, to luck. That wasn’t the hard part.
The hard part was the last Horcrux.
The one no one was supposed to know about.
The one Dumbledore and I barely acknowledged aloud.
Harry.
He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t a thing. He wasn’t discardable.
He was Harry. My friend.
That part of the task had its own sick geometry.
Tell him the truth.
Make him the master of the Hallows.
Let him—
…Let him die.
The thought dropped into me like ice water down my spine.
I felt it take root in my bones, the full sentence: Harry has to die.
Or at the very least, he has to risk it.
And I… I had to make him ready. I had to make sure it meant something. That he didn’t die. That he had a chance to come back.
My face didn’t move. My body didn’t flinch. But inside, something cracked slightly at the edge.
This was what was left of the task.
All of it.
All the truly hard parts.
There was not one and true answer to that question, so I asked something of my own.
“Are you asking for the cold, clinical percentages?” I said finally, eyes lost in the fire. “Or the version where human life still matters?”
Snape was quiet. The fire cracked softly between us, throwing flickers of gold across the sharp lines of his face. He didn’t look away from me—not once. I could feel his eyes on me, studying every inch of the expression I was trying not to have.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“Tell me what still matters.”
His voice was low. No edge, no demand. Just a quiet request. One that almost didn’t sound like him at all.
I didn’t answer straight away. I couldn’t. My throat had gone tight, like the words were too heavy to lift.
But I nodded. Once. Because I would. I had to.
“Seven,” I said before looking at him. “Seven steps before the war is over.”
Snape went very still. He was shocked by my answer. I could almost see it ricocheting in his head, while he tried to process it. Then he narrowed his eyes slightly, leaned back, just slightly, and pressed his thumb into the curve of his lower lip. Thinking. Measuring.
Then, finally, he spoke in a soft voice, almost wary:
“... And how many of those seven steps cost you?”
I huffed another almost soundless laugh.
“Two of them.”
“Two,” he repeated softly.
A pause.
“Then you’ll need someone to carry what you can’t. Someone to act, when you must stand still.”
His eyes met mine, dark and steady.
“I am not Dumbledore. I will not ask you to trust blindly. But I will stand beside you. When you need it most.”
I felt it like a vow.
Not just words. Not just an offer. Not even loyalty, really. It was more than that—quiet, steady, final. A pledge. And it shook something in me.
For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the fire, trying to breathe around the sudden pressure in my chest. I didn’t expect it. Not like that.
Snape didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He didn’t offer help unless he intended to give all of it. So if he said he would stand with me—stand beside me, not above me, not as a teacher or protector or some superior strategist—but as a man choosing to walk the line with me… then that meant I wasn’t alone anymore.
I hadn’t realised how much I needed that. How badly I needed someone to choose this with me.
I didn’t look at him right away. I don’t know if I could’ve. There was too much behind my ribs—grief and pressure and the ache of holding everything for so long without letting a single part of it slip. And now here he was, saying, Give me part of it. I’ll carry it with you.
So I nodded. Small, steady. I didn’t trust my voice at first.
But I owed him the truth. I owed him everything I couldn’t say.
“Thank you,” I said, and it came out quiet. Barely more than a breath.
But I meant it with every bone in my body.
The next evening, we took action.
The door to the Room of Hidden Things sealed behind us with a soft, final click. Piles of forgotten junk loomed on either side of us—bookshelves stacked to the ceiling, rusted swords poking out of crates, shattered busts and old potions kits littered in every direction. But I only had eyes for one thing: the looming, cracked Vanishing Cabinet, crouched like a cancer in the far corner of the room.
Snape approached it with the same quiet intensity he always had when facing dangerous magic. He didn’t speak at first—he just circled it once, slowly, like a predator measuring distance before striking.
Then he said, flatly,
“The wards are gone.”
I nodded, already preparing the defensive wards we’d planned last night. I raised my wand and began casting the protections around us—layered shields to absorb magical backlash if the cabinet’s destabilised core decided to fight back. Snape didn’t waste time. He lifted his wand and got to work.
It wasn’t a matter of smashing it. If we did that, the magic tangled inside could rupture—maybe tear open both ends of the link. No, it had to be unmade.
Charms work. Deep, layered, advanced. Spells that required precision, intent, and control. I could barely follow most of what he was doing. At first, it looked like he was stripping away paint or old varnish, but then I realised he was unravelling the enchantments. Unpicking the cabinet’s magic like a tailor unpicking stitches.
I kept my post a few feet behind him, wand raised, eyes alert. I monitored the shielding wards, mending them each time a flare of energy leaked from the cabinet. Twice I had to reinforce them quickly when the wood groaned like it might crack apart.
The room didn’t feel safe. It felt watchful, like something inside it knew what we were doing and didn’t want it done.
Snape didn’t speak, except to request a ten-minute break after the first hour. His forehead was damp when he straightened, and his voice was hoarse when he asked for water. I conjured a bottle and passed it to him.
“You alright?” I asked.
His response was a curt nod.
“Just don’t let the wards drop.”
“I won’t.”
Two more hours passed like that. Spell after spell. Inch by inch. I saw the cabinet change. At first, it looked intact—still broken, yes, but whole in structure. But by the end, it was a hollow thing. Not just physically—it was empty. Like the magic had been sucked out of it entirely.
When Snape cast the final charm, his wand trembled slightly in his hand. A soft hiss filled the room, and the cabinet slumped in on itself, like something had broken its spine. The last rune burned out.
He turned to me.
“It’s done.”
Then, with one smooth, efficient motion, he incinerated the remains. The cabinet collapsed into fine, black-grey ash. With a flick of his wand, the ashes vanished into nothing.
Gone.
The Vanishing Cabinet. The greatest breach in Hogwarts’ defences. The one threat that had kept me up more nights than I could count.
One breach closed.
I lowered my wand slowly. I let the protective wards fall. And for the first time in what felt like years, I let my shoulders drop.
We had time again.
Time to prepare.
Time to act.
But first…
“I’ll take care of the box tomorrow,” I said, still watching the faint scorch marks on the stone where the Cabinet had stood. “Is it alright if I come and get it just after dinner?”
Snape, who had been inspecting the space with a final, scrutinising look, turned slightly.
“Yes.”
“I’ll need the password to the Headmistress’ office,” I added, glancing at him. “Could you… let her know I’ll be by? Discreetly. Just tell her I need to borrow something. I’ll bring it back later that evening.”
He gave a sharp nod, calm as ever, but I caught the flicker of understanding in his eyes.
Then I added, keeping my tone careful,
“He might summon you. Soon. And others. To track someone.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“A certain R.A.B.,” I said. “He’ll be searching for this person… quite intently.”
I chose each word with the precision of someone walking a tightrope over a pit. I didn’t want to give too much away—not here, not yet—but I wanted Snape to understand the scope of the danger. And he did. I could tell by the way his fingers stilled, by the sharp focus of his eyes.
“He won’t have any patience,” I added quietly. “He’ll be… volatile. Everyone will be in danger of ending up like Narcissa did. Even you.”
Snape’s expression didn’t move, but I saw the shift in his gaze. Not surprise—he rarely gave that away. But something cold. Resigned. His posture went very still.
I hesitated again. My throat was tight, but this part had to be said.
“If it ever turns against you,” I said, voice low, grave, “if you’re in danger of being punished or worse—” I met his eyes. “You can reveal who R.A.B. is. Say the name. Regulus Black. It might be enough to buy you time.”
Silence fell like a hammer between us.
Snape stared at me. His eyes were dark and deep and measuring. He didn’t answer at once, and part of me wondered if he was deciding whether to be angry with me… or grateful. I wasn’t sure which one would be worse.
“You understand what you’ve just given me,” he said, voice low. “What it could cost, if revealed at the wrong time.”
I nodded.
Snape’s eyes searched mine, steady and unreadable.
“And yet you gave it… for me.”
He didn’t phrase it as a question.
Then, after a beat—barely more than a whisper:
“I do not deserve that trust, Weasley… But I will not waste it.”
I nodded—just once. Low. Quiet. Then I let out a breath that didn’t make me feel any lighter. The tension was still tight in my chest, coiled around my ribs like rope. I took a step back, rubbing my knuckles along my jaw like that would loosen something in me.
My thoughts were moving too fast. I couldn’t hold them still. So I didn’t try.
“He’ll ask if you knew him,” I said, pacing a few steps away. “Regulus.”
I didn’t look at Snape. My gaze was on the wall, on the way the firelight flickered over stone, on nothing at all.
“He’ll want to know how well. If you were close. If you ever saw it coming—that his loyalty might’ve wavered.”
I turned back to him. The words felt heavier as they left my mouth.
“He’ll want details. How Regulus acted at the end. If he changed. If he said anything strange. If you ever noticed cracks.”
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to think ahead, past the part where everything could go wrong.
“He might even ask if Dumbledore ever talked to you about the Blacks. About Regulus specifically. Whether he ever guessed something was off.”
I paused. My fingers clenched and unclenched at my sides.
“He could ask for memories.”
That landed hard. I swallowed against the thought of it—against what that would mean.
“You’ll need to be ready to deny everything,” I said. My voice was steadier now, like I’d found the line I had to draw. “Every angle. You can’t know anything. Not from Regulus. Not from Dumbledore. Not from me.”
I stopped pacing and stood still. Tried to gather the scattered pieces of myself.
“He’ll press,” I said quietly, meeting Snape’s eyes again. “You know he will. But… you have leverage now.”
I held his gaze.
“You’ll be fine.”
I swallowed again. The knot in my throat was thick, but I pushed through it.
“You’ll be safe.”
And saying it out loud—really saying it—felt like anchoring something inside me. Like giving shape to a hope I’d been too afraid to name until now.
Notes:
I'm currently writing my very first Snarry and it's so bloody difficult! Those boys are driving me crazy with their angsty personalities!
Chapter 91: BOOK SIX - THE CUP
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
THE CUP
Six days.
Six days since Dumbledore died, and I was finally going to carry out my duty.
I sat through dinner without really tasting anything. The Hall buzzed around me—low conversations, clinking cutlery, laughter that sounded too bright in places and too dull in others. I barely registered it. Across from me, Harry was talking to Theo in quiet tones, head tilted, his fork dragging through his potatoes without urgency.
I was too focused on what came next.
As soon as my plate cleared itself, I stood.
“I’ve got some prefect duty to sort out,” I said to Harry. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Harry waved a hand vaguely without even looking up.
“All right. See you after.”
I turned and left before I could talk myself into doubting any of it.
I went to the dungeons.
Snape was just reaching his office door when I caught up with him. He glanced at me over his shoulder, gave a short nod, and didn’t say a word as he unlocked the door and pushed it open.
I followed him in. The familiar scent of brewed potions and parchment clung to the walls, somehow heavier tonight. Snape crossed to his desk in three purposeful strides. His wand was already in hand. He murmured something under his breath—words I couldn’t catch—and then tapped one of the side drawers.
It gave a soft click and slid open.
He reached in and withdrew the box.
The same box Dumbledore had given me, the one Snape had been keeping safe since the funeral. My stomach knotted as he handed it over. I tucked it carefully into the inner pocket of my satchel, sealing the flap.
“The password?” I asked quietly.
“Transcendence,” he said. “I've already informed her you'll be arriving.”
“Thank you.”
I paused for a second. He didn’t say anything more. Neither did I.
Then I turned and left.
The halls were mostly empty now. I moved fast but cautiously, casting a few discreet detection spells as I walked. No one was following me. Not even Draco.
My steps slowed at the thought of him. Haunted, hollow-eyed, and withdrawn—he hadn’t so much as looked my way in days. And he’d stopped trailing me completely. Guilt or grief, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
I shook the thought off and focused. No distractions. Not tonight.
The gargoyle slid aside when I gave the password, and I climbed the spiral staircase two steps at a time. I hesitated only a second before knocking.
“Enter,” came McGonagall’s voice.
I stepped in. The room was dim, the windows grey with lingering winter light. Her eyes found mine immediately.
“Mr Weasley. I was informed you’d be coming.”
I nodded.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
She studied me for a moment, then folded her hands atop her desk.
“May I ask, however delicately, why you require the Sword of Gryffindor?”
I swallowed.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that, Professor.”
Her expression didn’t change. Neither cold nor warm. Just steady. But her silence stretched, and I felt something twist in my chest. She could say no. She could call it off, ask more questions, demand answers I couldn’t give.
“I promise it won’t take long,” I added. “Two hours, maximum. I’ll bring it straight back here.”
She continued to study me. Then, at last, she nodded once.
“I will not ask you to break a promise, Mr Weasley… but I do hope you understand the weight of what you’re asking.”
“I do,” I said quietly.
She stood and walked to the tall cabinet against the far wall. From within, she drew the sword, gleaming even in the dim light, the rubies pulsing like captured fire. She held it for a moment longer than necessary, then handed it to me.
I took it with both hands, bowed my head once, and stepped back.
Without a word, I raised my wand and cast the Disillusionment Charm. The sword shimmered, blurred, then vanished completely from sight. I tucked it securely under one arm and turned to leave.
She said nothing as I exited.
Neither did I.
I made my way down to the dungeons again, the stone corridors colder than usual, every sound swallowed by the thick silence. When I reached the lower levels, I stopped beneath one of the flickering torches and pulled the Map from my pocket.
“ I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. ”
Ink spread like breath on glass, revealing the secret veins of the castle. I scanned the Map carefully.
No one.
Still, I didn’t take chances. I disillusioned myself with a murmur and a flick of my wand, feeling the shimmer of magic settle over me like a heavy second skin. Then I moved. Quiet, careful steps, deep into the belly of Hogwarts. Past the Potions classroom. Past the storage vaults. All the way to the dead end at the very back of a narrow corridor, where only the rats wandered.
I raised my wand and pulsed magic into the stone.
For a second, nothing happened—then the wall shimmered, shivered, and folded back like mist. A heavy door emerged where there had been nothing. I stepped through and sealed it behind me.
The air in the containment chamber was dense and charged, pressing at my ribs, humming low and steady in my bones. I let the Disillusionment fade and exhaled.
The wards were still intact.
Thank Merlin.
Unlike the Cabinet’s, these hadn’t collapsed with Dumbledore’s death. Either they were old enough to have latched onto the castle itself, or Dumbledore had anchored them somewhere else entirely. Either way, I wasn’t about to take it for granted. But it gave me something I hadn’t felt in days.
A sense of safety.
I crossed the room and set the Sword of Gryffindor on the table. It landed with a faint metallic note, clean and ancient and impossibly heavy. Then I pulled off my satchel and took out the box. My hands were steady, but I could feel the tension pooling between my shoulders.
I opened the lid.
The cup sat on its cushion like it belonged in a collector’s display. Small. Polished. Ornate. The badger crest gleamed faintly in the lamplight. Innocent-looking. Unthreatening.
Liar.
I pointed my wand and levitated the cup to the centre of the room, just above the carved runes etched deep into the stone. The glyphs flared as the cup hovered over them, catching the magical lines like flint on steel. They were ready. I was ready.
I took up the sword again.
It felt heavier than ever before. Like it felt Dumbledore’s absence.
I walked to the outer ring, the lines of the circle thrumming softly beneath my feet. I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a long breath. In. Out. I let the world blur. Let the clouds roll in.
No fear.
No doubt.
Only purpose.
When the storm in my head had settled, I opened my eyes.
Raised the blade.
And struck.
The clang rang through the room like a scream.
The Cup split with a horrible wrenching noise—and then the magic exploded. A blast of black smoke shot outward, shrieking, oily and alive. The runes caught it, held it, flickered once, but didn’t buckle.
I held my breath, sword still raised, watching as the cloud writhed and twisted, trying to escape the ring of protection. Like a wounded animal that didn’t know it was dying. I had no spell to banish it. No chant to drain it.
So I stood vigil.
Sword in hand. Wand at the ready. Just… watching.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The smoke still twisted, but it wasn’t lashing anymore.
I stayed still.
Half an hour passed, and the outline of the cup—broken and darkened—emerged faintly from within the mass. I narrowed my eyes. Waited. Watched.
Another half hour passed. The smoke had thinned, dulled. It hung now like mist, not shadow.
I hesitated only a moment.
Then I lifted my wand, whispered the Vanishing spell—and the cup, what was left of it, blinked out of existence.
The room held its breath.
Nothing moved.
No rebound. No backlash. No scream from the stone.
Only stillness.
I lowered my wand slowly. Let the sword drop to my side. And then I let myself breathe.
One step done.
Only six to go.
The destruction of the Cup left something behind—something I hadn’t expected.
Not ash, not ruin.
Lightness.
Not joy, not even relief. But something quieter. A thread of calm pulled tight through my chest, anchoring me. It felt like getting a foothold after hours of drowning in mud. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was being dragged in all directions. I felt... centred.
I’d taken a step forward. Not just any step—the first one. A real, tangible part of the mission, completed. Destroy the Cup. Done.
And now, I had six left.
That was the number I repeated to myself, again and again, any time the weight of it all began pressing down. Just like I told Snape. Seven steps until the war is over.
Destroy the Cup.
Destroy Nagini.
Tell the truth to Harry.
Make him the master of the Hallows.
Give Voldemort the Elder Wand.
Destroy the Horcrux in Harry.
Kill Voldemort.
Seven.
Six, now.
It still scared me, but it didn’t paralyse me. Not anymore.
I found myself sitting in the quiet corner of the Library the next day, staring at a stack of books but not reading them. My thoughts ran ahead of me, tugging at each thread of the plan. The Cup was gone. Nagini was next—somehow. I had the means. But not the how, not yet. And then Harry. Merlin.
How do I tell him? That was the part that chilled me.
Some days, I convinced myself that it would work. That he would understand, that we’d pull it off, and laugh about it together someday. Happy ending and all.
On other days, I couldn’t even find the shape of hope. It slipped between my fingers like smoke.
So I looked for it elsewhere. Forced myself to see it. In Hogwarts. In the people around me.
I watched Harry and Ginny blossom into something that looked like peace. Something that made them both smile more, lean into each other’s company. Hermione caught me looking once and gave me the sort of soft, understanding smile that made my ribs ache. And Luna—Luna made me laugh the other day, just by showing up to breakfast wearing a crown made of toast crusts and claiming it would keep Wrackspurts away from her porridge.
Hope was still here. In bits and pieces. I only had to keep my eyes open.
So I gave myself until my birthday. That was my rule. No planning, no weighty steps, no Horcruxes until then. Just a breath. Just a brace.
In the meantime, I threw myself into Apparition practice. Our first two lessons went well, and I was one of the first in class to manage it, even if I only landed five feet to the left and nearly knocked over a suit of armour. Still, it was progress.
And then came something I hadn’t expected: Professor Theodosia March.
Our new Transfiguration professor.
She swept into the Great Hall like an accidental parade—feathers in her scarf, soot on her cheek, and a small rooster perched on her shoulder. No one quite knew what to do with her. But within five minutes of her first class, the entire room was smiling.
She was brilliant. But not the sort of brilliant that looked down on you or made you feel like a speck in her world. No, she was the sort who looked delighted when you had a clever idea, even if it was only half-formed. She was warm and eccentric, and if I had to put her in one category, I’d say chaotic good. Definitely.
She told jokes mid-lecture, half of them poultry-related. Her classroom looked more like a cross between a workshop and a menagerie. One time, we entered to find a chicken wearing spectacles walking across the chalkboard.
She made things feel light again. That mattered. That helped.
She didn’t just teach Transfiguration—she gave us something else. Distraction. Joy. Breath.
And after everything we’d lost, that felt like its own kind of magic.
At the end of our second lesson, when we were all still packing up, Professor March clapped her hands together, startling a few of the half-transfigured teacups on her desk into honking. I blinked at her, my hand halfway to my bag.
“Don’t rush off just yet,” she said, beaming. “I’d like a quick word with five of you. Granger, Weasley, Nott, Patil, and Goldstein.”
Hermione perked up instantly. Theo straightened where he was slouching, curious but guarded. Padma and Goldstein exchanged a glance, both clearly trying to guess what this was about.
The other students filled out until there was just the six of us.
“Now, I don’t want to keep you long,” March continued, stepping over a nest of softly clucking teacups without hesitation, “but I’ve had my eye on all of you. Your work, your instinct, your control. And I think—I know —that each of you has the potential for something... more.”
That made me pause. I frowned slightly. There was a glint in her eye like she was enjoying this too much.
“I’ve been waiting a very long time,” she went on, “to do something properly outrageous. And now that I’m officially a teacher,”—she gave an exaggerated little bow—“I can get away with it.”
I drew my brows together. I could tell she was trying to be smooth about whatever she was leading up to, but the dramatics were a bit much.
It was Goldstein who said what we were all thinking.
“Do what, exactly?”
March’s grin widened.
“I want to start a club. A very particular club. Not for lightweights or shortcut-seekers. I want to explore the more unstable applications of human transfiguration.”
We all froze.
“…Unstable?” Theo said flatly.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed with interest.
March waved a hand.
“Poor choice of words. Not dangerous. Just... ambitious. I’ve always dreamed of tutoring a few bright, determined students toward one of the most complex pieces of transfiguration known to wizardkind.”
Padma’s eyes lit up.
“You mean—”
March clasped her hands in front of her chest.
“Yes. I want to train Animagi.”
There was a beat of stunned silence, followed by a quiet, excited intake of breath from Hermione.
“You want to teach us how to become Animagi?”
March nodded so enthusiastically that one of her feathers nearly fell out of her hair.
“Only if you’re interested, of course. And only those of age could pursue the actual transformation phase. The rest would start with the theory, the visualisation, the magical foundations... the meat of it, really. And, of course, I’ll need written consent from a parent or guardian if any underage student wishes to commit to the path. Just a formality.”
Hermione looked like Christmas had come early.
“What about registration? I thought the Ministry had strict protocols?”
“Oh, absolutely,” March said breezily. “But don’t worry—I’ve already had a very productive chat with Minerva. She was my mentor once, and she knows I’m not entirely mad.”
Theo gave her a very sceptical look.
She turned her attention back to us, beaming.
“So. What do we think? Any brave souls ready to join me in magical metamorphosis?”
There was a moment when we all exchanged glances. Hermione was already nodding. Padma too. Goldstein looked thrilled in a quiet, calculated sort of way. Theo lifted one brow like he was pretending to be above it all, but the spark in his eye gave him away.
I chuckled.
“Who in their right mind would refuse?” I said.
The others nodded along. March clapped her hands once in delight.
“Marvellous! My very own Menagerie!”
I snorted, amused.
“That’s what you’re calling us?”
“Oh yes,” she said seriously. “The March Menagerie. Don’t worry, you’ll each have a nameplate.”
Theo groaned. Goldstein looked like he was regretting everything.
Hermione looked positively radiant.
And me? I just felt incredibly excited.
The same week, my Occlumency lessons resumed after almost two full weeks without private tutoring. I hadn’t asked why. I didn’t need to. Snape surely had more than enough on his plate handling the fallout of Dumbledore’s death—political tension, Ministry pressure, House discipline, staff coordination, and probably ten different reports with his name on them in triplicate. And still, he found time to resume our work. That, somehow, grounded me more than I expected.
Now, our schedule was back to normal.
A proper routine. Tidy and comforting.
There was something reassuring about it. About knowing I’d climb the stairs to the seventh floor, pass the tapestry of the troll ballet, and find the Room of Requirement waiting for me, shaped like Snape’s office down to the last brass lamp. Predictable. Familiar. The kind of normalcy that didn’t come easily anymore.
And I needed it—needed the structure, the discipline, the sense that I was still moving forward. Still learning. Still sharpening myself against something. Against someone who didn’t let me slack, didn’t let me lie to myself.
Snape had always been brutally clear.
That hadn’t changed.
And honestly… I was grateful for it.
I came in, quietly content.
Then I saw Snape’s face.
And something was wrong.
He stood near the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, still and unreadable. But not calm. Not focused. The air around him felt… heavy, like the moments before a storm. Something cold and stifling hummed under the surface.
My footsteps slowed, then stopped just inside the room. My eyes searched his face.
“What happened?” I asked quietly. “You look—”
I stopped. Haunted felt too dramatic. But it wasn’t wrong.
Snape didn’t answer straight away. His gaze moved over me—not cold, not harsh. Searching.
“You’re early,” he said finally. Not an answer.
“Only by five minutes,” I replied. “And you’re deflecting.”
That made the corner of his mouth twitch. Barely. Almost nothing. But it was something.
Then he looked away, toward the false window in the wall, where it always looked like night. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth and deliberate.
“Tell me something, Weasley.”
A pause. Measured. Testing.
“When Dumbledore gave you your instructions... was there ever mention of the Dark Lord’s snake?”
My heartbeat faltered. I kept my face still. I didn’t answer.
Snape turned back to me, eyes dark and intent. Focused.
“What about her?” I asked, even. “Has he become overly protective of her?”
Snape didn’t answer straight away. His gaze lingered on mine, searching, weighing something behind my eyes. I could almost feel it—the flicker of calculation just beneath the stillness.
“He keeps her close,” he said finally, voice low. “No longer a weapon. Now… a treasure. This is new. As of this week. A sphere of containment. He doesn’t let her out. Doesn’t send her. She stays beside him.”
I nodded once. Slowly. That matched what I knew. Voldemort was scared after losing so many of his Horcruxes. He didn’t know if the Diadem or Diary had been destroyed already. Therefore, it made him overly protective of Nagini.
But Snape didn’t know any of that.
“Why do you ask, sir?”
He kept staring at me, like he wanted to ask a question plainly, but didn’t know if he could. He stayed silent. I looked at him carefully.
“Dumbledore…” I began slowly, carefully. “... he told you about it. Did he tell you what it meant ?”
I watched his reaction. He watched mine. I didn’t give him much, just the slight tilting of my head and a steady gaze. But inside, my thoughts were moving fast. What had Dumbledore told him? We hadn’t broached that subject in his last moments.
Snape didn’t respond straight away. The air felt even heavier than before, like the walls themselves were listening. His arms were still behind his back, rigid now, like holding still might hold back the words.
“I know what it means,” he said eventually, carefully. “I know what it could mean.”
That wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t not one either. Snape said he knew what it meant, but I was sure that Dumbledore hadn’t told him about the Horcruxes. However, he had told Snape something.
I sighed, tired of beating around the bush. Neither of them knew what instructions the other was guarding.
“Whatever Dumbledore told you, there is a huge chance I already know it.”
Snape stepped forward slowly, toward the desk, then rested one hand lightly on its surface. His eyes didn’t leave mine.
“I imagine Dumbledore left behind more than one contingency,” he said. “More than one… keeper of secrets.”
A beat of silence stretched between us like a blade balanced on edge.
“This is just stupid,” I muttered. “This… is so stupid and irritating. I doubt he told you why the snake is important.”
Snape’s expression didn’t move for a moment. Then his hand curled slightly against the desk, and something passed behind his eyes—grief, maybe. Bitterness.
“I do not know why the snake matters.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
The question dropped into the space between us like a stone in deep water. His eyes narrowed, not unkindly—just sharply.
“Before he died, Dumbledore said there would be a time—a very specific time—when I would have to do something.”
And suddenly I knew. What this was all about.
That was the signal for Snape.
To tell Harry that he needed to die.
Snape was trying to find out if I already knew.
I felt drained and frustrated. But also, a little relieved that I wasn’t the only one carrying that burden. That was extremely selfish of me.
“That’s one of the two steps that cost me,” I finally settled on. “Tell the truth. And let it happen.”
Snape didn’t speak. Not right away.
He stood perfectly still, one hand still braced on the desk, the other now curling around the edge. His eyes didn’t leave mine, but something shifted in them—like the floor beneath us had dropped a few inches, and only he had noticed.
Then, finally, in a voice so low I almost missed it:
“Then you understand the cost.”
There was no sarcasm. No bitterness. Just… grief. Strained and buried deep.
“You carry it with less bitterness than I did,” he murmured.
A pause.
“And more grace than he ever had a right to ask of you.”
He looked away then, for just a moment—his gaze falling to the floor like it hurt to hold mine.
My throat was tight. I hadn’t expected kindness, or understanding. I didn’t know what I’d expected, really. But that… that cut deeper than cruelty ever could.
He straightened slowly, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.
“I won’t question how you came to know. I’ll only say… I am sorry you had to.”
I swallowed hard. The silence after that felt heavier than any spell. Like something sacred had been laid between us.
But then—he spoke again.
“Dumbledore gave no timeline,” Snape said, barely audible. “Only… that when the snake was held close, I would know. And I would tell Potter. That he must die.”
He said it as if it had poisoned his tongue.
Like it was the one sentence that had destroyed every part of him that was still human.
And that’s when I knew.
He didn’t know the rest.
He didn’t know Harry could survive it.
I felt a jolt of horror deep in my gut, like a drop into cold water. My legs moved on their own, I stepped closer, almost reaching out. My voice came quicker than I meant:
“No.” I shook my head. “That’s not the whole of it.”
Snape turned sharply, eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but something closer to desperation, like a drowning man reaching for rope.
“There’s a plan,” I said, voice low and sure. “To survive it.”
I waited. Let him process it.
His eyes searched mine, sharp and searching.
“Explain,” he said, voice tight.
I nodded slowly, heart pounding.
“It’s convoluted, and we’ll need to calculate everything to perfection. It all comes down to Dumbledore’s wand. The one he gave to me. If Voldemort uses that wand… There’s a way to let Harry be struck… and come back. ”
Snape’s eyes widened slightly, and his lips parted. Not a gasp, not even a breath, but his whole body seemed to draw in on itself. And then I saw it:
Hope.
Small. Fragile. Like a flicker of light in a sealed room.
“He doesn’t have to die,” I said, my voice shaking now. “Not if we plan it right. Not if we make sure Voldemort uses the wand while Harry has its allegiance.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then, barely above a whisper:
“You’re certain?”
I nodded.
“We just have to let Voldemort do what he was always going to do. And make sure the wand doesn’t obey him.”
Snape’s shoulders dropped—subtly, but completely. Like he’d just exhaled a weight he’d been carrying for a while.
He turned away and sat slowly behind the desk, his fingers trembling as they came to rest on the wood.
When he finally looked up again, his eyes were glassy, but clear.
“Then it isn’t slaughter,” he said softly. “It’s resurrection.”
I nodded once.
And for the first time since Dumbledore died…
Snape looked almost human again.
I swallowed and let the silence settle a moment longer, still standing near the desk. Then, I walked over and sat on the chair across from the desk and let the tension bleed from my shoulders with a quiet exhale.
I glanced over my shoulder.
“Come sit,” I said.
Snape hesitated for the barest second before moving toward the other chair, robes rustling faintly as he lowered himself into it.
“Can we talk it through?” I asked. “Everything. All of it.”
Snape inclined his head once, just enough to mean yes.
“Then… what exactly did Dumbledore tell you, about Harry?” I asked, voice low.
Snape folded his hands in his lap, eyes on the fire.
“That when the Dark Lord became protective of his snake, it would mean the moment had come,” he said evenly. “The moment to tell Potter that a piece of the Dark Lord lives inside him. That the curse, rebounding from Lily’s sacrifice, split his soul. Left a fragment behind. And that fragment latched onto the boy. Dumbledore said… while it remained, the Dark Lord could never die. And so… the boy must.”
His voice didn’t falter. Not once. But it grew colder near the end—cut to bone.
I nodded, quiet.
“That’s right.”
I didn’t say Horcrux. There was no need. And besides, we weren’t talking about the others. Just Harry.
“But that’s not the end of it,” I said gently. “There’s a plan. We had a plan all along. One that lets Harry survive it.”
Snape turned his head toward me.
“Tell me.”
“It starts with the wand,” I said. “The Elder Wand. That’s why he gave it away. That day. That’s why he made sure I disarmed him. So that the wand’s allegiance changed to me.”
Snape blinked, a slow, dawning realisation colouring his face.
“You hold the wand’s loyalty.”
“I do,” I said. “And when the time comes… I’ll pass that allegiance on to Harry. The same way Dumbledore passed it on to me.”
Snape tilted his head slightly, interested despite himself.
“You’re certain the wand will follow allegiance through disarmament?”
I nodded.
“It doesn’t care about ownership or intent. Just power. Defeat. If I hand it to Voldemort, he’ll think it’s his. But it won’t answer to him. Not really.”
“And when he casts the Killing Curse…”
“It’ll target the fragment he left behind.” I finished for him. “Not Harry. Just the piece that doesn’t belong. The part that wants to die.”
Snape sat back slowly, exhaling once, long and quiet.
“Dumbledore never told me this.”
“Maybe he planned to tell you… but ran out of time.”
Snape looked away. His expression impassible. But his voice, when it came, was low and rough.
“So that’s the plan.”
“That’s the plan,” I echoed.
We sat in silence a moment longer.
And for the first time in a long time… it felt like the world might be salvageable. Like there was something left to win.
Six steps to go.
But one of them… one of them felt lighter, now that it was shared.
Chapter 92: BOOK SIX - DEFECTION
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
DEFECTION
I woke to soft rustling and morning light slipping through the curtains of the Slytherin dorm. For a second, I didn’t remember what day it was. Then I saw the little pile of wrapped packages at the foot of my bed.
Seventeen.
It should’ve felt like something.
I sat up slowly, dragging the covers with me. Harry was still asleep in the next bed, snoring softly. I pulled the presents onto my lap and opened them in silence.
The traditional watch from Mum and Dad. Uncle Fabian’s one; A little dented, with stars circling around its face rather than hands. A truly emotional letter from Percy. Some special hair accessories from Bill, because he thought he was funny. A dragon-scale wristband from Charlie. A joke wand from the twins that turned into a rubber chicken when you tried to use it.
A hand-bound notebook with green leather from Ginny: “For when you need to think, scheme, or just get it out of your head. ” A book from Hermione— Transfiguration Limits in Contemporary Practice —which made me smile despite myself. A protective talisman from Harry. And a simple card from Luna with a drawing of a goose in a party hat.
It felt warm. It felt like home.
But I still felt cold somewhere deep inside.
Later, Harry and I walked to the Great Hall together. It was Saturday, and the corridors were nearly empty, warm sunlight spilling across the flagstones. I could feel Harry glancing at me now and then, probably trying to gauge how I was doing. I kept my face even.
We sat at the Gryffindor table where Hermione, Ginny, and Luna were already waiting. Hermione had conjured little floating stars above my plate. Ginny passed me a buttered crumpet and kissed my cheek. Luna handed me a folded paper crown.
And somehow—despite the weight I carried—I smiled. Really smiled. The chatter, the laughter, the warmth of it all—it helped. Just for a bit, I felt like I could breathe.
Then Harry leaned in and said,
“Sirius wrote to me this week. He says he’s planning this huge party for my seventeenth. Said we’ll go wherever I want, do whatever I like. Might even use his Muggle disguise and take us to a football match.”
I froze.
Just like that, the weight slammed back onto my shoulders.
Because I knew.
There was a chance—no, a likelihood —that there wouldn’t be a seventeenth birthday for Harry. That Sirius was planning a celebration for a boy who might be dead by then.
I kept smiling, I think. I don’t remember what I said. Something like “that’ll be brilliant.” I let them talk, let them laugh, and I nodded and chewed and swallowed and barely tasted a thing.
They must’ve thought I was still grieving. Still raw. And in a way, I was. But this was different.
They didn’t ask questions. They just tried to keep things light.
That night, after the day was done and the stars blinked outside the dorm window, Harry and I were getting ready for bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, ruffled his hair like he always did when he was thinking too hard, and looked over at me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently. “You’ve been... off all day. You want to talk about it?”
He looked ridiculous in his pyjamas. Soft. Young. So young. And so breakable.
And it hit me like a punch to the chest—if I failed, he would die.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Harry took a step closer.
“Ron... what can I do?”
I looked at him, and my voice finally came, but barely.
“Just live,” I said. “Be happy. That’s all you can do for me.”
He frowned.
“Ron, I don’t understand—”
“I know.” My voice cracked. I couldn’t stop it. I sat on my bed and pressed my palms to my eyes. “I just—can’t talk yet. I’m not supposed to.”
He sat next to me, awkward but solid. He patted my back.
“Is this about Dumbledore? Or something else?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll tell you one day,” I whispered. “But when I do, everything will be worse. Everything will be real.”
Harry didn’t understand. I could see it all over his face. He didn’t know what I meant. But he didn’t push.
“I’ll protect you,” I said, because it was the only promise I could make. “No matter the price.”
His brow furrowed.
“You’re scaring me, mate.”
I gave him a weak, watery smile and half-hugged him.
“Forget it. I’m just tired. Stressed. That’s all.”
He didn’t believe me. Not really.
But he let it go.
And I was glad.
Because I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
The Library was nearly silent, save for the occasional turning page or the soft scratch of a quill. I was alone in the Transfiguration section, crouched low as I skimmed the bottom shelf for a book I half-remembered March recommending—something about unstable matrices in partial shifts.
I felt him before I saw him. A weight in the air, not magical—just human. Familiar.
I stood up slowly and turned.
Draco Malfoy.
He looked worse than the last time I’d seen him, and that was saying something. There were shadows under his eyes that looked almost bruised, his face drawn and pale—not the aristocratic kind of pale, but the kind that came from not sleeping, not eating, not breathing right for days. His robes hung slightly too loose, like he’d started forgetting meals. He didn’t carry himself like he used to, either. Shoulders no longer squared. Not even pretending.
“Can we talk?” he asked. His voice was low, urgent. “Somewhere private.”
I stared at him a beat too long. His eyes didn’t flinch.
I nodded.
“Yeah. One second.”
I went back to the table I’d been using, stuffed my notes and books into my satchel, slung it over my shoulder. When I turned back, he was already moving toward the door. I followed.
Hermione and Harry were in Herbology. No one saw us leave.
We didn’t speak until we’d reached an empty classroom three corridors down. The door clicked shut behind us, and I cast an Imperturbable Charm with practised ease. Then added a quick Muffliato for good measure. The silence was instant and perfect, like the world had blinked out.
I turned to him.
“Alright. Talk.”
He paced once, then stopped. Hands clenched. Jaw tight.
“I want protection,” he said. “A way out.”
I didn’t react. Not visibly. Just watched him.
“And in return?” I asked.
“I’ll give you information.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Worth it?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“No,” he said sharply. “Not until I know your friends will protect me. I’m not stupid.”
I sighed through my nose.
“I didn’t say you were. But you’ll have to give me something if you want anyone to take this seriously.”
He crossed his arms, like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I have intel. A plan. From the Dark Lord himself. Current. Important.”
That made me pause. I didn’t show much. Just folded my arms too.
“Alright,” I said at last. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, but I’ll get it in front of the right people. And I’ll keep you informed.”
His shoulders eased—only slightly, but enough to notice. He nodded once, and I saw the faintest flicker of relief behind his exhaustion.
I lifted the Muffliato and the ward on the door.
“You’ll hear from me soon.”
He slipped out without another word.
And I stood alone in the classroom, staring at the door, wondering what kind of mess had just landed in my lap—and whether it might be the opportunity we’d been waiting for.
Later, I found Snape in his office. His real one, for once. He was at his desk, quill moving in brisk, precise strokes over a roll of parchment. Marking essays, by the look of it. His face was sharply lit by the lamp beside him, his brows slightly furrowed, his focus absolute.
“Close the door,” Snape said, not looking up.
I did, and sealed it with a firm Imperturbable Charm. Then I turned, my satchel still slung across my shoulder, pulse beating just a touch too fast.
“We’ve got something,” I said.
That made him look at me.
I stepped further in and dropped the satchel to the floor beside the armchair.
“Draco came to me. Cornered me in the Library. Said he wants out.”
Snape stilled. Not entirely surprised, but not indifferent either. His hands folded loosely in front of him, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
“He said that?” he asked quietly. “In those words?”
“Almost exactly. He said he wants protection from the Order. He didn’t give details at first, but he offered information. Claimed he has intel on a current plan from Voldemort himself.”
Snape’s face didn’t change, but I could feel him shift—like something inside him moved two steps ahead. His mind racing through possibilities. Then, carefully:
“He’s withholding the information until we guarantee protection.”
I nodded.
“Yes. He’s not stupid. He knows that’s his leverage.”
Snape turned and walked toward the hearth, standing in front of the empty grate. He stood in silence for a long beat, then murmured,
“It’s likely real. He would not have come to you otherwise.”
“I thought the same. He looked worn down. Haunted, even. He’s grieving, but I think this is also about survival. I think he’s seen the writing on the wall.”
Snape didn’t reply immediately, but when he did, his voice was low and precise.
“We may be able to use this.”
“If he’s been ordered to do something involving the wand, it could give us the opening we need.” I stepped forward. “We’ll need help, though. Once Draco switches sides, he’ll need to disappear. Properly. Protected. I can’t smuggle him into a cupboard at Hogwarts and hope for the best.”
“No,” Snape said darkly. “You can’t.”
I hesitated.
“We’ll have to bring it to Moody. At least.”
Snape didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he turned slowly, his expression thoughtful.
“That will complicate matters.”
“Only if we try to hide everything,” I replied. “We don’t have to give him the full plan. Just enough to justify Draco’s protection and explain why we need resources. Say Dumbledore had a final directive we’re following. That part’s even true.”
Snape gave me a look. Flat. Dry.
“Do you imagine Moody will simply accept that we cannot tell him the reason we are handing Dumbledore’s wand to the Dark Lord?”
“No,” I said. “But I imagine he’ll accept it anyway.”
Snape arched a brow.
“Because it’s me,” I added. “And you. And Dumbledore’s last orders. He won’t like it. He’ll probably scream. But he’ll follow through.”
Snape tilted his head slightly, a flicker of reluctant amusement in his eyes.
“I’m not sure whether to be impressed… or concerned.”
“Why not both?”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then, more seriously,
“Very well. We inform Moody. I’ll arrange the meeting. We will not mention Draco’s task yet, only that he has information and wishes to defect. If that satisfies Moody enough to provide protection, then we move to phase two.”
I nodded.
“Right.”
Snape looked down into the unlit grate. His voice was quiet when he spoke next.
“If we do this… if we let the boy into the Order’s shadow… he must understand there’s no turning back.”
“I think he already does.”
“Then let’s pray he means it.”
We stood in silence for a moment longer.
“I’ll contact Moody,” He finally said. “Tonight.”
I nodded once, picked up my satchel and left the room, feeling the weight of the plan forming around us, like scaffolding around a crumbling tower.
We’d just committed to something massive.
But it might be the best shot we’d get.
The next evening, Moody accepted to meet with us at Hogwarts.
Professor McGonagall’s office was all high ceilings and silent authority, full of ticking instruments and a fireplace that burned with a steady green flame. She had vacated it at Snape’s request—just for the evening—and I could still feel the ghost of her presence in the polished desk and upright chairs. She hadn’t asked questions. She simply nodded once, handed Snape the key, and told him not to make a mess.
Snape was seated to the right of the fireplace, his arms folded tightly, expression as closed as a locked trunk. Moody was across from him, hunched over like a gargoyle in his chair, magical eye spinning slowly before locking onto me as I entered and shut the door.
“Right,” Moody said, before I could sit. “Why the cloak-and-dagger invitation?”
I took the seat next to Snape and cast a brief glance at him. He gave me the smallest of nods—go on.
“There’s been a development,” I said. “A student approached me. Wants protection in exchange for intel. Real intel. About a plan Voldemort is setting in motion.”
Moody’s expression didn’t change, but the tension that snapped through the air was unmistakable.
“A student?” he asked. “And let me guess… blond, pale, and slippery as soap?”
“Draco Malfoy,” Snape confirmed. “He came to Weasley yesterday. Wants out.”
Moody scoffed.
“Convenient, now that his whole family’s either dead or jailed.”
“He’s serious,” I said. “I’ve seen him like this before. He’s grieving and scared.”
Moody leaned forward.
“Scared is good. Means he’s thinking. But it also means he’s desperate. And desperate people lie.”
“That’s why we’re telling you,” I said. “We’re not asking you to act yet. Only to be ready. He hasn’t said what the intel is yet—he’s holding it as a bargaining chip. Said it’s about a plan Voldemort gave him.”
Moody grunted.
“He’ll have to do better than that.”
“He will,” Snape said coolly. “He’s clever enough to know that real safety doesn’t come without proof.”
Moody leaned back again, glancing between the two of us.
“And what do you want from me?”
“When the time comes,” I said, “we might need the Order’s help getting him out. Hiding him. Protecting him.”
“Maybe even faking his death,” Snape added, eyes still fixed ahead. “Depending on what he tells us.”
Moody rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
“If the intel’s good… I’ll consider it. But I’m not putting Order resources at risk for a Malfoy until I see proof.”
“That’s fair,” I said, honestly.
Moody turned to Snape.
“And you trust him?”
Snape’s voice was even.
“I trust that he wants to live.”
The fire crackled, throwing shadows across Moody’s scarred face. He nodded once.
“Fine. Keep me updated. And for Merlin’s sake, if this turns out to be a trick…”
“It won’t,” I said. “He knows who killed his mother.”
Moody’s eye narrowed. Then he stood.
“Keep the boy talking. I want every word he says passed on.”
“We will,” Snape said.
Moody left through the Floo, leaving behind only the scent of smoke and steel.
Snape and I sat for a moment in silence.
“One step closer,” I murmured.
The next day found me in the same place.
The portraits were empty again—McGonagall had ensured that before lending us the room. I sat across from Alastor Moody, whose magical eye never stopped whirring.
Draco was late.
“Not a good start,” Moody grunted. “If he’s playing us—”
“He isn’t,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt.
Just then, the door creaked open. Draco stepped in, pale and tense, his shoulders drawn tight under his robes. He didn’t glance at Moody, just gave me a slight nod and waited for me to seal the room. I cast an Imperturbable Charm and a muffliato, and only then did he step forward.
Moody’s eye locked on him.
“So. The traitor comes offering gifts,” he growled. “Speak.”
Draco didn’t flinch.
“I came offering information. I’ve held up my end. I want protection.”
Moody snorted.
“You’ll get what you earn. Depends on what you’ve got.”
Draco took a deep breath, then pulled something from his pocket—a folded piece of parchment.
“I was given new orders this week. From the Dark Lord himself.”
Moody leaned forward.
“He wants me to retrieve Dumbledore’s wand from the tomb. I have until the next Hogsmeade trip. That is when I’ll have to deliver it to one of his followers.
The air in the room changed. My stomach twisted.
That’s exactly what we were hoping for.
Moody’s voice was a low growl.
“You’re serious?”
Draco nodded.
“He was very clear. I’m to go alone. No backup. Take the wand. Deliver it. That’s it.”
“No mention of what comes next?” I asked quietly.
Draco’s jaw tightened.
“No. But I’m not stupid. I’m a loose end. He doesn’t need me once he gets what he wants. Just like he didn’t need my mother.”
There it was. His voice cracked on the word, but he didn’t stop.
“I’m not going to be a neat, final errand. I want out.”
Moody’s eye narrowed.
“And why would he want that wand?”
Draco hesitated.
“I wasn’t told that. I just heard that it’s powerful. And that he wants it.”
Moody sat back, fingers steepled.
“Right. This changes things.”
I met his eye.
“He’s telling the truth.”
Moody huffed.
“I know. Doesn’t make it easier.”
We were quiet for a moment.
Then Moody added, blue eye fixed on Draco,
“He’s not wrong to be scared.”
Draco looked like he might be sick.
“I’ll need time to plan,” Moody went on, already thinking aloud. “A fake handoff. Decoy teams. A fallback hideaway…”
Then he gave me a sharp look.
“You’ve brought him a hearing, Weasley. If he’s lying—”
“I’m not,” Draco cut in sharply. “I’ve made my choice. Just help me live through it.”
After having wrapped up the meeting, I went directly to Snape’s office to report the good news.
“We’ve got confirmation,” I said. “Draco’s orders are what we thought. Retrieve the wand. He has until the next Hogsmeade trip where he will hand it over to a handler. They will most certainly kill him after the hand off, to get the wand’s allegiance.”
Snape set his quill down at last and leaned back, folding his arms.
“And Moody?”
“Didn’t press for details about the wand. But he’s not an idiot.”
Snape gave a soft, derisive snort.
“No. He’s not.”
We stared at each other for a moment. The question hung between us, unspoken—how much should we tell Moody?
Snape’s gaze sharpened.
“We cannot disclose the wand’s significance. Not its true allegiance. Not the purpose of this exchange.”
“I know,” I said. “We can’t risk anyone else knowing that we’re meant to give the wand to him.”
Snape nodded once, slowly.
“Then the cover story is simple. The wand must be handed over, yes—but the target is Draco. We need to fake his death. That’s the priority.”
“And let the handler escape,” I said grimly. “To be the next to die.”
Snape met my eyes.
“We must. To make it believable.”
I didn’t like having a death on my shoulders, but he was right. I took a deep breath and leaned against the edge of his desk.
“So we tell Moody that the wand’s part of it, but the handler’s also coming to kill Draco. That’s enough reason to stage something.”
Snape tapped one finger against the wood of his chair.
“You think he’ll go for it?”
“He already said yes to protecting Draco. He’s invested now. He’ll want to use the opportunity.”
Snape looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded, slow and precise.
“We meet him again. Together. Give him just enough.”
I straightened and pushed off the desk.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” he confirmed.
Snape exhaled deeply. He looked tired. I did too, according to Harry.
“Let’s hope the next step is as smooth as the planning.”
I didn’t say anything to that. We both knew better.
The next day, we met with Moody. Again. I was getting tired and weary of all those secret meetings.
We met in McGonagall’s office again. She wasn’t there, as always. The walls still smelled faintly of firewood and polish, and her tartan shawl hung over the back of her chair. Moody stood with arms folded, eye whirring faintly, watching Snape like he expected the man to vanish.
Snape and I stood side by side.
“This isn’t just about keeping Draco safe,” I said. “It’s about letting something happen exactly the way it needs to.”
Moody’s good eye narrowed.
“Go on.”
Snape stepped forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, calm as always.
“The Dark Lord has ordered Draco to retrieve Dumbledore’s wand from his grave during the next Hogsmeade weekend. He is to pass it off to a Death Eater who is then expected to kill him.”
Moody didn’t flinch.
“I figured it might go that way. So?”
“So,” I said, “we’re going to let that exchange happen.”
Moody’s head jerked toward me.
“What?”
“We’ll fake Draco’s death at the hand of the handler,” I said. “Let the wand pass. Let the handler escape. Let them bring the wand to Voldemort. Let him kill the handler and believe it worked.”
“You want to give him the wand,” Moody growled. “You want to put that bloody thing in his hands?”
“It’s Dumbledore’s plan,” I said steadily. “He wanted it this way.”
Moody let out a sharp bark of a laugh.
“And that’s supposed to make it better? That it’s his plan?”
Snape’s voice cut through, sharp and quiet.
“You weren’t there. You didn’t see the design he laid down piece by piece. This is not a wand the Dark Lord can truly master.”
Moody’s magical eye swivelled, locking on me now.
“No, it isn’t,” he muttered. “Not after what Weasley did, that day.”
I didn’t move. Tried to look composed.
He was connecting dots I didn’t want him to connect.
Moody’s voice was low and pointed.
“You disarmed him, didn’t you?”
I swallowed, but didn’t say a word.
Moody exhaled sharply.
“So the wand never changes allegiance. Never goes to Malfoy. Never goes to the handler. And when Voldemort gets it… It still won’t be his.” He looked straight at me. “Because it’s loyal to you, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Snape’s voice came like steel.
“And that fact must remain secret. If the Dark Lord suspects—even guesses—that the wand is not truly his, he’ll hunt Ron with everything he has. He must believe it belongs to him.”
Moody stared hard at us both.
Then he turned, paced once behind McGonagall’s desk, then back again.
“This is madness,” he said. “You’re asking me to play along with a plan I don’t fully understand. Let an enemy take Dumbledore’s wand. And let a Death Eater leave alive.”
“To be fair, he won’t live long. Voldemort will kill him as soon as he puts his hands on the wand,” I muttered darkly before saying louder. “This is our only shot. Dumbledore knew what he was doing. We have to trust him now.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then at Snape.
Then he grunted.
“We’ll need to be bloody perfect.”
I nodded.
“We will be.”
Snape added softly,
“We have to be.”
After all the secret meetings—Moody’s narrowed eyes, Snape’s razor-sharp silences, Draco’s brittle tension—I was stretched thin.
Tired, and tense, and haunted in a way I didn’t want to admit. There were only six steps left now. Six steps between us and the end of Dumbledore’s plan. Maybe the end of everything. The next was just a week away: the Hogsmeade trip. The wand. Draco’s fake death. The handoff. Or the failure.
But now, the Order had taken the reins. Moody was overseeing the details. Snape had done his part. I wasn’t needed anymore. Not yet.
So I waited.
And I hated waiting.
I spent hours in the Library pretending to study. Spent more hours walking the corridors, keeping my prefect patrols longer than necessary. Spent my evenings running drills alone in the Room of Requirement, trying to keep my magic sharp—because if the plan failed, we'd all need sharp magic.
But sometimes distraction was the better option. A safer one.
Saturday afternoon, I cheered Ginny on from the stands as Gryffindor faced Hufflepuff. The wind was brutal, the plays sloppier than usual, and when Ginny missed the Snitch, I could see the defeat in her shoulders from across the pitch. I met her outside the locker room after the match, handed her a Honeydukes bar and told her she was still the best. She rolled her eyes, told me to shut up, then leaned into my shoulder for a second too long.
Sunday morning, I gave in to the silence again. Harry was down on the pitch with the team, dragging cones across the grass. Hermione was cooped up in Arithmancy with Padma Patil and two Ravenclaws whose names I could never remember.
And Luna—
Luna was always somewhere else, and somehow exactly where I needed her.
We met near the kitchens. She was already holding a basket, and she handed me a second without a word. Inside were thick strips of raw meat wrapped in cooling charms. I nodded. She smiled.
Together, we went outside.
The sky was a soft silver, clouded over but calm. There was no wind, just a hush in the air that mirrored the tightness in my chest. I held a basket of raw meat in one hand and walked quietly beside Luna through the grounds, each step toward the thestral paddock heavier than the last.
We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. Luna had a way of understanding silences—of making them feel like something shared rather than endured.
I kept my eyes fixed on the grass as we got closer. My shoulders were tight. My stomach twisted. I’d done this walk with her before. Dozens of times. I’d even gone into the paddock. Helped her carry food. Stood in places where I knew they were.
But I’d never seen them.
This time was different.
My throat felt tight as my boots crunched on the gravel near the paddock’s wooden fence. We stopped. I still hadn’t looked up.
Luna’s fingers curled gently around mine.
It was a small squeeze. Warm. Steadying.
“It’s okay to look now,” she said softly.
I swallowed hard and lifted my gaze.
They were there.
Dozens of them—tall, thin, silent creatures with black, leathery skin stretched over bone. Eyes like pale moonstone. Wings tucked neatly against their sides. Breathing slowly. Watching us.
I stared.
They weren’t grotesque. Not like I’d always imagined. They were strange, yes—but not monstrous. There was a softness to the way they moved. A calm dignity. Something ancient.
They were... beautiful.
My eyes prickled unexpectedly.
Luna didn’t say anything, just passed me a strip of meat and nudged the gate open.
We walked into the paddock together. The thestrals turned their heads, curious but not alarmed. One of them—a tall mare with a scar across her shoulder—stepped forward. I held out the meat, hand trembling only a little. She sniffed, then took it gently from my fingers.
“I like this one,” I murmured. “She’s got attitude.”
Luna smiled.
“She likes you, too.”
We kept going. Fed a few more. Let them brush up against us. Let the silence hold.
Then I saw it.
A foal.
Barely the height of my chest, all spindly legs and overgrown wings. It looked right at me—no fear, no hesitation. Just curiosity. I knelt down slowly, offering a bit of food. It came forward with awkward, adorable steps and nibbled it from my hand.
I felt something shift inside me.
Like pressure easing off a wound.
They weren’t monsters. They weren’t omens.
They were creatures who understood what it meant to see death and keep going anyway.
I ran a hand over the foal’s shoulder. Its skin was cool and smooth, its bones delicate under the surface.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
For what, I wasn’t entirely sure.
Maybe for being there. Maybe for helping me feel something other than dread for the first time in days.
Maybe just for being real.
Luna’s hand brushed my back.
“They’re glad you can see them now,” she said quietly. “You’re part of their story now.”
I looked at her, heart thick in my chest, and gave the smallest of nods.
I’d carry the weight.
But not alone.
Not today.
Chapter 93: BOOK SIX - THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
Notes:
(≖⩊≖) Hehehehe
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
The day arrived faster than I expected.
Everything was ready. Or… as ready as it could be on such short notice. The Order had locked down the plan like a military op. Moody had contingency plans and contingencies for the contingencies. The plan was neat, tidy, precise—just like the ambush in Devon, months ago.
Snape had already gone to Voldemort last night to feed him the lie—that Draco planned to betray him, to hand the Elder Wand over to someone in the Order during the Hogsmeade trip. That lie was meant to guide Voldemort’s hand, make him believe it would be cleaner to have Draco killed before the hand-off. That way, the Death Eater handler wouldn’t hesitate to kill “Draco.” That way, the plan wouldn’t unravel. That way, Voldemort would take the bait, and the wand.
The rest followed like a ticking clock. Hestia Jones would Polyjuice into Draco and meet the Death Eater handler near the Shrieking Shack. Far from students. Far from the village. She would fake her death, the Order would stage it cleanly, the handler would leave with the wand, thinking the job was done. Voldemort would kill him on return, just like predicted. And then Voldemort would believe himself the wand’s master.
Simple. Clean. Dreadfully risky.
But all of that was out of my hands now.
All I had to do was keep the others away from the danger, act normal, stay with them in the Three Broomsticks while the Order played their part. I repeated it like a mantra. Act normal. Act normal. Keep them safe.
When I opened my eyes that morning, there was a strange lightness in my chest—not confidence, not even calm, just... clarity. Like I’d finally passed the baton to people who could carry it better than I could. All I had to do was act normal. Keep Harry, Hermione, Luna and Ginny safely in the Three Broomsticks, far from the real action. Let the Order handle the danger. That was the deal.
So I got up. Dressed. Packed my nerves into a little corner of my chest and forced myself to walk like any other Saturday.
I sat at the Ravenclaw table for breakfast, just to avoid drawing eyes. Hermione narrowed hers when she saw me there, but said nothing. Ginny slid into the seat next to me. Luna arrived a moment later with a buttered croissant and an absent look in her eyes.
My hands were shaking slightly under the table. My stomach was a stone. So I did what I usually do when I’m nervous.
I ate.
A lot.
“Merlin’s beard,” Ginny muttered, watching me shovel a full spoonful of eggs and beans into my mouth. “Are you expecting famine?”
I didn’t answer. Just poured more tea and nodded as though I hadn’t heard.
Hermione frowned at me, clearly thrown. I just gave her a bland smile and reached into my robes.
The tarot deck was warm from sitting against my side. I slipped it out, its corners frayed and the edges soft with wear. Habit now. A grounding ritual, if nothing else.
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard I could practically hear it.
I ignored her.
I shuffled once, twice. Then laid two cards out beside my plate, the beans still steaming.
The first card was the Tower.
A chill ran down my spine.
I hated this card.
The Tower was chaos. Destruction. Disaster. Collapse. The kind of card that brings things to their knees and doesn’t care what stands in the rubble.
I swallowed thickly and flipped the second.
The Wheel of Fortune.
Huh.
That one was… complicated. A card of fate, of luck turning. Of great cycles shifting, moments of irreversible change. Could be good. Could be bad.
I looked at the two cards side by side and felt a strange sort of nausea settle behind my ribs. Disaster… and fate. Collapse… and chance.
Maybe today would be both.
“Did you find the answer you wanted?” Hermione’s voice was dry, with that unmistakable note of derision she always reserved for Divination. “You look perplexed.”
I didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at the cards.
Then I shrugged.
“This day’ll go one way or the other.”
She sniffed.
“That’s not a prediction. That’s just stating reality. Honestly, Ron. If your reading will be correct no matter what, then what’s the point?”
“Maybe the point is just to be warned,” I muttered.
She huffed and went back to her toast, unimpressed.
I gathered up the cards and slid them back into my pocket, running a thumb along the worn edge of the deck. I didn’t say it aloud, but I knew what it meant.
The Tower didn’t just bring destruction.
It brought revelation.
The kind that stripped everything bare.
And the Wheel… the Wheel meant the day would turn.
One way or another.
We were all about to find out which.
When breakfast ended, we all headed down to the Entrance Hall where Filch was already stationed, leering at everyone like we were smuggling cursed daggers in our boots. He patted everyone down with his usual glee, scowling at Zonko’s bags and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products. I endured the indignity with exasperated patience, trying not to roll my eyes when he poked suspiciously at the hem of my sleeve. Hermione complained under her breath about how inefficient the process was, and Ginny teased her for trying to organise Filch.
Once we were cleared, we joined the queue for the carriages.
I hung back a little, watching the thestrals as they pawed the path and shook out their wings. I was still not used to seeing them. And now that I could, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them. The world didn’t let you unsee what you’d earned by watching someone die.
Around me, the others were buzzing with excitement. They were chatting like this was just another Saturday. Like nothing was coming. I envied them. Hermione and Luna were already discussing the books they wanted from Tomes and Scrolls, while Harry and Ginny were arguing over the best Bertie Bott’s flavour. It was the kind of chatter that used to comfort me. Now it just felt like a layer of noise over something darker underneath.
Harry nudged me in the ribs, breaking me out of it.
“What are you looking forward to most?”
I blinked.
“Rosmerta’s blueberry pie,” I said.
Harry snorted.
“We just had breakfast!”
I gave a shrug and a half-smile.
“Yeah, but I didn’t have pie.”
He grinned, and I tried to match it. But I could feel it—like I was holding back the tide with my bare hands.
The village came into view as we rattled down the path. I caught sight of Draco stepping down from a carriage with Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy. But I knew it wasn’t him. It was Hestia. She moved like him. Walked like him. She had the wand in her pocket, wrapped in dragonhide, waiting to be “handed over” before she “died.” And if everything went right, Voldemort would never know.
I jumped down from the carriage with the others, and the cold hit me in the face. The day was clear, bright, almost cheerful. I hated how normal it looked.
They dragged me into Honeydukes first. The shop was packed, and the smells of treacle fudge and sugar mice made me nauseated. I kept it together while everyone darted off toward their favourites. I just lingered near the back, eyeing the prices. I’d already spent most of my savings helping Mum and Dad pay for Apparition lessons. Couldn’t justify spending much more, not today. I grabbed one pack of Acid Pops and nothing else.
Next, we were swept into Tomes and Scrolls. Hermione was already halfway through the magical theory section. I kept glancing at my watch. Any minute now, Hestia should be slipping away from the others, heading to the Shack.
It had begun.
Hermione waved two books under my nose.
“Which one do you think we should get for the Menagerie? Anima to Animagus or Phase and Form in Transformative Magic ?”
I blinked.
“The thickest one.”
She huffed.
“You didn’t even look.”
“Exactly,” I said. “You’d end up buying both anyway.”
She rolled her eyes but paid for the thicker one.
When we stepped outside again, Ginny and Harry said they were going to check out Spintwitches Sporting Needs.
“We’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks,” Harry said.
I froze.
“Wait—you’re going without us?”
They both looked at me like I’d grown a second head.
Ginny narrowed her eyes.
“Why, got a problem?”
“No—just—just don’t go near the Shrieking Shack, alright? Stay inside the village wards.”
She frowned at me, really frowned.
“What’s this about?”
“Just humour me.”
She muttered something under her breath, then grabbed Harry’s hand and stalked off with him, going in the opposite direction from the Shack. Thank Merlin.
Hermione nudged me.
“You’ve got to let them live their lives, you know. Without going full overprotective big brother.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Sure it’s not.”
Luna placed a hand on my arm.
“They’ll be alright.”
I nodded. I had to believe that.
Hermione announced she needed new quills, so we headed toward Scrivenshaft’s. My hand kept drifting toward my pocket, toward the bent tarot cards. I didn’t dare pull them out again. I just watched the time. Waited. Willed things to go right.
It had to work. It had to.
The smell of parchment and ink clung to the back of my throat as I checked my watch for what must’ve been the twentieth time in five minutes. Luna hummed to herself by the window, watching quills dance in their display case. Hermione was arguing with the shopkeeper about the price of self-inking sets.
“Just a minute,” I muttered to no one, tapping the glass face of my watch like it might reveal a secret. It had to be done by now, surely. The wand's gone. The handler’s gone. Everyone’s safe.
But then something shifted. The kind of shift you feel in your gut before your brain catches up. The air changed—pressure thickened, like before a storm.
And then— screaming.
A chorus of them, sharp and panicked, from somewhere outside.
The bell over the shop door jangled violently as people rushed past. We heard a low, guttural rumble, distant but distinct—like thunder, but wrong. A crack, then another. Magic. Explosions. Close.
Hermione spun toward the door.
“What was that?”
I didn’t answer. My legs were already moving.
I pushed the door open, and the cold hit me like a slap. Not wind—fear. Screams echoed off stone. Smoke curled into the sky like black fingers clawing upward. I caught sight of sparks—spellfire—flickering in the air over the rooftops.
It was coming from the far edge of the village.
The Shrieking Shack.
No.
My stomach turned to stone.
Hermione reached my side, face pale.
“Ron? What’s going on?”
But I was barely breathing.
This wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was supposed to keep the action away. Away from the village. Away from the students. It wasn’t supposed to reach us.
A sharp blast rang out again, closer this time. Glass shattered across the street. I ducked instinctively, wand already in hand.
Luna stood by the door, unflinching. Her eyes found the plume of smoke rising above the trees near the Shack, then drifted toward the village proper.
Hermione looked at me like she was about to ask again, but I didn’t have answers. Only dread.
“Something’s gone wrong,” I said, voice tight. “Something’s gone really wrong.”
I sprinted into the middle of the street to see better. The world had already tipped into chaos.
Spells shot across the cobblestones like lightning—blinding flashes of green, red, purple. Shops I’d browsed not twenty minutes ago now burned from their windows, smoke and fire curling through shattered glass. Students ran in every direction—some ducking behind benches or barrels, others frozen mid-scream or dragging friends by the arms.
A third-year girl tripped near the post office steps, and a curse missed her by inches. She scrambled back up, sobbing. Another spell hit a lamppost and it exploded into sparks, raining down over the crowd.
This wasn’t just a skirmish. It was a battle.
And it wasn’t supposed to be. Moody planned everything. We had it under control. The Shrieking Shack was far enough. It shouldn’t have reached here.
A loud crack made me spin—someone had Apparated directly into the main square. Robes like shadows, mask glinting in the firelight.
Death Eater.
The figure raised their wand and fired indiscriminately into the crowd.
“Protego!” I bellowed, shielding a cluster of students too stunned to move. The blast hit my barrier and scattered, but the pressure still forced me back half a step. My ears rang.
A boy from Hufflepuff cried out nearby—his leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. Another was coughing from the smoke.
“This isn’t supposed to be happening,” I muttered, as if saying it would make it stop.
Then, someone shouted it.
“He’s here! He’s here! You-Know-Who is in the village! ”
My breath caught. My heart stopped.
No.
No, no, no.
Voldemort was not supposed to come himself.
I turned wildly, searching the crowd. Where are they? Harry and Ginny—they weren’t with us when this started. They could be anywhere.
“Luna!” I called over the roar of fire and spells. She turned, perfectly calm, shielding a terrified third-year behind her with her wand.
“Hermione!” I yelled again, spotting her to my left, trying to get a group of students into an alley.
“I’ll find Harry and Ginny!” I shouted at her. “Stay with the younger ones— keep them safe, go back to the castle! ”
Her eyes widened.
“Ron—wait!”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I ran.
I needed to find them.
If Voldemort is here, Harry’s in danger. And if Harry’s in danger—everything’s in danger.
I weaved through smoke and hexfire, jumping over fallen barrels, sidestepping rubble. A cart burst into flame behind me. Screams echoed in every direction.
My wand clenched so tightly my hand shook.
Please, I thought. Please let them be safe.
I had no plan now. No strategy. Only a single, desperate truth rattling through my skull like a heartbeat:
I have to find Harry before Voldemort does.
Smoke stung my throat as I sprinted past Honeydukes. Fire licked the side of the building, glass crunched underfoot. I skidded into the next street, nearly slipping, when I heard them—high voices crying out in fear.
“Back off—stay away—!”
My head snapped toward the alley behind Zonko’s.
Four students, backed into a brick wall, their wands shaking in front of them. Blocking their way was a tall, masked Death Eater, wand raised lazily like this was all just a game.
Shit—
I didn't think. I raised my wand and charged.
Stupefy!
The red blast knocked the Death Eater sideways—but not enough. He twisted, deflected the next curse, and turned on me with a growl I could hear under the mask.
“You little—”
Expelliarmus!
His wand flew from his hand, but he lunged forward, fast.
I ducked under a wild curse and hit him with a silent, slashing hex—just like Snape taught me.
The man cried out, staggered, and I didn’t wait. Another spell—non-verbal, instinctive—hit him square in the chest. He flew backwards into the alley wall and crumpled, unconscious.
My chest heaved. My ears rang from the noise of the surrounding chaos. I turned to the group of kids, still frozen in place.
“Go! Run to the castle! ” I barked. “Don’t stop for anything. Don’t look back. You hear me?”
They nodded, wide-eyed, and bolted past me, robes flapping, limbs trembling.
I stood still a second longer, watching their figures disappear into the smoke.
My legs were shaking. My hand, too. I gritted my teeth.
Keep going. Keep going.
I turned back toward the road and ran, heart pounding, praying I wasn’t already too late.
I tore through the streets like a madman, weaving past spellfire, smoke, and falling rubble. The village was in chaos. I shouted names— “Harry!” “Ginny!” —but the only reply was panic. Faces blurred past me, people screaming, flames climbing walls.
And then—I saw them.
Down by the old public well, near the post office ruins— Harry and Ginny.
They were fighting.
A cloaked Death Eater had backed a group of students into a doorway, and Harry and Ginny were duelling side by side, shielding the kids, spells flying so fast I could barely track their wands.
Relief punched the air from my lungs.
They’re alive.
I charged forward.
The Death Eater never saw me coming.
Stupefy!
The red light caught him in the back. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
Harry turned, shocked.
“Ron?! What—”
“No time!” I gasped. “ Voldemort’s here. ”
Everything froze. Even the smoke seemed to still.
Ginny’s mouth opened and closed.
“What?!”
“I heard it,” I said. “He’s here, now. We need to—”
An explosion rocked the road.
We ducked instinctively as glass shattered somewhere behind us. Screams again—closer now.
“ Cover—! ” I shouted, and we dove behind a stone market stall.
Dust rained down. My ears rang.
I whipped around, panic crawling up my throat.
“Where’s Ginny?” Harry shouted.
Harry looked around wildly.
“She was—she— Ginny! ”
She wasn’t with us.
I peered over the edge of the stone—there she was, kneeling beside her dropped wand, calling out to us.
And then—I heard screams.
“You-Know-Who is coming!”
Voldemort was getting closer. Too close.
My heart froze.
I grabbed Harry’s arm.
“Disarm me.”
“What?!” Harry stared at me like I’d gone mad.
“Just do it! Now!”
“I don’t have time for your—”
“Harry— please. Just trust me. ”
Something in my face must’ve convinced him. He gritted his teeth, yanked his wand up, and snapped,
“Expelliarmus!”
My wand flew from my fingers and he caught it mid-air.
I reached out, hand open, but he flung the wand back at me furiously.
“What the hell is this, Ron?!”
Then he bolted from cover, running straight for Ginny.
I swallowed a scream.
Spellfire lit up the street again—Death Eaters converging like shadows from the smoke.
I stood, wand raised.
No time to panic now. I had to clear a path.
I had to get to Harry— before it was too late.
I sprinted after Harry, feet pounding the cracked cobblestone, but two masked figures dropped into my path with twin cracks of Apparition. Death Eaters.
“Move!” I roared, firing off a Blasting Curse, but they were fast.
One shot a Cutting Curse at my face—I ducked, rolled, came up with a nonverbal Expulso that sent him crashing into a window.
The other lunged, wand slashing. Pain flared in my shoulder as a stunner grazed me—I snarled and countered with a jinx that turned his legs to jelly. He fell, but not before landing a searing blow to my thigh.
I dropped to one knee, gasping, blood sticky on my robes.
But I was still breathing.
I shoved myself up, limping, and staggered forward.
Then I heard it.
That voice—impossibly cold, smug, echoing over the crumbling square like a crack in the world.
“Let us test my new wand properly now… Shall we, Potter?”
My breath caught in my chest.
No.
I forced my legs to move.
Run, damn it—run.
I turned a corner and there they were—Voldemort, pale and terrible, standing like a statue of death. And Harry, alone, wand up, back straight.
Ginny behind him, frozen, shaking.
No, no, no—
Voldemort raised his wand.
Green light.
A scream—
Harry collapsed.
Voldemort collapsed.
And the world shattered.
I ran.
I didn’t care about cover anymore, or pain, or blood, or Death Eaters rising behind me.
I skidded to Harry’s side as Ginny sobbed beside him, shaking, clutching his shoulders.
“ Harry! ” I choked. “No—no—he can’t— he can’t be— ”
Ginny shook her head wildly.
“He’s not—he can’t be—we need to help—Ron, what do we—”
Another explosion thundered behind us.
The ground shook with the next explosion. Screams echoed from every direction—students, villagers, spells colliding in the air like fireworks turned sinister.
I tried to haul Harry’s body up by the shoulders. Come on, come on—
But he was heavy. Too heavy. My shoulder burned where I’d been hit earlier, and my hands were slick with blood—his or mine, I didn’t even know. My legs buckled, useless.
Across the square, Death Eaters were closing in around Voldemort’s body, forming a tight, black wall. Red and gold and blue spells began raining toward them from a dozen angles—Aurors were arriving, Apparating straight into the chaos, wands raised, shouting.
But we were still exposed.
Ginny was on her knees beside Harry, clutching his hand, her face streaked with tears.
“He’s not dead—he’s not—I can feel it—Ron, he’s not—”
“We don’t have time —”
I grabbed her wrist, half-yelling, half-pleading.
“Ginny, listen to me. We have to go. Now. They’ll come for him—they’ll come for us next—”
She was shaking her head, panicking, her eyes locked on Harry’s face.
“But we can’t leave him, I won’t leave him—”
“I’m not asking you to leave him!”
My voice cracked.
“I’m taking you both. ”
Another explosion, closer this time. A nearby building groaned and collapsed in a spray of dust and shrapnel. The wall of Death Eaters held—shield charms glimmered around them. Voldemort hadn’t moved yet, but I knew it wouldn’t last.
He’d get back up.
And when he did—
I wrapped one arm around Ginny’s middle, the other under Harry’s armpit. I couldn’t lift him properly, so I half-dragged, half-pulled his body until we were off the street and behind a toppled cart.
“Hold him. Hold on to me.”
“Ron—Ron, what are you doing—”
I looked up—Voldemort was stirring. Moving.
We were out of time.
“We don’t have time—he’s coming back— Hold on— ”
“Ron, wait—what—”
“ I said hold on! ”
I gritted my teeth, wrapped both arms tight around them, and turned on the spot.
Pain screamed through me.
It felt like my side was tearing in half, like fire racing down my spine—I shouted into the void—and then we landed hard, all three of us, in a cold clearing.
I collapsed.
Ginny was gasping, coughing, sobbing beside me.
Pain.
So much pain.
I managed to turn my head with great effort.
I reached out to Harry’s prone body.
Harry didn’t move.
Ginny was sobbing. Harry’s body was sprawled beside us, deathly still.
And then I remembered.
The stone.
I hadn’t given him the stone.
My head throbbed. The edges of my vision blurred. My hand searched for Harry’s pulse. I didn’t feel it.
“No— ” I whispered.
I’d failed.
I’d failed.
Ginny’s voice grew faint.
My world darkened.
And then—nothing.
It was pain that woke me.
Not sharp, not sudden—more like drowning in it. My whole body was heavy and wrong. My chest burned every time I breathed. My limbs felt like lead. There was something tight around my middle, bandages maybe, maybe worse. Everything hurt.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
“Harry—”
His name tore out of me, raw and broken. I couldn’t stop saying it.
“Harry—Harry—Harry—”
My mind couldn’t hold onto anything except that moment—his body on the ground, too still, too pale, and my hand shoved deep in my pocket with the damn stone still there. I never gave it to him. I never—
“It’s my fault—it’s my fault—it’s my—”
I couldn’t breathe.
The world was spinning, or maybe I was. My vision swam. My chest was caving in. I didn’t know if I was crying or choking or both.
Someone grabbed my shoulders—someone warm. Too bright, too loud. Voices I couldn’t understand. Shapes moved around me, silhouettes through a flood of tears.
“Harry—please—Harry—”
I tried to sit up, and agony lanced through my side. I screamed.
Then hands again—gentler this time. A cool cloth pressed to my forehead. A voice, low and steady, murmuring something I couldn’t make out. A glass clinked beside me. A hand cradled my head.
“Drink,” someone said. I don’t know who. The voice was far away, like through water.
A bitter draught touched my lips. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want anything. But the hand was patient, and I swallowed.
Warmth spread through me—not comfort, just quiet. The edge dulled. The light dimmed. My panic slipped out of reach.
But so did Harry’s name.
And then the dark took me again.
I woke to the sound of my own voice.
“Harry…”
My throat was raw. My lips cracked and dry. My whole body throbbed, but I didn’t care. The grief was there before the pain. Like it had been waiting for me to come back.
“Harry,” I whispered again. “Harry—Harry—”
My chest hitched. I felt hands on me—warm, steady—but I flinched away. The light hurt my eyes. The world was too sharp, too loud.
“He’s dead,” I muttered, voice cracking. “I didn’t give it to him. I had it—I had it—I was supposed to—”
My eyes burned. I didn’t realise I was crying until the tears hit my pillow.
“I failed,” I said. “He’s dead.”
Someone pressed a vial to my lips. I turned my head, but they didn’t let me. Just kept their hand there until I drank.
Calming Draught. I felt the warmth unfurl in my chest, like dull fog rolling in. My hands stopped shaking. My breath slowed.
But it didn’t help. Not really.
I kept my eyes shut, tears leaking out the corners.
“My fault,” I breathed. “It’s my fault… all my fault…”
The words repeated like a curse, quieter each time. My limbs felt heavy again. My lips stopped working properly.
“It’s my… fault…”
And then the dark pulled me under once more.
Chapter 94: BOOK SIX - LIFE MISSION
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
LIFE MISSION
I woke to the weight of pain. Not physical—though my body throbbed and ached like I'd been shattered and stitched back together—but something heavier. Something I couldn’t breathe around. It pressed against my chest and strangled my lungs before I even opened my eyes.
And then I remembered.
I remembered the green light, the sound of the curse, the way Harry’s body fell.
I remembered that I had the time—I had the time to give him the wand's allegiance. I made the time. I planned for it. But I didn’t give him the Resurrection Stone.
I forgot.
I forgot.
“No,” I croaked. My throat was raw and dry, but the word escaped like it had claws. “No no no—”
I curled forward, but the pain in my stomach made me stop. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how much it hurt. Nothing could be worse than what I’d done.
I failed.
I failed him.
He died. Harry died. After everything. After all these years, after I swore again and again that I’d change the ending, that I’d make sure he’d live —I failed when it counted.
A broken sob tore from me. I clutched at my face, digging my hands into my scalp, fingers clawing at my hair. I wanted to tear it out, all of it, like I could punish myself enough to make it hurt less.
I killed him. I killed him.
“Harry,” I sobbed. “Harry—oh God—Harry—”
Hands grabbed my wrists, pulling them away from my face. I fought. I twisted, tried to wrench free.
“Let go! Let go, I killed him, I—”
“Ron.” The voice cut through everything. It was raw, like mine. Urgent. Familiar.
Snape.
No.
“No,” I whispered, still trying to wrest my hands free. I couldn’t see anything through the tears. The room was swimming, smeared and flickering like a bad memory. “Don’t—I can’t—”
I thrashed weakly, but the hands held on. Not hurting. Just not letting go.
“I killed him,” I said again, louder this time. “I killed Harry. I didn’t give him the stone—I forgot—it’s my fault— I killed him! ”
My blood roared in my ears, like a storm inside my skull. I couldn’t hear anything. Just the beat of my own guilt. I saw Snape’s mouth move, but I didn’t catch the words.
The rest of the room disappeared. It was just him. Just the man I’d sworn everything to—and I’d failed. Failed him too. He let go, and I crumpled, a keening sound breaking from my chest. Raw, wounded. Not even human.
I must’ve disgusted him.
We were supposed to protect Harry. It was the one thing that mattered. We swore.
And now—
Now—
Someone else grabbed me when I tried to move again. Hands steadier. Firmer. I barely registered them through the tears.
Then Snape’s hand was back—his fingers gripping my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Something slipped past my lips. Bitter. Familiar.
Calming Draught.
Two seconds later, it started to work.
It was like a drain had been pulled inside me. The grief didn’t leave, but it went dull, distant. My chest still hurt, but I could breathe. I could breathe.
The hands released me. I sank into the bed like a puppet with cut strings. My head rolled back onto the pillow. My vision blurred and steadied.
I stared at the ceiling.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t think.
Just… empty.
I didn’t deserve to feel anything else.
Snape sat at the edge of my bed. His weight barely shifted the mattress, but I felt it all the same—sharp and grounding, like the pull of gravity. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. My eyes were fixed on the ceiling above, blurry from the tears that hadn’t quite dried yet, the same tears that had soaked my face as I screamed myself hoarse, half out of my mind.
My throat still hurt.
Snape’s voice came low, like it had travelled from very far away. Measured. Careful.
“Whatever plan you and Dumbledore devised… it worked.”
I blinked slowly. His words floated around my head like they didn’t belong in it. I tried to sit up again, my body protesting in fire and nausea, but Snape laid a hand on my arm. His grip was gentle but firm.
“He survived, Ron,” Snape said. “The Killing Curse struck him… and he lived.”
“No,” I rasped, turning my face away. “Don’t—don’t do this—”
“I am not lying to you,” Snape said, calm as stone. “He is alive. You did it.”
I shook my head, harder than I should have. My temples throbbed.
“Why are you—why are you torturing me?”
“I am telling you the truth.”
I closed my eyes, chest hitching.
“He died. I felt it—I saw it—I left the Stone—I—I messed it all up, I—”
“You did not fail,” Snape said, not moving. “Whatever you did… it was enough. The wand obeyed him. He is alive. And once you are calm—once your pulse is no longer threatening to burst your stitches—he will be allowed in. You will see him yourself.”
I swallowed, lips trembling.
“I don’t… I don’t believe you.”
“I know.”
He said it like it didn’t matter. Like belief would come later. He just had to hold the line until it did.
I finally turned to look at him.
He was watching me like he always did—steady, present—but there was something missing in his face. That old guilt, that permanent grief carved behind the eyes. That bitter twist of his mouth whenever Harry was involved. It wasn’t there.
He didn’t look lighter, not really. He was still Snape. Still exhausted, still hollow-eyed from too many nights without sleep. But I knew him too well by now.
He looked… free.
Like the weight he’d dragged for a long time had been set down at last, and he wasn’t quite sure how to walk without it.
And if that was true…
Then maybe…
Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the wand was enough. Maybe the Stone had never been the answer.
Maybe I’d built the wrong myth in my head. Let Dumbledore’s hints and my memories from that other life twist together until I believed the wrong thing mattered most.
I looked at him, really looked. And he was still there. Not devastated. Not shattered. Just quiet.
I choked on a sob.
“I need to see him,” I said. My voice broke halfway through. “Please. I need—please—”
There was a sound behind me. I startled—I hadn’t even noticed Pomfrey standing there in the shadows behind the bed curtains. She spoke quietly, her voice meant more for Snape than me.
“Is this wise?”
Snape didn’t look away from me.
“He needs to see it to believe it. There will be no peace otherwise.”
Pomfrey sighed. A tired, resigned sort of sound.
“All right,” she said softly. “But only for a moment. He’s not to get up, and Potter mustn’t excite him.”
She disappeared past the curtains, leaving just the two of us again.
I clung to the hope rising in my chest like it might vanish if I breathed too hard.
Alive. He was alive.
He had to be.
I waited. I couldn’t do anything else. My fingers clutched the sheets so tight they’d gone white, and my pulse roared behind my eyes like a second heartbeat. It hurt—everything hurt—but it didn’t matter. If this was some twisted hallucination, I didn’t care. I needed to see him. Even if it shattered me.
The curtains rustled.
I heard footsteps. Slow, careful, like someone was afraid to startle me.
And then—
“Ron?”
His voice.
I turned my head so fast it sent a white-hot spike through my side. Didn’t care. I blinked through the haze, and there he was.
Harry.
Standing at the foot of my bed, pale, exhausted, scratched and bruised—but standing. Breathing. Looking at me with that stubborn tilt to his brow, like he was daring me to keep thinking the worst.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t even breathe.
“You’re—” My throat closed. “You’re real?”
He nodded.
“I’m here. I’m fine.”
The sob hit me so hard it doubled me over. Everything gave way.
I cried.
Not like I’d done in the past—quiet, hidden, swallowed down. This was ugly, ragged, gut-wrenching. The kind of crying that rips something out of you. I couldn’t stop it. My chest seized up, my bandages tugged, and I tried to sit forward like I could reach him, prove it with my hands, but my body betrayed me.
“Hey—no—Ron, don’t—!” Harry was at my side in a flash, grabbing my shoulders. “Stop—don’t hurt yourself—Snape said—”
“I thought you were dead,” I choked. “I thought I killed you—I didn’t give you the Stone—I failed, I failed—”
“Stop—Ron—listen—” He pressed his forehead to mine, his voice cracking. “You didn’t fail. You saved me. Whatever you and Dumbledore did—it worked. I’m here because of you .”
I shook my head, trembling.
“I didn’t give you the Stone. That’s what it needed, wasn’t it? All three?”
“No. No—” Harry gripped my face now, trying to make me look at him. “I don’t know what stone you’re talking about, but you gave me something that worked. I don’t understand all of it. It’s something with a wand. You told me to disarm you, remember? That’s what did it. Voldemort used the wand—it didn’t work on me. That’s why I’m alive.”
I let out a whimpering sound. Something broken and small.
“I thought it had to be all of them… I thought—”
“Ron,” he said softly. “You did enough. You did everything. ”
I collapsed back against the pillows, still gasping, still crying, but there was something else now. The grief was still there, but underneath it, something like light. Like I’d been underwater too long and just broken the surface.
He was alive.
I didn’t fail.
I covered my eyes with one hand, and I sobbed again, but this time, it didn’t hurt as much.
Harry didn’t leave.
He stayed right there, his hand gripping mine, solid and warm and real.
I didn’t let go.
I’d dozed off again after the last round of potions, but I knew before I opened my eyes that I wasn’t alone anymore. The hush in the air had changed—lighter, warmer. I blinked the sleep away and turned my head carefully toward the soft sound of breathing and rustling fabric.
Mum was perched in the chair closest to the bed, hands folded tightly in her lap like she’d been wringing them raw. Her eyes were red. Dad stood just behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other buried in his coat pocket like he didn’t know what else to do with it. Ginny sat at the foot of the bed, curled up in one of the hard visitor chairs, arms crossed tightly across her chest.
I cleared my throat, which felt like parchment.
Ginny looked up first. Her eyes went wide.
“You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Looks like it.”
Mum was on me in an instant.
“Oh, Ron—oh, sweetheart—” She didn’t throw herself on me, thank Merlin. Just reached for my hand and squeezed it like she could anchor me to the earth with sheer maternal force.
I tried to smile, but everything in my face still hurt.
“Hey.”
Arthur leaned in, gave my shoulder the lightest pat, then brushed the hair off my forehead.
“Hello, son.”
“Sorry to—uh—scare everyone again,” I muttered. Ginny gave a wet laugh, which turned into a sniffle.
“I’m fine,” I added quickly. “Really. Pomfrey’s got me on enough potions to knock out a troll.”
Ginny bit her lip and looked down.
“You splinched yourself.”
I winced.
“Yeah, apparently I’m not ready to get my licence.”
She clearly didn’t find it funny.
“You nearly died, Ron,” she said softly.
I looked at her properly then. She looked wrecked. Paler than usual, freckles sharp against her skin, and eyes rimmed with dark circles like she hadn’t slept in days. Guilt clung to her like smoke.
“I should’ve—I should’ve done something,” she said. “I should’ve been quicker—gotten help faster—I froze—”
“Oi,” I said sharply, but not unkindly. “None of it is your fault. I was the idiot who tried a three-person Apparition under fire while actively bleeding. Don’t one-up me on mistakes. I win that round.”
She gave a watery smile, but her eyes were still glassy.
“Still not letting you side-Apparate me ever again.”
“Fair,” I admitted. “I am a terrible chauffeur.”
Mum gave a sniff that might have been a laugh.
“Madam Pomfrey said if you don’t pop your stitches again—”
“—I’ll be mostly healed by tomorrow morning,” I finished in a mimic of her voice. “And good as new by tomorrow night.”
Arthur smiled.
“Just in time to go right back into trouble.”
“Oh yes,” I said, grinning, “it’s tradition, isn’t it? One trip to the hospital wing per year. Maybe two, if I’m feeling festive.”
Ginny rolled her eyes.
“More like five, at this rate.”
“I have extenuating circumstances,” I said solemnly.
“Always,” Mum muttered, shaking her head.
I stretched a little and winced.
“Honestly, I think my kidneys are still in Hogsmeade.”
Everyone went quiet.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Bad joke.”
Dad just ruffled my hair, gentle and warm.
“You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
No one said it out loud, but I knew what they were all thinking. This time, he’s still here.
I didn’t know what to do with that kind of love. But I held onto it all the same.
The hospital wing was quieter than it had been all day. The lanterns floated low and soft, casting long glows over the polished floor. Someone had drawn the curtains around the other occupied beds, giving the illusion of privacy even if the groans and coughs of the injured still filtered through in waves.
Gifts surrounded my bed—too many. The small table by my side groaned under the weight of cards, sweet tins, little boxes of homemade fudge and cake, and a paper-wrapped loaf of what looked like some Victoria sponge cake, suspiciously lumpy. Someone had enchanted a pile of cards, so that they danced in the air for a bit before falling into a messy pile on the chair.
Lavender Brown had brought half her dorm with her earlier, along with Parvati and Padma and Lisa Turpin. Apparently, they’d been trapped in Madam Puddifoot’s when I’d hexed the Death Eaters who were trying to break down the door. I hadn’t even looked in their direction—I’d just kept running, thinking only of Harry—but that didn’t stop Lavender from clasping my hand dramatically and saying it was “fate.”
I feared for my next Divination class.
I leaned back against the pillows, the sting in my ribs only mild now. Pomfrey had said I could try sitting up for short periods if I didn’t strain anything. I hadn’t even realised until earlier today how many students I’d saved on my mad sprint to Harry—how many had been cornered in tea shops or hunched behind barrels or barricaded in storefronts. Some of them had written to me, or had their parents write. Some letters were a bit shaky. One of them had drawn a crayon sketch of what I assumed was me—lots of freckles, orange hair, and a heroically huge wand.
It should’ve made me smile. And it did, a little. But mostly… I felt a little hollow.
I stared at the pile and tried to feel like a hero. I didn’t.
My mind wouldn’t stop circling the same thought— Harry is alive.
But my body didn’t seem to believe it yet. Like the grief was still echoing in me even now, hours later. I’d carried the possibility of Harry’s death for years. Since the very start, really.
At first, when I was reborn into this world, it had been theoretical. I’d known how the story ended. I’d known what could happen. But it had been distant, like reading the warning on a potion bottle and thinking, That won’t be me.
Then I met him. The real Harry. Messy-haired, awkward, impossibly kind Harry.
And that far-off fear grew closer.
Each year, it moved nearer, more solid. And I tried to ignore it. I told myself we had time. One year. Then two. Then maybe three. I could breathe, I could wait.
But time has a way of running out.
And the closer we got, the more it consumed me. Even when I was laughing, studying, arguing with Hermione, walking to class, there had always been a quiet dread under it all. The prophecy. The horcruxes. The inevitable death.
And when Dumbledore died, I thought—I really thought—we’d failed.
I’d been alone again, just like at the beginning, with all the weight of the world crashing down. No mentor. No guidance. Just me and my memories and what scraps of plans I could salvage.
I found comfort in Snape, then. Not because he had the answers, but because he knew the stakes. Because he was just as bound to protect Harry as I was. He understood, in his own way.
Then came the wand plan. It wasn’t supposed to fix everything—just one step. One protective layer. And we risked everything just to make that one part happen.
And somehow… we won.
Not just a battle. Not a duel. The war.
Harry didn’t have to die anymore. The prophecy—shattered. The horcrux inside him—destroyed.
He was free.
Now all we had to do was protect him like any normal person. No more grand sacrificial fates. No more “chosen one” burdens. He didn’t need to die to save the world.
And I—I could finally breathe.
I didn’t know what life looked like after this. I hadn’t let myself think that far. But maybe I’d get to find out.
I reached for a card shaped like a lightning bolt and opened it. It squeaked and sang something horribly off-key about courage. I snorted, half in amusement, half in disbelief.
Then I glanced at the empty dinner tray beside my bed, the crumbs of sponge cake still clinging to it. Someone had charmed “GET WELL SOON” into the frosting.
And I whispered, mostly to myself,
“He’s safe.”
That was all I’d ever wanted.
I smiled again.
Just then, the door to Pomfrey’s office creaked open. She stepped out, white robes crisp and purposeful, followed closely by Snape—and then Moody. My smile faltered into a smirk of curiosity, eyebrows rising. The three of them came to stand beside my bed.
Pomfrey folded her arms, giving me that look that said she was trying not to mother me and failing.
“These gentlemen insist they need to speak with you,” she said, clearly unimpressed by their insistence. “Do you feel up to it?”
I shifted upright, ignoring the dull ache in my side.
“Yeah. I’m all right.”
“One hour,” she warned, sharp as ever. “Not one minute more. If he gets tired, or if he wants you to stop, you stop. Understood?”
Snape gave a firm nod.
“I’ll enforce it. Diligently.”
He sent a sharp glance at Moody, who shifted and rolled both eyes—magical and real. Pomfrey left.
“Fuss over,” Moody muttered. He drew his wand and cast privacy wards around us. Magic shimmered in the air like a net tightening around our little corner of the hospital wing.
I braced myself, inhaled deeply, and leaned back slightly on the pillows.
Moody didn’t waste time.
“Right. Here’s what the public and the Ministry have been told: there was a Death Eater attack in Hogsmeade. We got wind of it. The Order responded. During the skirmish, several students were injured, two Death Eaters were killed, the rest fled. Voldemort made a brief appearance but was repelled.”
I snorted.
“Repelled?”
“It plays better than ‘vanished in a rage after failing to murder a child,’” Moody said, deadpan. “The official version says Potter survived the confrontation unharmed. No mention of what spell was cast. He came back to the castle under escort. That’s what’s been filed with the Aurors and what’s going in the Prophet.”
I nodded. That was what I expected. Keep it simple. Keep it safe.
Moody pressed on, darker now.
“The Order’s version… they know Potter died. Briefly. They know something brought him back. But no one knows what. And no one outside this room knows why.”
I held my breath.
“No one knows the wand changed hands,” he continued. “Or what that might’ve meant. As for Malfoy… some of the higher-ups know he’s not dead. But we’re keeping that on strict lockdown. Fewer people who know, the better.”
He hesitated.
“It was a mistake, sending Snape to Voldemort with word that Malfoy would betray him. I thought it would rattle him. Instead… he came himself. He killed Hestia. That’s on me.”
There was a pause. I swallowed hard.
Moody’s eyes pinned me.
“Was it worth it?”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
His magical eye focused, eerie and too-knowing.
“Then I want to know why. Hestia died for this. You owe her that.”
I looked between him and Snape.
“There were other steps to the plan I can’t talk about. Not yet. But the core of it—the part that mattered most—was giving Harry the wand’s allegiance. And then getting that wand into Voldemort’s hands.”
“On purpose,” Moody said flatly.
“So it wouldn’t kill Harry,” I confirmed. “So it couldn’t kill him.”
Moody tilted his head.
“Potter said something strange. About Voldemort destroying a part of himself when he cast the Killing Curse. That there was something inside him.”
I blinked.
“He said that?”
“He did,” Moody confirmed.
I wasn’t sure why, but that caught me off guard. I’d assumed Harry wouldn’t remember—or wouldn’t understand.
But my lips twitched, just slightly. I composed myself quickly.
“Then it worked. The curse didn’t just miss. It ripped out the piece of Voldemort inside Harry. It burned out the fragment. That’s what the curse hit.”
Moody’s brow furrowed.
“And what does that mean, in the grand scheme of things?”
I paused, thinking through my words.
“It means Harry’s free. The prophecy’s weight is gone. He’s not… not a sacrifice anymore.” I hesitated again. “And it helps the war effort. For reasons I can’t explain. Not yet.”
Snape was watching me like a hawk now. Moody let out a noise, something between a grunt and a sigh.
“So that wasn’t the whole mission Dumbledore gave you,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“There’s more?” he asked again.
I gave him a tired smile.
“Almost over.”
“What is?” Snape asked, voice low.
“My tasks,” I said. “There’s just one left.”
Moody narrowed his eyes.
“Another mad plan?”
I winced.
“Probably worse than this weekend.”
Moody leaned in.
“What is it?”
“I’ll think it through first. Then I’ll ask for your counsel—both of you. But everything we need to carry it out… we already have.”
Moody gave a short, humourless snort.
“It’d better be enough. Voldemort’s got Dumbledore’s wand now. That’s already a bloody disaster.”
I thought of the wand in Voldemort’s hand. Of what I remembered from the original ending. The duel. The final moment.
“The wand’s still loyal to Harry,” I said calmly.
“That’s not how wands work,” Moody shot back.
“This one is different,” I said. “It’ll stay loyal to him until someone disarms him. That’s when the loyalty will shift.”
Snape stirred.
“Then perhaps someone should disarm Potter. An Order member. Someone skilled in defence, unlikely to be disarmed themselves.”
I nodded.
“That’s what I thought, too.”
Moody’s expression soured.
“I’ll see to it. Unless that conflicts with one of your secret plans,” he added, tone dry as parchment.
I shook my head.
“No. It’s better this way. Just don’t think that it’ll protect anyone from death. I don’t think the wand will work for anyone else like it did for Harry. I’d rather not test that. Not if we can avoid it.”
It went quiet for a bit. The silence was heavy, but not crushing.
One more task. That was all. Then maybe—maybe—I could rest.
On Monday, Madam Pomfrey had mostly stopped fussing about my blood pressure and exhaustion levels as I was almost as good as new. In the evening, Harry and Hermione came for a visit. I was upright, propped with pillows and starting to feel like myself again—or at least like someone still trying to figure out who he was after everything that had happened.
Harry and Hermione sat beside my bed, both of them quiet. We’d talked a bit already—surface-level things. How I was healing. What they did in Potion class. What the rumours were. But we hadn’t really talked. Not about Voldemort. Or what happened. Or how Harry was even here.
Hermione was the one to break the silence.
“Ron… can we talk about it now? The wand? How you… saved him?”
I met her eyes, then turned to Harry. He looked tired. He always looked tired these days, but this was a deeper kind. Like he hadn’t quite caught up to the fact he wasn’t dead anymore.
“I think we should,” I said, my voice hoarse. “You deserve to know.”
Harry nodded slowly.
“I know I died. I remember it. Or—some of it. Dumbledore. King’s Cross. The… thing on the ground.”
I flinched.
“You saw it, then.”
He didn’t ask how I knew what he meant. He just said,
“Yeah.”
Hermione leaned in.
“Ron… was that part of the plan? Did you know about… that?”
I hesitated. Then nodded. I tried not to lie. Keeping some things vague. About how I knew. For how long I’ve known.
“Yeah. We knew that there was something inside Harry. A fragment of Voldemort. ”
Hermione inhaled sharply. Harry blinked like he’d expected it, but hearing it aloud still did something to him.
“That’s what the prophecy was all about,” I went on. “And that’s why it said that you had to die. Because part of him was tied to you.”
Harry looked away.
“So… the prophecy. It was real. I had to die.”
“No,” I said firmly. “You didn’t. That’s the point.”
Hermione frowned.
“But if the fragment had to be destroyed—”
“We found another way,” I interrupted. “A way to make Voldemort destroy it himself.”
They both stared at me.
I took a shaky breath.
“It was the wand. It was Dumbledore’s and it’s… different from other wands. If Harry became its master— truly its master—then the wand wouldn’t kill him. Even if Voldemort cast the Killing Curse. It would turn on him. Reject the act. Or redirect it. Or... something. We didn’t know exactly how it would work, but we knew the allegiance mattered.”
Hermione’s brows were furrowed in thought, processing, calculating. Harry looked down at his lap.
“I disarmed you,” he said slowly. “Before I ran off with Ginny. You told me to.”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Dumbledore made me the master of his wand the day he died. So that when the moment came, I could make you into the next master. The hard part was to give the wand to Voldemort without him suspecting foul play.”
“Which you did,” Hermione whispered. “But how?”
I shrugged.
“There was a plan with the Order. I won’t go into the details, there’s no point,” I said, waving the subject away. “The important part is that it worked. Voldemort thought he had the wand’s loyalty—probably still does—and that it would allow him to finally kill you, since his regular wand doesn’t work on you. He didn’t plan on the wand turning on him.”
Harry stared at me like he didn’t know what to say.
“You should’ve told me,” he said eventually. “About all of it.”
Guilt twisted something in my guts.
“I know,” I said, looking anywhere but at him. “But we couldn’t risk it. If you knew it was a trick, you might not have... accepted it.”
Hermione’s hand found mine, squeezing tight.
“Ron… that’s… mad and… incredible.”
Harry leaned forward.
“One thing I don’t get. Why you? Why did Dumbledore tell you all of this? Why not me?”
I looked at him for a long moment. The truth… couldn’t be said. If I wanted to save my relationship with Harry, there was no other choice but to lie. Not a complete lie, but enough.
I settled on one part of the truth.
“Because you were already carrying enough.”
He blinked.
“I think Dumbledore knew what the prophecy would do to you,” I went on. “What it had already done. He didn’t want you to march toward death just because someone told you that you had to. He wanted you to live, Harry. Not just survive , but choose to live. And if you knew too soon, you might’ve gone willingly. Because that’s who you are.”
Hermione looked like she might cry. Harry didn’t look much better.
“He gave the plan to me because I could take it. Because I’d do it without needing to be a hero about it. Because I’d do whatever it took, even if it meant watching you walk toward death, not knowing the truth. Even if it meant carrying it all alone.”
I paused.
“He trusted me to find a way to save you. And I did.”
Harry reached across the bed, gripping my forearm hard.
“You did.”
I let out a breath.
Then I looked down at Harry’s hand still gripping my forearm. I held onto it for a second longer. Then I leaned back against the pillow, the breath I’d been holding slipping out in one long, tired sigh.
“I meant what I said, you know,” I murmured. “Back when you told us the prophecy. That day in the Room.”
Harry glanced up at me, confused for a moment.
“You said you were supposed to die. That it was written, somehow. Fated.” I swallowed thickly. “And Hermione and I—we promised you we’d find another way. That we’d be there with you until the end, no matter what.”
Hermione nodded slowly, her hand still wrapped tight around mine.
“Well… It’s done now. The prophecy’s dead,” I said. “That thing inside you—gone. The bit of fate tying you to Voldemort—it’s gone too. You’re not the Chosen One anymore, mate.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“You’re just Harry,” I said quietly. “Just Harry. Not a saviour. Not a weapon. Not a sacrifice. Just Harry.”
Hermione sniffled beside me, wiping her eyes. Harry looked like he might follow.
“You’re free now,” I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Free to live however you want. To want things. To dream about a future that’s yours—not one written in a stupid prophecy. No more fate. No more chosen path. It’s your life now, Harry.”
He looked at me like I’d just said something he hadn’t let himself believe was possible. Like the idea of being free hadn’t really occurred to him.
I tried to smile.
“I don’t know what you’ll do with that freedom,” I added, voice soft. “But whatever it is—whatever you choose—I’ll be there. We both will.”
Harry swallowed hard, and then leaned forward, wrapping his arms around me in a rough, desperate hug. I hissed when he jostled my healing ribs, and he muttered a dozen apologies, but I didn’t let him pull away.
I closed my eyes and let it sink in.
He was alive.
Free.
And for the first time in this lifetime… so was I.
Notes:
I was very surprised that some of you thought that Harry was truly dead!
Chapter 95: INTERLUDE VII
Summary:
Many character's point of view after the Hogsmeade attack.
Chapter Text
Interlude VII
15 March 1997
Harry sat still in the hospital wing, a hard plastic chair digging into his spine, Ginny’s trembling fingers clasped tightly in his own. He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there. Ten minutes? An hour? Time had stopped meaning anything after he’d woken up in that clearing and heard Ginny crying.
The bed in front of them was surrounded by high white curtains, drawn tight. Two St Mungo’s Healers had gone inside minutes ago and hadn’t come out since. Harry couldn’t hear anything over the pounding in his ears.
Ginny’s head was on his shoulder. She wasn’t making a sound, but he felt the shudders run through her with every breath. Her other hand was still streaked with blood. Ron’s blood.
Harry squeezed her hand.
He didn’t realise he was shaking until Ginny leaned closer and clutched at his jumper like she was afraid he’d vanish again.
He had, in a way.
He’d died.
He remembered waking up in the clearing. His whole body aching, head pounding. The confusion, the thick smoke still in his lungs. And Ginny’s sobs—raw and panicked—cutting through the haze.
Then her voice: You’re alive.
And Ron—God, Ron—sprawled out on the forest floor, blood soaking through the scarf pressed to his abdomen. His face pale, and he was barely breathing. Ginny’s hands red and shaking.
Harry had knelt beside them, yanking off his own scarf, helping her press down. Ron had made a low, broken sound, eyes fluttering.
What happened? Harry had asked.
Ginny could hardly speak through her tears. Saying that Ron had Apparated them. That he had Splinched himself.
The rest had been a blur. Harry running—fumbling through trees—finding Babbling guiding a group of soot-streaked third years back toward the castle. Harry had screamed for help. Babbling’s face had gone white at the sight of him, then paler still when he shouted that Ron was dying.
She didn’t hesitate. She followed him back to the clearing and conjured a stretcher on the spot. Harry and Ginny had run beside her all the way back to the hospital wing.
And now… now they waited.
The hospital wing looked like a battlefield.
Cots were lined up all the way to the wall. Some held students—bloody, burned, crying. Others held unconscious Order members, groaning softly. Aurors barked instructions to each other. St Mungo’s Healers rushed back and forth between the triage area and the main ward, robes stained and faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Madam Pomfrey worked beside them, giving orders, directing injured children into safe corners. Professors Sprout and Flitwick moved among the youngest students, calming them. Snape and McGonagall stood stiffly near the door, coordinating with Kingsley, their expressions grim and tight.
Harry watched it all like it was happening on the other side of a glass wall.
He knew what all the noise meant. Knew why people were screaming, why they were bleeding, why someone sobbed uncontrollably two beds over. But it felt far away. Like he didn’t quite belong here anymore.
Because he’d died.
He knew it. There had been light… and Dumbledore.
Was it real? Harry didn’t know. It might have been a hallucination. Some last flash of consciousness in the seconds after the Killing Curse. But it didn’t feel like a dream. Dumbledore had told him things—things Harry hadn’t known.
About the wand.
About the piece of Voldemort in him.
About the prophecy.
About Ron.
Harry turned his head, slowly, to look at the bed surrounded by curtains.
Ron knew something.
Harry didn’t know what exactly. But Ron had done something for Dumbledore. Something about a wand. Something that saved Harry's life. Clearly, Dumbledore had given Ron a mission before dying. Something to save Harry in case he ever had to face Voldemort.
He didn’t know how, or when, or why. All he knew was the little bit Dumbledore told him. And the bizarre moment when Ron had all but begged him to disarm him.
Harry didn’t understand.
All he knew was that he was alive because of Ron.
Because of that weird thing with the wand. Because he’d Apparated them to safety and nearly died doing it.
Harry’s grip tightened around Ginny’s hand.
He just stared at the curtain, feeling the words again and again like a pulse under his skin.
Ron will die because of me.
It had taken hours. Hours of fire-dousing, memory-modifying, and damage control. The Hospital Wing looked like a war clinic. Three students had been moved to St Mungo’s, and two Aurors had injuries Moody didn’t think would ever properly heal. He hadn't sat down since the first blast hit the village. And now, finally, he stood before the Auror liaison team—five of them, tight-faced and bristling with questions—ready to lie through his blasted teeth.
“The situation escalated too fast,” Moody growled, pacing like a caged bear. “We had intelligence suggesting that two high-value Death Eaters were planning a covert meeting on the outskirts of Hogsmeade—specifically, near the Shrieking Shack. Location made sense. Remote, abandoned. We didn’t expect it to spill into the village proper.”
He left out the fact that there had been only one Death Eater on their radar that morning. Left out that Hestia Jones was never supposed to die.
An Auror in maroon robes stepped forward.
“Why weren’t we informed? Why wasn’t this operation registered with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”
Moody snorted.
“You know as well as I do—this wasn’t an official operation. It was contingency work. Surveillance. We didn’t intend to engage. We had people nearby because Potter was in the village. Given his... status, we keep a perimeter on Hogsmeade weekends.”
Which wasn’t entirely a lie. Just not the real reason they’d had six Order members scattered across rooftops and alleyways.
Another Auror, a young man with bright eyes and too clean boots, frowned.
“Why not pull Potter out the moment you suspected a threat?”
“Because we didn’t suspect Voldemort,” Moody snapped before he could stop himself. He bit back the curse on his tongue. The room fell silent. “We didn’t suspect that level of threat,” he amended. “If we’d known Voldemort himself would show his face, I’d have shut down the entire bloody trip.”
He hadn't seen it coming. None of them had. He’d planned for the Death Eater handler to return to Voldemort. He hadn’t planned for Voldemort to decide—on a whim, apparently—that he’d rather do the killing himself. And now Hestia was dead. Potter had nearly died. And Weasley was still unconscious, bled almost dry, trying to save Potter.
Moody cleared his throat.
“We were tracking the meeting, keeping eyes on it. But then the attack started. We think the Death Eaters panicked when they saw us closing in. Might’ve misinterpreted it as a full offensive. They struck first.”
Another partial truth. Another wedge of the lie.
“And You-Know-Who?” someone asked quietly.
Moody’s lips thinned.
“We believe he came to retrieve something. Possibly a powerful magical artefact. One of the Death Eaters present may have been carrying it. We think they lured him out.”
They wouldn’t say “wand.” They couldn’t. The whole scheme around Dumbledore’s wand was a secret too dangerous to risk.
“We’ll need names,” the lead Auror said. “Which of your people were involved. All of them.”
Moody grunted.
“You’ll get a list. But you should know—we lost one. Jones. We retrieved the body.”
He didn’t say she’d died under Polyjuice, wearing the face of Draco Malfoy. No one outside the inner circle would ever know that.
“And Draco Malfoy?” the Auror asked. “His name’s come up in the student reports. Conflicting sightings.”
“Malfoy wasn’t involved,” Moody said flatly. “Some students got confused. Lots of smoke. Panic. I’m having our people do a sweep, but there’s no evidence he was anywhere near the fighting.”
Draco was halfway to France by now, hidden by the best stealth magic Moody could muster.
“And Potter?” came the final question. “He was reportedly killed. And yet… he’s alive.”
Moody didn’t flinch.
“We think it was a failed curse. Botched by distance or interference. Might’ve been a decoy spell altogether. Potter collapsed. But he came round. He’s lucky.”
Lucky. That was the word he’d use. Not resurrected. Not returned.
The Aurors looked uneasy. Moody didn’t blame them. The battle had been a disaster. The death toll could’ve been far worse—but still, the damage was done. Public panic. A Hogsmeade weekend turned battlefield. Voldemort’s first open appearance in a populated location in years. It was too much.
When the Aurors left, Moody slumped into a chair in the makeshift command post the Order had claimed in a forgotten antechamber off the Hospital Wing. He rubbed his good eye, let the magical one spin slowly.
He’d failed. Failed to foresee Voldemort’s ambition. Failed to keep the lines secure. Failed to keep Hestia alive.
But not everything was lost.
The wand was in Voldemort’s hand, but not its allegiance. Malfoy was safe and thought dead. Potter was alive.
Weasley had done his job.
“Was it worth it?” Moody muttered to no one. “Bloody right it was. But I hope the boy wakes up soon.”
Because if Weasley didn’t make it… Then none of it would’ve been worth anything at all.
Arthur Weasley was elbow-deep in a pile of fraudulent shielding hats when the knock came.
He looked up from the smoking heap of tattered felt and thin enchantment threads just as the door creaked open and an Auror stepped inside—young, pale, and breathless. The atmosphere in the small Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office shifted at once. Perkins dropped a teacup. Miss Penhaligon stopped writing mid-sentence. Everyone stared.
The Auror didn’t waste a second. He locked eyes with Arthur and came straight toward him.
“Mr Weasley. One of your children,” the Auror continued, carefully, but not gently enough. “One of them is in critical condition. He wasn’t moved to St Mungo’s—he’s too unstable. Your wife’s been notified. She’s already en route to the school.”
Arthur didn’t speak. He didn’t nod. He didn’t even grab his cloak.
He turned on his heel and ran.
He barely registered the startled gasps behind him, the clatter of chairs, or the questions from his coworkers. His mind was a single screaming thought: Please not Ron, please not Ginny, please not—
He skidded into the Atrium, startling a group of visitors, and shoved past them toward the nearest Floo grate. “Hogwarts Hospital Wing!” he bellowed, casting a pinch of Floo Powder into the green flames.
To his immense relief, it was Flitwick who answered.
“Arthur,” the tiny professor said at once, voice tight, “Come through. Quickly.”
Arthur didn’t wait. He stepped into the flames and stumbled out the other side, heart hammering.
“Where?” he asked hoarsely.
“Your wife is already here,” Flitwick said. “So is Ginny. Follow me.”
They entered the Hospital Wing—and Arthur’s heart dropped.
It was chaos.
Dozens of beds lined the walls, many filled with students—bloodied, bandaged, crying, some unconscious. Healers from St Mungo’s moved swiftly among them, triaging with grim faces. Professors bustled in and out. Parents wept in corners or clutched their children’s hands.
And there, near the far wall—Arthur saw them.
Molly, seated stiffly, her arms wrapped tightly around Ginny. Ginny’s face was streaked with silent tears. Beside them, Severus Snape stood tall and pale, blood drying on his hands and sleeves. Harry was perched near them on a stool, slumped with exhaustion, his knuckles white around a handkerchief.
Arthur moved to them in three strides.
“Molly,” he breathed. “Ginny—”
They looked up at once. Molly reached for him without letting go of their daughter, and Arthur knelt to gather them both in his arms. Ginny didn’t sob—just pressed her face into his chest and shook. Molly clung tightly to his back.
“Where’s Ron?” he rasped.
Snape answered, voice low and hoarse.
“Behind the curtains. St Mungo’s Healers have been working on him for over two hours. He suffered a critical splinching. Massive blood loss. Internal trauma. We’re… doing everything we can.”
Arthur’s knees gave out. He sat heavily on the edge of a chair, still holding Ginny and Molly close. His mouth worked silently for a moment, then he turned to Ginny.
“What happened, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Tell me.”
Ginny pulled back enough to meet his eyes. Her face was pale, smeared with dirt and dried blood that was not her own.
“He tried to kill Harry,” she said shakily. “You-Know-Who. He was there, he—he cast the Killing Curse. And Harry—he—he fell. And I—I didn’t know what to do—”
She choked on a sob, and Arthur gently stroked her hair.
“Ron—Ron grabbed us. Me and Harry. He Apparated us out. But something went wrong. He—he splinched—”
She broke again. Harry put a hand on her shoulder, eyes red.
“I ran for help,” he said. “Professor Babbling brought us here. Snape and Madam Pomfrey—they—”
Arthur looked at Snape again. There was blood under his nails. On his cuffs. His wand was missing. His black eyes were sunken and weary.
Arthur gave him a nod.
“Thank you.”
Snape didn’t answer. He merely bowed his head, jaw tight.
Arthur turned back to his family and wrapped an arm around Ginny and Molly both, bracketing them, shielding them.
“Ron is strong,” he whispered, more to himself than them. “He always pulls through. He will. He will.”
No one spoke. He kept repeating it, like a mantra, like a prayer, as behind the curtains, his son fought for his life.
It was late now. The kind of late that settled deep into the bones.
Poppy stood at the far end of the hospital wing, hands clasped neatly in front of her, watching over rows of quiet beds. The scent of potions still hung heavy in the air—Burn-Heal Paste, Skelegro, antiseptic lavender. The lighting had dimmed to a gentle golden glow. The chaos of earlier was gone.
Five students had been transferred to St Mungo’s earlier in the evening. She had accompanied them to the Floo herself, watched their stretchers disappear in a blaze of green. They were stable now. St Mungo’s could finish what she had begun.
That left nine still in her care.
Nine injured students. Most of them asleep beneath clean white sheets, their chests rising and falling steadily with the help of Dreamless Sleep Draught. She had administered it herself. It had been hours since she’d last sat down.
Poppy walked slowly between the beds, her eyes flicking instinctively to charts. Minor bone regrowth. Laceration reversal. Two concussions. A sprained wrist. Fractured ribs. Burns along the forearm. Broken ankles.
They would be fine.
They would all be fine.
She repeated it like a warding spell. They will be fine. They will.
And they would be. Physically, at least. With Skelegro and potions and time, their bones would mend. Their skin would smooth. Their pulses would steady. The rest—the fear, the screams, the trauma—they’d carry for longer.
She glanced toward the far end of the wing. One bed had curtains drawn, shielding it from view. The small cluster of people beside it had not moved much in hours.
Arthur and Molly Weasley sat on either side of the bed, leaning close to each other. Their hands were joined on the mattress. Ginny sat nearby, her face drawn and silent. Harry Potter was there too, shoulders slumped forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly between them. Sirius Black leaned against the wall behind them, arms crossed, face unreadable in the half-light.
Always one, Poppy thought, heart heavy. Always the same, when catastrophe comes.
Ron Weasley.
She had seen it before, year after year, crisis after crisis. Somehow, it was always Ron Weasley in the worst of it. And still he stands back up, she thought. Still he throws himself in front of danger. As if he believes he must.
She let herself sigh, then turned to the closest bed—a Hufflepuff girl with a bandaged leg and a broken collarbone. Her parents sat on either side, holding her hands, their faces grey with fatigue.
Poppy approached them gently, her voice soft and low.
“You should go home and get some rest. She’ll be good as new by morning. I promise, we’ll notify you straightaway if anything changes.”
The girl’s mother opened her mouth, hesitated, and then nodded slowly.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her husband gave Pomfrey a watery smile.
Poppy watched them go, her hand brushing briefly over the girl's forehead in reassurance. Then she moved to the next bed, and the next pair of parents, and repeated the same quiet promise.
They would all be fine.
All except the boy behind the curtain.
Harry was exhausted.
Every bone in his body ached. His temples throbbed, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how still he tried to hold them. But he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not while Ron lay behind those drawn curtains, hidden from view, surrounded by St Mungo’s finest healers, fighting for his life.
He sat rigidly in the hard hospital chair, Ginny beside him. She hadn’t let go of his hand in hours. Her eyes were red-rimmed and dry now, past the point of more tears. Her head leaned lightly on his shoulder, and she hadn’t spoken in some time.
Neither of them had moved from Ron’s bedside. Neither of them could.
Harry had died today. But somehow, it wasn’t that moment he couldn’t shake—it was this one. This waiting. This helpless, dreadful silence in which Ron might slip away and leave them all behind.
His heart clenched. He hadn’t even said thank you.
Footsteps echoed softly down the hospital wing, and Harry looked up just as Moody arrived, limping more than usual. Behind him came Professor McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Tonks, and Lupin. They wore the same hollow-eyed expression that Harry had seen on every adult since the smoke had cleared.
Without a word, Moody drew his wand and conjured privacy wards around their end of the hospital wing. The rest of the students were asleep under potions, and the healers had moved away, giving them a corner to speak in low voices near Ron’s bed.
Moody grunted.
“Keep your voices down. No one else is to hear this.”
He looked at each of them in turn before beginning his briefing. His magical eye twitched constantly, scanning through walls and curtains.
“The official story I gave the Aurors is simple,” he said. “We had intel suggesting two Death Eaters were planning a meeting in Hogsmeade. The Order intercepted the tip and was on-site to observe and, if needed, neutralise. Which we did. The attack came unexpectedly, and we engaged to protect the students. The official count is two Death Eaters dead, one of our own fallen.”
His tone flattened on the word fallen.
“Hestia,” Lupin said quietly.
Moody nodded.
“She died well. Fast. Voldemort struck her down himself.”
There was a ripple of grief and shock among the group. Sirius’s hands curled into fists.
“What the hell were we doing there with students present?” he hissed. “If you suspected a Death Eater meeting, why didn’t you shut down the trip or alert the Ministry?”
Harry agreed, but he kept quiet, lips pressed tight. He needed to hear everything first.
Moody scowled.
“Because we had no indication Voldemort would come himself. He never does. He always delegates. That he showed up means the stakes were higher than even we thought.”
Sirius stood, hands shaking.
“You let Harry walk into it.”
“He survived,” Moody snapped.
Harry let out a quiet, bitter snort.
Moody looked at him sharply. Then he exhaled through his nose.
“About that…” he said gruffly.
His magical eye stopped its sweeping and fixed directly on Harry.
“There are some… witnesses. Not many. One or two saw something strange when you and Voldemort faced off. But it’s unclear. And I don’t trust any of them to understand what they saw.”
He stepped forward.
“I want your version of what happened, Potter. From the moment you saw him, to the moment he went down. Leave nothing out.”
Harry nodded, trying to gather his thoughts. He kept his voice even.
“Ginny and I were at the Quidditch shop. She wanted to look at some gloves. Then there were explosions. People were screaming. We ran outside. Death Eaters had already arrived, so we tried to get some of the younger students to safety.”
His fingers tightened in Ginny’s. She stayed quiet.
“We held them off for a bit. We couldn’t hold much longer. Then Ron appeared out of nowhere and stunned the Death Eater from behind. There was an explosion. I ran off to help Ginny.”
No one spoke.
“Then Voldemort was there. Just—there. I didn’t even hear him coming. He said something about testing his new wand. He pointed it at me and cast the Killing Curse.”
Harry stopped.
McGonagall covered her mouth. Tonks whispered, “Merlin.”
Lupin paled. Kingsley sat back in his chair, stunned.
Someone asked,
“Did he miss? Or—?”
“He didn’t miss,” Harry said flatly. “And the spell didn’t fail.”
That silenced them.
He took a breath.
“I don’t know what happened after the curse hit. I’m not crazy,” He added quickly. “I think… I don’t know what I think. I died, and Dumbledore was there. I swear I’m not crazy. It happened. He said things… Things about me. About Voldemort. That—that there was… A piece—of Voldemort—inside me. And it’s gone now. I don’t understand.”
They stared at him as if he were mad. But none of them interrupted.
Harry rubbed his face. He felt a hundred years old.
“I don’t know what it means,” he murmured. “But Dumbledore said… said I was able to survive because of... Something about the wand.”
Just then, Harry caught something. An exchange of looks.
His eyes flicked to Moody. Then Snape.
“You know something,” he said.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Moody’s mouth twisted. Snape didn’t blink.
“If there was a plot, Potter, it isn’t mine to explain. Ask Snape. Or Weasley—when he wakes up.”
Everyone turned to Snape. He was utterly expressionless, like he often was, and Harry didn’t know what to expect. He wanted answers, and apparently, only two people could give them.
Finally, Snape spoke.
“The less said about the plan, the better.”
Sirius wasn’t having it.
“Harry died today! He deserves answers—”
“And he will get them, as soon as Weasley wakes.”
Harry looked between the two wizards as they continued to snap back at each other; Sirius making accusations, and Snape deflecting, insisting that Ron would explain. Harry thought it unfair to make Ron pull all the weight when he had already shouldered so much today.
Then, Harry frowned, thoughtful.
“Ron did something weird.”
Sirius stopped arguing. All eyes fell on Harry again. He squirmed.
“When Ron reached us, he… He was acting weird. He asked me to disarm him.”
Again, Snape and Moody exchanged a look. Harry was tired of it.
“Why does it have to be Ron who explains? Why not you?” He glared at Snape. “Doesn’t Ron deserve a break?”
That landed hard. Snape’s blank face changed for a moment, and he nodded sharply.
“Dumbledore and Weasley devised a plan to allow your survival in the case of the Dark Lord casting the Killing Curse on you. It was a gamble, and it worked. You need not know more—”
“A gamble?” Sirius snarled. “Ron risked Harry on a gamble? Harry could’ve died because Ron took a gamble? He played with Harry’s life! Like it’s a fucking game? And we only hear it after the fact? We deserved to know before! ”
There was absolute silence.
Then Snape spoke. His voice was a crack of ice in the hush.
“You foolish, ungrateful fool.”
Harry’s head jerked up.
Snape had straightened from the wall. His robes shifted like storm clouds as he moved toward Sirius, his face a mask of fury.
“You deserved to know?” Snape snarled. “How dare you. You deserve nothing more than what Weasley has given, again and again, without complaint, without fanfare, without even once asking for anyone’s thanks.”
Sirius opened his mouth, but Snape was already advancing.
“Do you think this is the first time he’s flung himself between Potter and death? You think this is new?” His voice was razor sharp, his eyes glittering. “Potter is alive because of him. First—Quirrell nearly killed him. Then—he nearly died shielding him from Lockhart. Last year—he stayed in the graveyard so Potter could escape. Last year again—the Department of Mysteries. And now—now—he saves Potter twice. Once with that damn scheme. Again by dragging his unconscious body out of Hogsmeade, Splinching himself in the process.”
Harry felt as though something cold had pierced his ribs. He couldn’t breathe.
Snape wasn’t finished.
“He has sacrificed everything for Potter. His safety. His peace. His childhood. He’s carried secrets heavier than any boy should bear. And now you dare to stand here and call it betrayal?”
No one spoke. Ginny’s hands trembled. Sirius stared at the floor, jaw tight. Kingsley’s brow furrowed with something like remorse.
Snape took a step closer, voice low and full of rage.
“Ron Weasley has saved your godson’s life more times than we can count. Potter had a childhood because of Ron. He will reach adulthood because of Ron. And he never has and never will hold it over Potter. Because he acts in secret, from the shadows, never once has he asked for recognition. Never once has he let you see the weight of it. That isn’t friendship. That is devotion.”
His voice cracked. He turned his gaze on Harry, who paled at the pain and fury in them.
“And if you cannot see that, Potter—if you cannot even begin to understand what he’s given you—then perhaps there’s less left of you worth saving than we thought.”
He turned sharply, cloak flaring behind him, and strode to the doors.
Just before he left, he hissed over his shoulder:
“And for Merlin’s sake, pull yourself together. He’s still alive. You still have a chance to deserve him.”
The doors slammed.
And still, no one moved.
Ron lay silent and still in the next bed, his face too pale, his chest rising and falling softly beneath the blankets.
Harry stared at him. His best mate.
And for the first time, Harry saw him for who he truly was.
His protector.
Minerva McGonagall had barely slept.
The windows of her office glowed with a ghostly silver dawn, but she had been seated behind her desk for hours, a half-empty mug of lukewarm tea untouched beside her. Her parchment stack was as tall as her shame. The inkwell was nearly dry. She dipped her quill and forced herself to continue.
“...Mr. Draco Malfoy was tragically killed during the attack on Hogsmeade. Efforts to retrieve the body were unsuccessful. The family has been notified.”
She paused, staring at the words.
A lie.
A necessary one.
She glanced over at her formal statement. Draco was not dead. But he might as well be, for the life he would have now. Wherever Moody had sent him, it was far beyond Ministry eyes. And perhaps that was the only reason the boy still lived.
Minerva closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. He was a student, she thought. He was a child. And so was Ronald Weasley, who still hovered between life and death.
But at least he was still alive.
She set the quill down and rubbed her aching fingers. The report to the Board of Governors was complete, at last. Dry, procedural, and carefully vague on details.
“An unexpected attack by Death Eaters during a Hogsmeade weekend resulted in injuries to several students and staff. The school responded immediately with all available resources. The attackers were repelled with assistance from the Ministry and external allies. Security protocols are currently under revision.”
That was the official version.
The real version was that the Order had run a covert operation, and it had gone sideways. Voldemort had come himself. And only through sheer sacrifice and bloody luck had the death toll not been catastrophic.
McGonagall stood and paced to the window. Outside, the sun was rising over the blackened horizon. The northern edges of Hogsmeade still smoked faintly, a reminder of what had been lost—and nearly lost.
She had already met with the first wave of frantic parents the night before, their faces pale and terrified, some tearful, some furious. One mother had collapsed at the sight of her daughter’s burns. A father had grabbed McGonagall’s robes and demanded answers she couldn’t give.
Today would be worse.
More families would arrive. Some would insist on withdrawing their children. Others would howl about safety and demand that the Ministry step in. The school’s autonomy was under threat.
Let them threaten me, she thought. Let them tear the portraits off these walls. But they will not take this school.
A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts. It was Pomona, dirt-streaked and haggard, holding a clipboard.
“They’re finalising the list of students who’ll need long-term care,” She said quietly. “St. Mungo’s is sending another team. They’ll be here by noon.”
McGonagall nodded.
“Thank you. See to it that no student is left without support, whether physically injured or not.”
Pomona hesitated.
“And Mr. Weasley?”
A silence passed.
“Still critical,” McGonagall said. “But stable. Poppy remains hopeful.”
Pomona nodded and quietly left. McGonagall remained still for a moment, allowing the weight in her chest to settle. Then she turned back to her desk, unfurled a clean scroll, and began to write the press statement for the Prophet.
“In response to the attack on Hogsmeade, Hogwarts confirms that several students and staff members sustained injuries. All are receiving the best medical care available. No attackers entered the castle grounds. The safety of our students remains our highest priority, and new security measures are being implemented in collaboration with the Ministry. Until further notice, all Hogsmeade weekends are suspended.”
She signed it with her full title, wiped her eyes before the ink could smudge, and handed the scroll off to her enchanted owl.
Only after it flew out the open window did she sit back down.
The burden of leadership was an old companion, but today, it felt particularly cruel.
She closed her eyes and whispered, not to anyone in particular:
“Let the truth stay buried if it means they’ll be safe.”
And for the first time in decades, Minerva McGonagall permitted herself to cry.
Hours later, Ron woke up. Screaming Harry’s name.
He didn’t hear anyone when they tried to calm him down, to prevent him from reopening his wounds.
It was the sort of despair that Sirius had never seen in his life.
Like his whole world just collapsed.
The noise he made, that terrible, horrible keening sound, like his heart had been carved out of his chest…
It was the worst sound Sirius had ever heard in his miserable life.
And he felt ashamed.
Chapter 96: BOOK SIX - TURN OVER A NEW LEAF
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
TURN OVER A NEW LEAF
My first day out of the hospital wing felt stranger than I’d expected.
It was Tuesday morning, and the castle had never felt more familiar and more alien at once. Madam Pomfrey had finally cleared me, grudgingly, and only after I swore not to overdo it. I’d promised, and meant it. But even just walking the corridors again felt like it took more energy than it should have. I passed a few students on my way to breakfast, and every single one of them looked... off. Shaken. Exhausted. Like they hadn’t slept since the battle.
Come to think of it, they probably hadn’t.
I hadn’t been there for McGonagall’s announcements—about Hogsmeade, about the students who’d been hurt, about the ones who’d left. About Draco.
I missed all of it.
Some of the damage was obvious even without a speech. Everyone moved differently now—more careful, more watchful. Clusters of students walked tightly together in the corridors. A third-year I didn’t recognise flinched when a door slammed shut near the Entrance Hall.
And yet, day-to-day life had resumed. Classes were held. Homework was assigned. People still dragged themselves to lessons with tired eyes. But there was a weight to it all, a heaviness I couldn’t ignore. The air itself felt like it carried bad memories.
The first years were the worst. They didn’t even know what had happened, not really. Just enough to be terrified. At one point after Transfiguration, I found two first years crying in a corner. Their big sister had been injured during the attack and sent to St Mungo’s. She was back, like all the others, but the poor little ones were still deeply shaken.
I saw a lot of that over the next few days. Younger years following prefects around like ducklings. Sixth- and seventh-years with tight smiles, trying to look composed even when they clearly weren’t. People jumped at shadows. Teachers handed out calming draughts like sweets. Even Flitwick had bags under his eyes, and Sprout forgot the name of her own plant during Herbology, according to Harry and Hermione.
The weight of Dumbledore’s death was still everywhere. And now this. It was like trying to build something steady on top of quicksand.
And yet—despite everything—I felt good.
Not about the attack. Not about the trauma or the students who’d been hurt or the fact that twenty kids had been pulled from the school entirely. Not about the silence that fell over every hallway where people used to laugh.
But I felt lighter.
Lighter in a way I hadn’t felt since I was eleven. Since I realised who Harry Potter was. Since I knew where the story was heading.
Harry was free. The prophecy was broken. The Horcrux inside him was gone. He could live.
I didn’t have to spend every waking moment calculating risk, preparing for the worst, building plans on top of contingency plans in my head. I didn’t have to lie awake at night wondering if I’d missed something vital that would get him killed.
It was done.
I smiled more than I probably should have. And every time I did, guilt twisted in my stomach. These people were hurting, grieving, unravelling. And I—traitorous, lucky bastard that I was—felt like I could finally breathe.
So I tried to hide it. Smiled only when someone smiled first. Kept my head down. Focused on the ones who needed help. Didn’t let them see that the knot I’d carried for years was finally loosening.
Even if it was. Even if, beneath the exhaustion and the bruises and the guilt, I was... happy.
Really, quietly, terrifyingly happy.
The tower smelled like old incense and lavender oil, thicker than usual, like Trelawney had tried to scrub the memory of the attack out of the walls with scent alone. It didn’t work. Everything still felt… quieter. The cushions were all there, the lace-covered tables, the faint haze of scented smoke curling in the air—but something had shifted.
We all knew it.
Trelawney floated into the room like a drifting spectre, arms draped in shawls, eyes magnified and grave behind her lenses.
“My dears,” she said softly, with a tremble in her voice that might’ve been feigned or might’ve been real—hard to tell with her, “the stars weep when the earth trembles. A shadow has passed through us, and the veil thinned. But it is in these moments that sight may be clearest. The future reaches out to us when the present dares us to look away.”
No one spoke.
“We begin bibliomancy,” she continued, hands sweeping toward the centre table. “Select a book for each inquiry. Let fate choose your page. The first question: What awaits me in my immediate future?”
A pile of books sat on the table, strange old volumes with cracked spines and gold-embossed titles. None of them matched. Some looked like novels, others like history books, even one that seemed to be a cookbook. Classic Trelawney.
The girls moved first.
Padma stepped forward, choosing a thin, red-bound book. She closed her eyes and asked, “What awaits me in my immediate future?” Then she flipped to a page and read aloud:
“...and so she turned the key, not knowing what lay beyond the locked door.”
She blinked, thoughtful. Parvati hummed dramatically.
“Creepy,” she said. “Maybe you’re about to discover a secret.”
Padma gave a small shrug, but she looked intrigued.
Lisa went next. Her book looked like a heavy war memoir. She asked her question, flipped to a page, and read:
“The silence before dawn was the hardest.”
Lisa frowned.
“I mean… that’s just depressing.”
Parvati snorted.
“That’s how I feel before Herbology.”
Then Parvati herself selected a worn, purple hardback. Her eyes fluttered shut as she asked the question, then flipped to a page with flair.
“He smiled, though the blade still dripped in his hand.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Lisa muttered,
“Bit intense.”
Parvati gave a mock-scandalised look and said,
“Maybe I’m about to get revenge on my Herbology professor.”
That drew a laugh.
Lavender was next. She chose a pale blue book with a ribbon bookmark. Her voice was soft when she asked the question.
“...and when she looked up, the stars were gone.”
Lavender went still for a second. She closed the book, not saying anything else, but she looked shaken. I caught her glance in my direction before she quickly turned away.
Then it was my turn.
I stood up, walked over, and grabbed the first book my hand landed on. A battered green thing that looked like it had been through a bog and back. I placed my palm on the cover, trying to put all my mind into the question.
“All right,” I muttered. “What awaits me in my immediate future?”
I flipped the book open and looked down. The sentence stared back at me:
“...and the snake turned its head, watching him, silent and coiled.”
I snorted.
“Of course.”
The girls leaned in.
“What did it say?”
I sighed, holding up the page.
“Something about a snake watching me.”
Parvati grinned.
“Maybe it’s a Slytherin secret admirer.”
It wasn’t. Or I hoped so anyway. No, the first thing that came to my mind was, of course, Nagini. The next step before Voldemort could be killed for good.
Honestly, after everything, Nagini didn’t sound half as difficult to handle as she might’ve once. Not when Harry had been dealt with so much sooner than I had anticipated in my wildest dreams.
Still. I couldn’t help but glance at the book again, just once, before Trelawney asked us to select another.
The room was dark except for the glow of the fire. The air had that familiar weight to it, like a storm was thinking of forming just above my head. Snape stood a few paces away, arms crossed, and eyes like knives waiting to be thrown.
“We begin step six tonight,” he said, quiet but firm. “Active Occlusion.”
I didn’t respond. I just nodded.
“This step,” he continued, “is what separates an Occlumens from a weapon. Passive resistance is not enough. If someone is determined to dig — and powerful enough — you must offer them something to find. A lie. A distraction. A convincing replacement.”
He moved to his desk, plucked a chalk stick from the drawer, and scribbled two words on the blackboard behind him: False Memory.
“A skill for liars,” he said, turning back toward me. “And spies.”
My throat felt dry. But I managed,
“All right.”
“Close your eyes,” he said. “Picture a simple moment. One with emotion attached, but harmless. A walk. A meal. A gift. Something benign, but real enough to feel.”
I did.
I picked a moment from last summer — sitting on the porch at the Burrow with Ginny, drinking pumpkin juice while she read a Quidditch article aloud and mocked every player listed wrong. It was boring, bright, and real.
“Now change one detail,” Snape instructed. “Instead of your sister, make it Potter. Instead of a Quidditch article, make it about Potions. Change enough to make it false. But not so much that it collapses.”
I altered it carefully.
First, I took Ginny out of the memory. I imagined her getting up from the bench with a lazy stretch, saying something about needing to meet Luna, and walking off across the grass. The sky stayed the same — soft clouds, that drowsy warmth of late summer. But now, it was Harry who dropped down beside me with two bottles of pumpkin juice and a crooked grin.
It felt strange, swapping them like that. Like I was lying in a diary I’d already written. I adjusted Harry’s posture — he slouched more than Ginny did, leaned on one arm and kicked at the loose pebbles underfoot. He spoke quieter, too. Teasing, rather than curious and half-bored like Ginny would be. Flicking his fingers at the label of the bottle.
The article in Ginny’s hands vanished. I placed a worn, folded Potions worksheet in Harry’s lap instead. Something Snape would have handed out with too many footnotes and viciously difficult questions. I imagined Harry reading one aloud —some complicated counteragent theory— then grumbling about how much Snape hated him.
I let myself snort at that, in the memory. Let my past self toss back something dry like, You should’ve seen his face when I aced last week’s brew. Harry rolled his eyes, and we both stretched our legs out toward the sunlight, not really studying, just killing time.
The scene solidified, with enough emotional detail to anchor it, enough plausibility to hold. It wasn’t real, but it felt like it could have been. That was the point.
I let the warmth of the sun settle in. Let the taste of pumpkin juice coat my tongue.
Then I nodded.
Ready.
“Good,” Snape said. “Now open your eyes. When I cast the spell, you will offer that memory freely. Do not fight me. Let it surface. Direct me to it.”
He raised his wand.
“Legilimens.”
The now-familiar pressure hit my mind, but I didn’t brace against it like before. I reached for the memory like bait, lifted it in my mind like a lantern, and let it glow.
Snape was inside only seconds before pulling back.
He blinked once.
“Convincing,” he said. “Not exceptional, but convincing.”
I didn’t realise I was holding my breath until it left me in one go.
“I suspected you had a grasp of this,” he went on, circling me like a hawk. “Your ability to redirect thought under pressure. When you were forced to confront personal memories last term. You have already been doing this instinctively.”
“Didn’t realise I was,” I admitted.
“That,” he said, “is why you’re here now.”
He paused. Then, his tone sharpened.
“Now show me fear.”
My heart kicked.
“What?”
“A new construct,” he said, voice lower. “Something a Legilimens might come searching for. A nightmare. A guilt. I want you to build it. Layer it. And then make me believe it.”
“...Right now?”
“Right now.”
I stared down at my hands.
I thought about what to use. At first, I considered this weekend’s attack. But it was too fresh, and too obvious. So I made something else. Something I had dreamt about, coming from an half-buried memory from Before.
A twisted version of fourth year. Everyone in the Quidditch stands talking worriedly, while all eyes were on the maze’s entry. Waiting for Harry and Cedric to come back, after they disappeared when they grabbed the Trophy at the same time.
Then I twisted. A flash. Two boys crashing on the ground. The orchestra stopping abruptly to play. People screaming and pointing. Cedric crying. Harry inert. The teachers hurriyng to the boys. Then, a murmur travelling in the crowd. Soon screaming again. “Harry’s dead!” I put all of my fear into it. All I experienced this weekend, the feeling of failure, and grief. I put it all in.
It wasn’t real. But it felt close enough.
I shaped it, like sculping in fog. And when I thought it was steady, I nodded.
Snape’s wand rose again.
“Legilimens.”
He entered—and lingered this time.
I could feel him circling the scene like a predator sniffing a decoy. I kept the memory strong. Let the screams echo.
Then he yanked out.
He was quiet for a long time.
“Acceptable,” he said. “Almost elegant.”
Elegant?
But I didn’t argue.
“You’ll need to do better,” he continued, “for when you’re standing across from someone who wants to break you. Someone who will push harder. Stay longer. Tear deeper.”
I nodded. He continued:
“Next time,” he said, already turning toward the board, “you will construct an entire sequence. Not just a moment. You will learn to lie in time. Not just space.”
I stared down at the burn mark on my sleeve. My knuckles were white around the edge of my chair.
“Understood,” I said.
And I meant it.
Because one day, someone would come for what I knew.
And they weren’t going to get it.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of smoke and fire, flickering candlelight and brittle, reconstructed emotion. Snape made me build and bend other memories. Not real ones, this time, but approximations. He asked for happiness next. Then irritation. Then calm. Then grief. I shaped each as best I could, like painting with fog and pretending it was solid.
The worst part wasn’t the magic. It was the exhaustion. The raw mental effort it took to create something convincing, hold it steady under scrutiny, and then let it dissolve without leaving a scar. I’d never felt more wrung out by the end of a lesson, even after a duel. My head ached. My chest did, too, though I didn’t know why.
Snape ended the session with a wave of his wand, vanishing the last fragment I’d created—a conjured evening by the fire, safe and untouched.
He turned to his desk, sorting through a few loose papers. His expression didn’t change, but his tone did, slightly less clipped, slightly more deliberate.
“I saw your name on the list,” he said. “For the new Defence elective.”
I straightened, blinking through the sweat still cooling on my neck.
“Yes,” I said. “Seemed worth it.”
Snape looked up, fixing me with a sharp glance.
“You didn’t put your name down for novelty. Or to impress anyone.”
“No,” I said, confused now. “Of course not.”
He nodded once.
“Good. Then this won’t be misplaced.”
He set the parchment aside and stepped closer to my desk.
“I want you to assist me,” he said.
I blinked.
“You—sorry, what?”
“In the elective,” he said flatly. “You’ll serve as a field assistant. Demonstration partner. Peer instructor. Supervision, if necessary.”
My mouth was slightly open. I shut it, then opened it again.
“You want—me?”
A single arched eyebrow.
“No, Weasley, I meant the other red-haired Slytherin prefect with an advanced grasp of shielding spells and firsthand experience with live evacuation tactics.”
I flushed.
“Right. Sorry. I just—wasn’t expecting it.”
Snape regarded me for a moment. Not impatient. Not even annoyed, really. Just waiting.
I swallowed down the spike of nervous heat in my throat.
“I’d be honoured,” I said honestly. “I mean—yes. I’ll do it.”
A nod.
“Good. You begin next week. Try not to let your humility compromise your performance.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, even though my hands were already clammy with stage fright.
He turned away again, already reaching for a book off the shelf. Dismissed, but not disregarded.
And I sat there, stunned and proud and vaguely terrified, which, I supposed, meant things were going well.
The Great Hall shimmered with morning light filtered through enchanted windows, its usual tables vanished once more to make room for the Apparition hoops. A week had passed since the attack. Exactly a week.
My stomach twisted a little at the thought. Not from fear. Just the weight of it. The memory of screaming. The splinching. The blood. But also the knowledge that I’d done it. I’d saved them.
Today was another general Apparition lesson, all sixth years gathered once more under the watchful eye of our Ministry instructor, Wilkie Twycross, who stood near the dais with her usual chalkboard notes and fierce little spectacles.
I took my place in front of the hoop assigned to me. The same place as usual. My friends flanked me — Hermione a few paces to the left, Harry to the right. Both were glancing at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. Their hoops were in front of them, but their eyes kept flicking sideways.
I didn’t even look at them. Just raised a hand and made a sharp little “knock it off” motion with my fingers.
Hermione huffed quietly but turned forward. Harry gave me one last, lingering glance before following suit.
Good.
I stared at the hoop in front of me. Clean white chalk. A foot and a half in diameter. Nothing magical about it except what we put into it.
The last time I Apparated, I’d done it in a panic. Under fire. Holding Ginny and Harry both. Splinched myself open, bled all over the ground—but they’d been whole. Alive. I’d done it. Somehow.
That counted.
That mattered.
I remembered the pain, yes—but more than that, I remembered the spell working.
So before the nerves could get a proper hold on me, before the part of me that remembered screaming could start dragging me under—
—I closed my eyes.
Felt the magic build beneath my skin.
Focused on the pull in my gut, the hoop ahead of me, the certainty that I could do this.
And I turned on the spot.
There was the familiar compression, the strange sensation of being squeezed through a keyhole—
And then I was standing inside the hoop. Neatly. Whole.
I let out a long, relieved sigh.
There were claps and scattered cheers around the room as others began landing. The instructor called out encouragement.
Harry landed a few seconds later and turned to look at me. I gave him a quick thumbs-up.
Hermione appeared with a pop and immediately turned to me, concern and pride mingled on her face.
I smiled back.
I could do this.
I had done it.
Our first Animagus session took place in one of the smaller classrooms near the North Tower—the kind usually reserved for quiet revision or detentions without supervision. Someone had dragged in a mismatched collection of beanbags and squashy chairs. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and chamomile. Professor March stood in front of the blackboard, beaming like this was Christmas morning.
“Welcome, my Menagerie!” she sang, arms flung wide. “Five brave souls embarking on one of the most difficult—yet rewarding—magical paths.”
Hermione sat forward immediately, quill and parchment already ready. Theo looked vaguely amused, like he didn’t quite believe we’d be transfiguring into animals by the end of the year. Padma and Anthony had the same curious glint in their eyes: eager, but wary.
I sat cross-legged with my arms folded, trying to suppress the rush of excitement behind my ribs. This was real. We were actually doing this.
“Before anything else,” March said, pacing dramatically, “I’m required to inform you about Ministry regulations. The Animagus Registry is managed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Animagi must be recorded, identified, and approved. Any unregistered transformation is punishable by severe fines and imprisonment. Boring, I know. But essential.”
Hermione nodded gravely. Theo muttered something under his breath about bureaucratic nightmares.
March waved her hand.
“Fortunately, you lot don’t have to worry about any of that just yet. I’ll be handling the paperwork, the oversight, and—if you succeed—the official certification at the end.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow.
“That easy?”
She grinned.
“Oh, the forms are murder. But that’s my headache, not yours.”
We chuckled a bit at that, but March’s expression shifted slightly. More serious.
“Now,” she said, “there are risks. Not just the physical kind—though those exist—but mental ones too. If the ritual fails partway through, there is a small chance you could be left with… traits.” She pointed to her left ear, which twitched unnaturally, then immediately changed shape from a perfectly normal human ear to a fluffy hare’s and back again. “Unpleasant if you’re not fond of fur.”
Hermione looked mildly horrified. Theo just looked intrigued.
“But more importantly,” she continued, “if you begin to lose hold of your identity while experimenting with your animal side, it can… erode you. You must always maintain your sense of self. That’s why we’ll go slowly, methodically, and no one will ever be pressured to continue if they don’t feel safe. You can stop at any point. No shame.”
There was a long silence. We nodded, one after the other.
“Right!” she said, clapping her hands together. “The first step is simple. Well, it’s simple to describe. Less simple to live through.”
She pulled a small velvet pouch from her robe and opened it with a flourish. Inside were several curled mandrake leaves.
“You will place one of these in your mouth,” she said, “and you must keep it there for a full month. That means sleeping with it. Talking with it. Eating with it. No swallowing it, biting it, hexing it, or storing it in your sock for convenience. It must remain in constant contact with your mouth.”
I stared. Hermione looked like she was running mental logistics. Padma had already pressed her lips together in thought. Anthony just looked faintly green.
March started handing them out.
“It’s not pleasant, no. It tastes like earwax and despair. But it’s vital. The leaf is the ritual anchor. You begin forming a sympathetic magical bond with it, and with your future self. It’s the seed of the transformation.”
“Why the mouth?” Theo asked as he examined his leaf.
“Because magic is symbolic, and symbols matter,” March said. “Mouths represent breath, speech, identity. And besides,” she added with a wink, “it weeds out the half-hearted students faster than anything.”
She handed me my leaf last. It was dry and fragile, like it might crumble from a single cough.
“I failed five times,” she said, cheerfully. “Once, I sneezed and it flew out the window. Another time I swallowed it while sleep-talking in Ancient Runes. And there was one memorable occasion where I forgot I was doing the ritual at all and brushed my teeth. Had to start over.”
Anthony snorted. “You forgot you were becoming an Animagus?”
“Listen, I was twenty and had six jobs. You’d forget your own name.”
I put the leaf in my mouth. It immediately began leeching every ounce of saliva from my tongue. Hermione, Padma, and Theo did the same. Anthony was still laughing and nearly dropped his as he slipped it in.
“Now try saying your name,” March said, grinning.
“Mwon Wwweaswey,” I garbled.
Padma tried next.
“Phhadwa Ppatill.”
We all devolved into muffled chortles. I nearly spat the leaf out. Anthony did spit his. Hermione gave him a death glare.
March cackled.
“You’ll get used to it. Give it a week and you’ll be reciting sonnets with that leaf stuck to your molars.”
We calmed down after a few moments, the room echoing with damp, awkward laughter and occasional snorts. Even Theo cracked a real smile.
“All right,” March said. “You’re officially Animagus trainees now. Congratulations. It only gets weirder from here.”
We stood, leaves in place, still drooling slightly and looking like a group of toddlers who’d just discovered how to chew shoes. But beneath it all, I felt something shift. Like a beginning. A real one.
We were doing this.
For real.
And Merlin help me, I couldn’t wait.
Hermione and I spent the rest of the afternoon in a quiet corridor near the Library, practising how to speak with a stupid leaf glued to the inside of our cheeks. It wasn’t easy. I took to covering my mouth with my hand every time I spoke, trying to trap the leaf in place by sheer willpower and chin pressure alone. Hermione muttered incantations and memorised notes like she was chewing on an entire dictionary, but even she slipped up once and had to catch the leaf against her teeth.
“Hand,” I mumbled, lips barely moving. “Ish wooks muggle, but ish working.”
“It does not look Muggle,” she snapped back. “It looks unhinged.”
Still, we were making progress. And we might’ve kept the rhythm if Harry hadn’t decided to be a little shit.
He found us halfway through our practice and immediately took it upon himself to test the limits of our self-control.
“Say ‘Shunpike’ with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth,” he challenged, grinning. “No, better—say ‘snack-snatching sneaky snake.’”
Hermione rolled her eyes. I gave him the most dignified middle finger I could manage without dislodging my leaf.
Of course, his attempts only made us learn faster. After ten minutes of him impersonating Professor Trelawney predicting I’d choke to death on “a prophetic leaf,” Hermione stopped reacting entirely, and I figured out how to stick the leaf to the side of my mouth and mutter like I’d had a dentist botch a hex.
Dinner, however, was a nightmare.
Trying to chew roast potatoes and speak around the leaf was like balancing a teacup on a broom mid-flight. I nearly bit down on it twice, and one time I was sure it slipped onto my molars. I had to spend a full minute casually chewing with my mouth open like a Neanderthal to keep it safe.
And then, just as I was figuring out the rhythm, Theo swore.
“Shit.”
We all turned.
Harry, Zabini, and I watched as Theo stared down at his plate, frowning deeply like it had personally betrayed him.
“I swallowed it,” he said flatly.
There was a moment of silence. Then Harry burst out laughing.
“You swallowed it? Already? It’s been—what—five hours?”
Blaise shook his head, grinning.
“A new record. You’ll be a cautionary tale by breakfast.”
Theo looked so miserable, I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to join them. His pout was so dramatic it could’ve been framed. I snorted anyway, and slammed both hands over my mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” Theo warned, eyes narrowing.
Zabini and Harry, delighted by the whole ordeal, turned their focus to me.
“Oh, no,” Harry said with mock gravity. “Ron’s snorting. He’s going to spit it. It’s over.”
“I’ll get the pumpkin juice ready,” Zabini said helpfully, raising the jug.
“Spit-take in three… two…”
I shook my head violently, lips pressed tight, hands covering everything like a defensive wall.
They tried everything after dinner. In the common room, Theo joined forces with the other two like some unholy alliance of petty vengeance. They told me stupid jokes, brought up Lavender’s obvious fluttering eyelashes from Divination, recited exaggerated love poems about Professor March’s mandrake-scented breath. At one point, Harry transfigured a parchment into a tiny dancing snake wearing glasses and named it “Ron’s Animagus Twin.”
I didn't give in.
I leaned back in the armchair, arms crossed, leaf secure, wearing my most smug and infuriatingly silent smile.
“Give it a week,” Theo muttered bitterly. “You’ll break.”
“Maybe,” I said carefully through my teeth. “But not tonight.”
And I didn’t.
Which made it, by my count, one day down. Ten until the real leaf ritual began.
But whatever sense of victory I felt didn’t last.
Because I had patrol duty with Pansy.
And all laughing left me for the rest of the evening.
She was silent when we met at the corridor junction. No barbs. No complaints. Just a pale face, her jaw clenched so tightly I could see the tension in her neck. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Not properly. Not without nightmares.
Crabbe and Goyle were just as broken-looking these days. But it hit different, seeing her like this. Distant, brittle, hollow-eyed.
We walked the halls in silence. Nothing to report. No one out after curfew. Not even the usual giggles from younger students trying to sneak snacks from the kitchens. No one wanted to risk it, not after last week. They were still huddling in their common rooms, too nervous to test the edges of their safety.
It made for an easy patrol.
And a heavy one.
I kept sneaking glances at her when I thought she wouldn’t notice. Her face was carved from stone. Her fists kept clenching at her sides.
I didn’t know if I should say something.
We weren’t close. Quite the opposite. Years of snide remarks and glares weren’t forgotten overnight. But I couldn’t just… ignore her. Not when she was like this. Not when I knew the truth. That Draco was still alive—hidden, protected, far away from this castle and everyone who cared about him.
She didn’t know that.
She thought he was dead.
And it was killing her slowly.
We reached the last corridor before our meeting point with the other prefects. Still no sign of rule-breakers. Still the same, echoing silence.
I stopped walking.
“So…” I said, voice low, careful, “I know we’re not—”
“Don’t,” she cut in sharply, not even looking at me. “Don’t start.”
“I just—”
“Mind your own business, Weasley.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and for a second, I saw tears trembling in her lashes. I didn’t rise to the bait. Just reached into my pocket and held out a clean handkerchief. One of Mum’s, embroidered with a little ‘RW’ in the corner.
She slapped my hand away without hesitation. Hard.
But the tears came anyway.
She turned her head, trying to hide it, trying to keep it under control. I could hear her breathing—shallow and ragged, like someone choking back a scream.
“You don’t have to prove anything right now,” I said, gently. “You’re allowed to hurt.”
She didn’t answer.
She just walked on, stiff-backed and fast, like she could outrun the grief if she moved quickly enough.
I followed.
I didn’t say anything else.
But the further we went, the worse the silence got. Until finally she stopped short, spun around, and screamed at me.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Her voice echoed down the corridor.
“You don’t care! Don’t pretend you care! If you actually cared, you would’ve saved him, not just Brown and the bloody Patils—YOU WOULD HAVE SAVED DRACO!”
She tried to hit me.
Open-handed, ungraceful, just a raw burst of rage.
I caught her wrist.
Not hard. Just enough to stop it.
She struggled once, twice, then went still.
I didn’t say anything. Just held out the handkerchief again.
This time, she snatched it.
Turned away.
Used it on her face, wiping tears and snot and smeared mascara without shame.
Then she turned back and threw the balled-up handkerchief at my chest.
It bounced off my robes and hit the ground.
I crouched, picked it up, and cleaned it with a quick Scourgify. Then I tucked it back in my pocket, like nothing had happened.
She didn’t speak another word for the rest of the patrol.
And neither did I.
We reached the other pair of prefects on time, said our quick hellos, and I left without looking back.
My throat ached from holding in all the things I hadn’t said. All the truths I couldn’t share.
But at least now she’d cried.
Maybe that would help. Maybe not.
But I’d rather be slapped and screamed at than let her feel completely alone in it.
Even if she still hated me.
Especially if she still hated me.
Chapter 97: BOOK SIX - MARCH MENAGERIE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
MARCH MENAGERIE
My leaf had survived brushing my teeth twice, eating three bloody meals, and at least forty-seven of Harry’s worst attempts at making me spit it out—loud burps, chicken impressions, and dramatic reenactments of the twins’ worst inventions. I was still holding strong.
So when I climbed the stairs to Divination, I was feeling oddly accomplished. I could barely talk properly, I drooled in my sleep, and every bite of toast tasted vaguely like plant, but I was winning.
Today’s lesson was more bibliomancy. Honestly? I didn’t mind it. It was kind of relaxing. We were going deeper into it this time—not just reading quotes and making snap judgments, but working as a group to interpret each quote someone got in response to a personal question.
Harder, yeah, especially when the answers were weird or the wording was too vague. Some books clearly weren’t meant for this kind of divination. I thought the technique worked better for easy stuff like “Will I pass Potions?” or “Should I punch my brother today?” than for anything remotely existential. But it was still better than last month’s myomancy lesson, which involved staring at mouse droppings. I didn’t complain. I just sat back and focused.
Padma was next.
She took a delicate-looking black and red-bound book from the pile in the centre and cradled it in both hands.
“I’m asking about my future husband,” she said, sounding half amused, half serious.
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened the book at random.
And immediately spat her leaf across the room.
Like, actually projectile launched it.
Drool went flying with it. She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, eyes locked on the page like it had personally slapped her.
All the girls gasped and rushed to her. Handkerchiefs came out of sleeves like it was some kind of coordinated charm. Parvati was fussing. Lavender looked like she was about to cry from second-hand embarrassment.
Naturally, I was curious as hell.
While the herd of concerned Divination maidens crowded around Padma, and Trelawney fluttered over with a soothing voice and an absurdly large hand fan, I edged over to the fallen book, still lying open on the cushion where Padma had dropped it.
I ignored the saliva. (Mostly.)
And I read the line.
It was…
Well.
“He slid his hand beneath her bodice, tracing the edge of her stays with a touch like fire, until her breath came in broken gasps and she whimpered his name—”
I choked.
The laugh broke out of me like a curse. I spat out my own leaf in a massive splutter, coughing and wheezing with helpless amusement.
“Oh my god—”
“Mr Weasley!” Trelawney cried, scandalised, sweeping in like a storm cloud and snatching the book from my hands. “That book is—! It’s mine! I must’ve brought it by accident—it’s—oh heavens above—”
She muttered a cleaning spell as she turned away, and the page snapped shut with a sharp fwip. Her cheeks were nearly as red as mine from laughing.
Padma looked like she wanted to crawl under the tea table and never come out again.
Lavender’s mouth was open in gleeful horror. Parvati covered her face. Even Lisa looked shocked.
And me?
I couldn’t stop laughing.
I wiped my eyes, still chuckling. The leaf was gone—somewhere between the gasp and the quote—but I couldn’t even be mad. My ribs hurt and I was drooling all over my robes, but I didn’t care.
Trelawney cleared her throat three times, face still blotchy.
“That particular volume was never meant to be part of the pile,” she mumbled, tucking the black and red book into her shawl like it might attack someone. “A deeply… personal text. We shall return to safer choices next time.”
Padma made a tiny, strangled noise and buried her face in her arms.
I leaned back on my cushion, grinning.
Day Two: Failed.
But honestly? Worth it.
That night, when Snape dove into my mind searching for the memory of the Hogsmeade attack, I yanked him sideways with the vivid chaos of Divination class—Padma’s scandalised shriek, the smut-filled quote, Trelawney’s blush, and my own wheezing laughter. Snape jerked back, blinking hard, then slowly turned to look at me with a mixture of disbelief and thinly veiled amusement.
“Crude,” he said at last. “But effective.”
Just like for Apparition lessons, the Great Hall had been emptied of tables and benches, replaced with a wide polished expanse of stone floor that gleamed in the late morning light. The space was large enough to house the two dozen or so students who had signed up for the new elective.
We weren’t just Slytherins or Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs today—we were prefects, duelling club veterans, top Defence students, or people who’d fought during the Hogsmeade attack last week. A handful of us stood scattered around the room—sixth and seventh years only, with just a handful of fifth-year prefect. Hermione stood just beside me, sharp-eyed and upright, already holding a notebook. Harry was near the back, arms crossed, brow furrowed like he was expecting this to be a trap. Zabini leaned against the wall with the usual picture of studied indifference. Even Ernie Macmillan was here, face set like he thought this was his chance to prove something.
All the prefects had shown up. McGonagall must’ve insisted. We’d all risen to the occasion during the battle—or at least most of us had tried to.
The door snapped shut behind us, magic humming faintly in the stone.
Snape swept in first, robes flaring. Flitwick followed, levitating a trunk behind him with easy, precise wand movements. The chest settled to the floor with a soft clunk.
Snape didn’t waste time.
“This elective is not academic,” he said, voice low and even. “There will be no essays. No grades. No House points. No time for pride, posturing, or excuses. If you are here, it is because you were deemed capable. If you remain, it will be because you prove it.”
His gaze swept the room like a scalpel. It passed over me, paused, and moved on.
“This class exists,” Snape went on, “because the war is here. You all saw it at Hogsmeade. If you did not, you’ve heard the stories. You will learn how to shield yourselves. How to move others. How to delay an enemy long enough for help to arrive. You are not Aurors—but you may need to act like them. Consider this your only warning.”
Flitwick nodded, stepping forward with a more genial tone.
“You’ll be learning from the three of us—myself, Professor Snape, and Madam Pomfrey, who will conduct two special sessions on battlefield first aid this May. We’ll also have the occasional appearance from another professor, depending on the topic.”
He tapped the board with his wand, and writing appeared in neat lines:
PRACTICAL SHIELDING & EVACUATION SPELLS
Module 1: Shielding Techniques – Snape & Flitwick
Module 2: Evacuation Strategies – Snape & Flitwick
Module 3: Terrain & Field Awareness – Flitwick, March (guest)
Module 4: First Aid in Magical Emergencies – Pomfrey (2 sessions in May)
Module 5: Distraction & Delay – Snape
Module 6: Duelling Under Duress – Snape
I watched Hermione’s eyes scan it rapidly. She was already cataloguing every point. I knew that look. She was probably putting together a study schedule in her head.
Flitwick went on, still friendly but not soft.
“You’ll work in pairs or small groups. You’ll test your spells under duress. You’ll practise defensive magic until it becomes reflex. The point of this class is not perfection. It’s speed. Control. And effectiveness.”
Snape added,
“Misuse of any spell taught here will result in immediate removal from this elective and disciplinary action. That includes practising outside of lessons on fellow students without supervision.”
Everyone went quiet. I could feel the heat of anticipation around me, students sitting straighter, glancing around. This was no longer just a class. It was training.
“There will be wandwork today,” Flitwick said, “but minimal. This is an introduction. We’ll demonstrate a few spell combinations and ask you to observe and discuss. We begin in earnest next Sunday.”
“And,” Snape said, his voice shifting in tone, “since we are discussing structure—Weasley.”
My spine straightened before I even processed. Not out of surprise—I already knew what was coming—but out of instinct. Snape turned toward the group without looking at me again.
“Mr Weasley will serve as my assistant for the duration of this course. He will demonstrate technique, assist in guiding spellwork during practicals, and act as your first point of contact when Professor Flitwick or I are unavailable.”
A few heads turned my way—some curious, some confused, some faintly impressed. I kept my expression even and my hands steady, even though I could feel my pulse thudding somewhere behind my ears. My mouth was dry. That was probably the stage fright. I focused on my breathing and gave a small nod to acknowledge the attention.
“He has my trust,” Snape added, simply. No elaboration. Just that. And for some reason, that quiet statement made my stomach flip more than any eyes on me could.
Hermione whipped her head around toward me so fast I was surprised she didn’t get whiplash. Harry blinked like he was trying to figure out whether he’d heard right.
Then Snape moved on, as if he'd announced nothing more than a timetable adjustment.
“Then let’s begin.”
Flitwick clapped his hands once and summoned two training dummies from the chest. The session rolled forward, but I barely heard a word for the next five minutes.
My ears were ringing.
“He has my trust.”
Damn.
I shook my head and focused back on the present. Students began to form groups, mostly by house and year. Some were alert, some slouching like it was a Sunday morning lie-in. Snape made a sign for me to go from group to group to help. So I did, wand in hand and ready to correct postures and wand-handling.
I weaved my way toward one of the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw groups. Padma, Parvati, and Lavender were grouped together, already muttering through Shield Charm incantations. Lavender kept glancing at me as I approached, which wasn’t exactly unusual for her, but this time it wasn’t dreamy-eyed staring—it was cautious.
“Try the wand flick like this,” I said gently, showing the movement slow and sharp, elbow a bit tighter. “You’re bending too far at the wrist—it messes with the curvature of the shield.”
Padma frowned.
“Like this?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Now again, and say it like you mean it.”
They cast again. Padma’s shield came out stronger, Parvati’s caught the curve right this time, and Lavender’s flickered into the correct dome shape for the first time.
Lavender gave a shaky laugh.
“Merlin, you really did save us from dying in a tea shop.”
I tried to smile without being awkward.
“Yeah, well. You were sitting ducks. Would’ve been rude not to.”
They laughed softly and returned to casting, more focused now.
I left them to it and headed toward a group of seventh-year Hufflepuffs—older than me, and openly sceptical the moment I stopped in front of them. One of them, Ern, gave me a long once-over.
“We’re good,” he said. “Thanks.”
I folded my arms.
“You’re dropping your left side when the spell rebounds. Your shielding’s not stable. That’s why your partner keeps getting hit.”
The boy blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Just do it again,” I said calmly. “Don’t move your left foot this time.”
They tried again. The spell rebounded and this time held. His partner managed to catch it with a smaller shield of her own.
The tallest girl let out a breath.
“Okay, that actually worked.”
They still didn’t look thrilled about taking help from a sixth-year, but they kept me around until their next round improved. That was enough.
Then I saw that group—Pansy, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, and Millicent Bulstrode—standing apart, clearly annoyed, and absolutely not managing the shielding drill. Their timing was a mess. Their reactions were too slow. And the moment I stepped toward them, Daphne rolled her eyes.
“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered. “Snape’s lapdog.”
Pansy crossed her arms.
“What are you going to teach us? How to bleed all over someone while Apparating?”
Tracey looked mildly regretful at that one. Millicent looked bored.
I kept my expression flat.
“You can mock me all you like. But you’re not improving. And when you get hexed during an attack and your shield cracks, that attitude won’t save you.”
Tracey shifted her weight. Millicent looked away.
“I’m here to help. If you don’t want it, fine. But you’re wasting your own time and everyone else’s.”
There was a long silence. Then Tracey asked,
“What are we doing wrong?”
I walked them through it, one step at a time, no sarcasm, no praise. Just method. After two rounds, the shields were still uneven, but they were shields. Even Daphne stopped sighing after a while. Pansy didn’t say another word.
By the end of the session, I felt wrung out like a wet cloth. My back ached, my shoulders were sore, and I was reasonably sure I hadn’t blinked in half an hour. I leaned against one of the columns near the double doors, arms crossed, trying not to look like I was sagging.
“Ron!” Hermione said, approaching with Harry at her side. They both looked flushed from spellwork but grinning. “You were brilliant!”
Harry nodded.
“Some of them even did what you said.”
I gave a tired smile.
“Yeah. After I bled for their approval.”
Hermione swatted my arm.
“It’s just exhausting,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Half of them don't listen until you hex them.”
And of course, just as I said that, Snape and Flitwick passed behind me.
Snape didn’t miss a beat.
“Now imagine how I have to do it without the hexing.”
I barked a laugh despite myself, head tipping back with the sound.
Hermione tried to hide her smile. Harry snorted. Flitwick, ever polite, just patted my arm.
“Excellent work, Mr Weasley,” he said warmly. “You handled it admirably.”
Snape didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t need to.
I’d done well. And I knew it.
The next two weeks passed in a blur of routines so rigid, I started measuring time in subjects.
Thursday evenings meant March’s Menagerie where we all drooled through increasingly absurd attempts to speak with a leaf in our mouths. Saturday mornings were Apparition lessons in the Great Hall, the air thick with nervous energy and occasional splinches. Sundays were for “Defence for the Real World,” which was what everyone had started calling the new elective led by Snape and Flitwick. That one was intense, but useful. As I was Snape’s assistant, there was no skipping or slacking off even if I wanted to. Not that I did.
Add to that my usual Monday evening duelling lessons with Snape—where I regularly left with half my nerves fried—and Occlumency practice on Friday nights, which left the other half equally battered. And of course, Thursday night patrols, because prefects never sleep.
And all of that was on top of regular classes, a tidal wave of assignments, and the general chaos of Hogwarts.
Somehow, I kept on top of it. Barely. I developed a rhythm. I woke, worked, trained, studied, patrolled, and collapsed into bed. It wasn’t sustainable forever, but it got me through the fortnight.
When Easter break finally arrived, I nearly cried with relief. I used the time to finish all my homework (with Hermione’s gentle but firm hovering) and finally sleep more than six hours a night. Hermione even made us revision planners again—same as every year—and I thanked her profusely. The colour-coded sections were beautiful.
Mostly, the break was quiet. Peaceful. Harry and Ginny disappeared for large chunks of it—no surprise there—and I spent more time than usual with Hermione and Luna. We studied, went for walks, played chess, and we roped Hermione into feeding the thestrals. It was comforting. The kind of time I knew I wouldn’t have forever.
Of course, my peace didn’t last completely. Midway through the break, I stumbled across a gobstone black market happening right under my prefect nose. A group of first, second, and third year Slytherins were running the whole operation out of an unused storage room on the third floor, complete with bribes, coded passwords, and limited-edition sets. I had to drag the ringleaders straight to Snape, who did not take it well.
There were Floo calls to parents, detentions handed out like chocolate frogs, and I spent the better part of two afternoons dealing with the fallout. I gave those kids death glares worthy of my brother Percy. They now avoided me like I carried the plague. Good.
Still, once that chaos was done, the rest of the break was exactly what I needed.
On the last day, Hermione, Luna and I went down to Hagrid’s for tea. He had a new litter of nifflers, tiny shiny-obsessed monsters that he wanted to introduce to us. Unfortunately, when we reached Hagrid’s hut, it was not to discover cute baby Nifflers, but the huge and disgusting dead body of Aragog.
We spent the afternoon comforting Hagrid, and we even did a little ceremony for Aragog’s funeral. Then we buried the Acromantula near Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. I wondered if that was a good idea.
I didn’t dare question it out loud.
The Saturday after Easter break, all sixth-years students who were already seventeen got to take the Apparition exam. Usually, it was held in Hogsmeade, but between the recent attack and all the security concerns, McGonagall and the Ministry had made some adjustments. The exam was held on the Hogwarts grounds instead—on the Quidditch pitch, of all places. I was oddly glad for it. Something about standing on home turf made it feel less stressful.
Hermione and I went down together, nerves buzzing just under our skin. The examiners were strict but fair. I passed on my first go, and so did Hermione. We left with our brand-new Apparition licenses, floating somewhere between exhausted and proud.
Harry waited for us by the gate, trying—and mostly failing—not to sulk. He was still underage, and though he didn’t moan too loudly, I could tell he was frustrated. Not enough to hex me or anything. And he didn’t even try to make me spit out my Animagus leaf in retaliation. Not anymore. Not when the ritual was real now. Full moon to full moon. I think even Harry wanted me to succeed at this point. I was close. So close.
And then, finally, after more than a month—counting the first week where we were just getting used to the leaf before the real deal—it was time for the next step.
Thursday night, the March Menagerie met in our usual room just before curfew. I’d swapped patrols with another prefect, since the session would go late. Professor March was waiting for us, looking unusually lively, her short grey hair tucked under a wool cap, her robes splattered with old ink stains and enthusiasm.
“Evening, all!” she said, clapping her hands. “You’ve done splendidly to come this far. Tonight, we begin the next part of the process. It’s not glamorous. It is rather messy. But it is very important.”
We gathered around the long table, where she had set out empty phials, boxes of ingredients, and one lidded box with complicated runes I didn’t recognise.
“First,” she said, “you’ll each spit out your leaf into a phial. Yes, I know, not very dignified—but it’s part of the ritual, and you’ve kept it in for a month. You’ve earned the right to be a little disgusting.”
We all grimaced. Then, one by one, we complied.
It was disgusting.
The sound alone was enough to turn my stomach. Drooly leaves, wet with days of sleep and speech, dropped into glass. Padma looked like she wanted to sink through the floor. Hermione turned a delicate shade of green. Anthony sneezed as he leaned too far in.
I tried not to laugh. I really did. But I snorted and coughed, which nearly made Anthony drop his phial.
“Lovely,” March said, utterly unfazed. “Now, a hair. Just one. From your head, if you please—no shortcuts.”
We each tugged a hair out and dropped it in. Watching mine settle into the goo made me lose all appetite for dinner. Again.
Next came the silver teaspoons. March handed them out with a wink.
“You’ll need these for the dew. Come along.”
We followed her out of the classroom and through the corridors toward the Entrance Hall, phials in one hand, teaspoons in the other. I caught sight of our reflection in a dark window as we passed and burst out laughing.
“We look completely mental,” I whispered.
Hermione gave me a withering glare.
“Try not to spill yours, will you?”
Outside, the air was sharp and cold. I was grateful I’d brought my scarf. March locked the doors behind us, and we set off toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. In the distance, I saw the glow of a lantern bobbing gently in the dark—Hagrid.
He waved as we approached, Fang trailing beside him.
“Evenin’, March! Got a nice spot ready for yeh!”
We followed him into the forest, all of us suddenly a little more alert. Wands were out, clutched in our non-spoon hands. We weren’t going far—just to a clearing where Hagrid said the grass was thick and healthy, perfect for collecting dew—but we weren’t taking any chances. None of us fancied meeting an acromantula with a vial of spit and hair in our hands.
The clearing was beautifully dark, with barely any light to guide us outside of Hagrid’s lantern.
“Alright,” March said gently. “Collect your dew. Not too much, not too little. And take care not to contaminate the sample.”
We bent to the task, moving slowly, carefully. My fingers were freezing. I filled my spoon, tilted it gently into the vial, and watched the dew dissolve into the strange mixture. It shimmered faintly.
By the time we returned to the classroom, my toes were numb.
March moved to the warded box and opened it. Inside were padded slots for each vial. Then she opened the last container—a long, shallow box filled with small, shrivelled chrysalises.
“Death’s Head Hawk Moth,” she announced, smiling. “A key symbolic ingredient. Don’t eat it.”
I grimaced. Who would do such a thing?
We each took one and dropped it into our vials. I pushed the stopper in with a little too much force and heard the cork squeak.
March lifted the padded box.
“These will be kept in my office, in full protection wards, until the final step. That comes during the next thunderstorm.”
Groans all around. British weather, brilliant.
“Until then,” she said firmly, “each sunrise and each sundown, you will chant the incantation with your wand placed over your heart. You must not forget. Not even once. If you do, the process is ruined.”
We nodded. All of us. Even Theo, who usually looked too cool to care, was serious now.
“Very well,” she said, locking the box with a flick of her wand. “Go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
I looked down at the phial I'd just handed over. A month’s worth of ridiculousness sealed into glass.
We were one step closer.
And Merlin help me—I was starting to believe this might actually work.
The owl dropped the Prophet beside my plate with a thud. I didn’t think much of it at first—just another morning, just another stack of headlines shouting doom and drama. But the front page stopped me cold.
BREAK-IN AT MALFOY MANOR: NO SIGN OF NARCISSA MALFOY – MINISTRY FEARS THE WORST
My hand froze halfway to my toast. I didn’t touch it again.
I unfolded the paper slowly, the rustling loud in the quiet hum of the Great Hall. I scanned the article.
After nearly two months of impasse, Ministry officials successfully breached the wards at Malfoy Manor late Thursday night. Despite extensive searching, there was no sign of Narcissa Malfoy, wife of convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, and mother of the late Draco Malfoy.
My stomach sank. I’d known this was coming—the whispers, the mounting pressure on the Aurors, the Prophet’s almost daily questions: Where is Narcissa Malfoy?
“According to sources in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the manor was ‘eerily pristine,’ with no visible damage or signs of magical duelling. Rooms appeared ‘untouched,’ though many bore traces of long-abandoned magical suppression.”
Untouched. Just like that. No blood, no chaos. Just absence. I could picture it too well. That kind of silence.
“The DMLE has declined to comment on the status of Narcissa Malfoy but confirms an ongoing investigation. Senior Auror Savage called the discovery ‘deeply troubling’ and refused to speculate further.”
Speculation, of course, was left to the press. The rest of the article was a circus of theories. That Narcissa had fled the country under Polyjuice. That she’d been Obliviated and stashed somewhere. That she’d joined Voldemort willingly, or tried to betray him and paid the price. But the most popular theory was simple, horrible, and the truth:
“‘It is increasingly likely,’ wrote one columnist, ‘that Narcissa Malfoy was murdered by You-Know-Who himself before abandoning the manor. With no Dark Mark in the sky and no message left behind, fear has replaced certainty. And perhaps that is the point.’”
The point.
I let the paper fall back onto the table. I swallowed against the weight in my chest. Perhaps this was worst than if Voldemort had left her corpse. At least there would’ve been a grave, somewhere for Draco to go when he wouldn’t have to hide anymore. But instead, there was just a blank house. An echo.
Harry slid into the seat beside me.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, frowning at my face, then glanced down. “Oh.”
Harry leaned in to read over my shoulder. His jaw tightened as his eyes skimmed the page.
“So it’s official now,” he said quietly. “They found nothing.”
I nodded once. My throat was tight.
We both knew she was dead. Had been dead since February, two days after Dumbledore.
The Great Hall buzzed with low murmurs and the rustle of pages, as hundreds of students read the same headline.
But somehow, it still felt quiet. Too quiet.
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