Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ron jolted awake as the alarm blared with an ear-splitting shriek. He lurched out of his makeshift bed, arms and legs flailing about like a wild octopus, only to end up crashing face-first onto the floor, hopelessly tangled in a heap of blankets.

The first thing he fumbled for was his wand. His hand frantically groped through the mess of sheets, but it was nowhere to be found. Brilliant, just brilliant. If it had been an intruder with a temper, he’d have been done for, sprawled out like that, helpless and completely unarmed.

He’d only managed to close his eyes for an hour—just a bloody hour—and now, through the narrow window of the cluttered, dust-filled room, the light streaming in made it clear that morning had already arrived.

This was his life now—slogging away at his brothers’ shop day in and day out, working his fingers to the bone. The pay? Pathetically low. Barely enough to cover half his meals, and the rest went straight towards chipping away at the mountain of debts his family still carried. It wasn’t glamorous, not by a long shot, but it was what he had to do. No fancy job, no cushy pay—just long hours and endless tasks.

They weren’t exactly rubbing shoulders with those posh pure-bloods and their swanky family estates, all decked out with grand dining halls and endless corridors. Nah, they were just a bunch of scrappy folks, knocking oneself out and making do with what they had. Life was a constant grind, and if you wanted to keep your head above water, you had to put in the hours and earn every bit of coin. 

Ron scrambled towards the door and flung it open with a crash. There stood the twins, Fred and George, both beaming like they'd just pulled off the most brilliant prank and were dying to boast about it to the whole world.

"Blimey," Fred quipped, waving his hand in front of his nose as though swatting away an awful stench. "When was the last time you had a proper bath? You could knock a troll out with that smell!"

Ron scowled at them, “Shut it, Fred. I’ve been busting my arse in this shop while you two prance around. Maybe if you actually did some proper work for once, you’d be smelling just as bad!"

He folded his arms, while glaring at them both, though he knew full well they'd just laugh it off like they always did.

George snickered, "Oh, come off it, Ron. You’re making it sound like we sit around all day sipping tea and twiddling our thumbs," he said, feigning a hurt expression. "Takes real skill to run a shop that’s as successful as ours, mate. You should be thanking us for giving you the honour of working under the great Fred and George Weasley!"

"Yeah, think of it, Ronniekins! While you're stocking shelves and manning the furnace, you're learning from the best pranksters in wizarding history. It’s practically a privilege!" Fred beamed, clapping hand on George's shoulder.

"Besides,” George said, “We work hard. All this brilliance doesn’t just happen overnight. So, you’re welcome, by the way, for the free entertainment every morning.” 

Ron looked at the both of them, “Fine.” he seethed, before slamming the door shut again, thoroughly irritated. He barely had time to change, let alone freshen up properly. 

Why would he, anyway? He was always shoved in the back of the shop, out of the way of the customers. Most days, he didn’t have to deal with them at all, thank Merlin. The only time he’d be dragged out front was if Fred and George had some special deliveries to sort out, or if they needed an extra pair of hands. Other than that, he was left in relative peace, away from all the racket and fuss of the shop floor. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a hell of a lot quieter.

Of course, one thing that made the work less bearable was that he wasn’t allowed to use any magic. Most of the products were enchanted, and using magic on them could set off all sorts of unpredictable reactions. So, if Ron had to sort through the stock or clean up the shop, he had to do it the old-fashioned way—no wand-waving allowed. It made everything a lot more tedious and time-consuming, but that was just another part of the job he had to put up with.

“Oi!” Fred called out, voice echoing from the aisles. “We’ll be sorting out the back before lunch, so can you pop down to the market and grab a few bits for us? We’re running low on supplies!”

“Don’t forget to take the deliveries over to Mr. Buckley!” George chimed in from behind the counter, “He’s been waiting for those, and we don’t want to keep him hanging. Ta!”

One more thing he absolutely loathed was that it wasn’t just working at the shop—Ron felt like a downright slave whenever the twins needed something. They’d call on him for every little errand, from picking up supplies to running personal errands. It was as if his only job was to cater to their every whim, and it drove him up the wall.

The same thing happened when he got back home—the moment he walked through the door, it was straight into another round of chores. He’d have to tackle the pile of dirty dishes stacked up in the sink, sort through he laundry that seemed to multiply overnight, or head out to tend to the livestock from their farm. It was always the same old routine—never-ending and relentless. There was no time to put his feet up or take a breather; as soon as he was home, it was back to work. It felt like there was always something else that needed his attention, and the list of tasks never seemed to shrink.

The Weasleys weren’t exactly the most renowned bunch; in fact, they weren’t all that thrilling or noteworthy. They were one of those in the lowest community, working hard just to make ends meet and feed their children. 

He had plenty of brothers, each one with their own set of responsibilities. His parents were always fussing over them, making sure they were sorted and well on their way. Unfortunately, Ron was in a bit of a bind—he hadn’t received any proper magical education, so finding a job was a real struggle. He was doing his best to pitch in where he could, trying to keep up with the demands of the family and make a name for himself.

His sister, Ginny, was the only daughter in the family, and by some stroke of luck, their parents had managed to get her into a proper education. It was a rare bit of good fortune in their otherwise mundane lives, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy—watching her get the opportunities he’d been denied made him all the more aware of the gaps in his own life and the opportunities he was missing out on.

What would it cost him to get his hands on those magical books? It felt like a distant dream he might never reach. All he could do was basic spells—cleaning charms and levitation, hardly anything impressive. The idea of getting hold of proper magical texts, of learning spells beyond the simplest ones, seemed so out of reach. 

It was a bitter pill to swallow knowing that while others were diving into advanced magic, he was stuck with only the most rudimentary skills. It was a reminder of what he was missing out on and how much more there was to learn if only he had the chance.

“Just a few things to pick up,” Fred said, handing Ron a list of supplies and a bag of knuts, giving him a jaunty salute, as if it were a mere trifle. “Shouldn’t take you too long. Cheers!”

He trudged to the back and grabbed the wheelbarrow, which was loaded with two heavy boxes meant for Mr. Buckley. He was somewhat relieved that the man lived just in the neighbourhood, right near the town centre. At least he wouldn’t have to lug the boxes too far—though it was still a fair bit of effort.

He grabbed his flat cap and adjusted it on his head before pushing the wheelbarrow out onto the cobbled street, the thing wobbled as he manoeuvred it over the wet patches left by the evening rain.

Mr. Buckley’s place was a good few miles from the shop, and Ron had heard all sorts of rumours about the old bloke. Folks around town liked to whisper that he’d once been a top-notch magical merchant, working for the palace. The stories painted him as a bit of a legend in his own right, someone who had seen and done things far beyond the usual run-of-the-mill magic. 

Ron then snorted at the thought. A palace, really? He’d never heard of anyone from their small town ever setting foot in such a grand place. It seemed a bit far-fetched, if you asked him. 

The idea of Mr. Buckley having worked in a palace felt more like one of those exaggerated stories that people spun to make themselves sound more impressive. He doubted there was much truth to it, especially in a town where most people barely ventured beyond the market.

And as for the palace, well, they did exists but Ron had never heard anything about them beyond the occasional newspaper mention, something he rarely read about but never really thought he’d have any personal experience, considering how little interaction the folks from their small town had with anything grand or royal.

Ron finally arrived at Mr. Buckley’s residence, the wheelbarrow thumping to a halt as he set it down with a grunt. He raised his hand and knocked on the door with a determined rap. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a weathered little man with a round, ruddy face that lit up with a broad grin.

“There you are!” Mr. Buckley greeted, warm and welcoming.

“Morning, Mr. Buckley,” Ron responded wearily. “Let me just grab the checklist first,” he added, rifling through his saddle bag. 

“Oh, come in first!” Mr. Buckley gestured for him to enter, “Can’t have you catching your death of cold this morning, can we? The weather’s all over the place today, isn’t it?” He threw a look at the dreary sky, “A proper odd sort of day for it, I’d say.”

“No, thank you,” Ron replied, shaking his head with a faint smile. “I’ve still got a fair bit of work to get through—you know, the usual.”

The man hummed thoughtfully, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered Ron’s words. “Ah, but my daughter would love to meet you, remember Donna?” He said cheerfully, “She’s always going on about how she’s heard so much about you!”

Ron opened his mouth to respond but he suddenly remembered—Donna, Mr. Buckley’s daughter had passed away three months ago. Besides, it seemed impossible that anyone would be talking about him—no one around here really acknowledged others much, unless you happened to pass them every day on your errand. 

He thought about it for a moment; even then, people hardly gave a second glance. It wasn’t the sort of place where you’d have your name passed around, especially not to the point of being remembered by a woman. 

“Err,” Ron glanced towards the road, his ears going a bit red. “But I’ve still got to head down to the market…”

Mr. Buckley’s hopeful expression faltered ever so slightly, though he immediately covered it with a soft, almost pleading smile. “Would it be too much for you to keep me company for a bit longer?” 

Ron hesitated, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, his brows knitting together. He knew full well how lonely Mr. Buckley must be, especially after everything he’d been through recently. It wasn’t just loneliness, either—it was the kind that clung to you like a shadow, creeping into every quiet moment. The poor bloke had lost so much, and though he never outright said it, he could see it plain as day in the old man’s eyes, the way they seemed to carry the weight of it all.

He glanced up at Mr. Buckley, who was standing there with a hopeful expression, and that did it. Ron couldn’t leave him now, not after seeing that. "Well, I suppose…I mean, if you need me to stick around a bit longer, I could, you know…besides, the market’ll still be there in an hour, right? No one’s gonna miss me that much." 

The two of them settled down for a cup of tea, and Mr. Buckley seemed completely at ease, a gentle smile on his face as he sipped his tea. He didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t comment on, how dirty Ron's shoes were. They were splattered with mud, and some of it had likely transferred onto the freshly cleaned floor.

He shifted in his chair, trying to discreetly brush off the mud, but it was a bit of a lost cause. He glanced around, feeling awkward about the mess.

Mr. Buckley, oblivious to Ron’s discomfort, looked at him kindly and said, “Oh, don’t you worry about the floor. It’s nothing to fret over.”

Ron managed a sheepish grin, feeling a bit relieved. “I’m really sorry about that,” he said, “I didn’t mean to track in all that muck.”

The man waved a dismissive hand, “Not to worry, lad. My daughter used to traipse dirt all over the house when she was little,” Mr. Buckley said, “But now, seeing a bit of muck on the floor, it just brings her to mind. It’s funny, really—it’s those little bits of mess that make me remember the good old days with her."

Ron wasn’t quite sure who Donna was and had never had the pleasure of meeting her, but as he glanced around the living room, he noticed the old, moving picture frames that dotted the shelves. The frames showed a series of photographs that shifted subtly, and most of the images depicted a young woman, full of life.

To his surprise, Donna wasn’t the grown woman he’d imagined from Mr. Buckley’s stories. Instead, she looked to be about fifteen years old.

“Your daughter looked like she had quite the personality, didn’t she? I’d never have guessed she was so young from the way you talked about her.” Ron said.

Mr. Buckley gave a soft chuckle, nodding. “Ah, she was a handful, that one. Full of life and never a dull moment.” He said, lost in fond memories.

So they sat there, enjoying the quiet companionship, with the tea slowly disappearing from their cups. The room was filled with silence, only interrupted by the occasional clink of china as they took sips. 

After a few minutes, as the last dregs of tea remained in their cups, Ron shifted in his seat. “Err,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’d best be off now, sir. Got to get to that market before it closes, you know.”

Mr. Buckley looked up, “Don’t let me keep you, lad. Thanks for staying a bit longer.”

Ron stood up and gathered his flat cap. “No trouble at all, Mr. Buckley! It was nice chatting, really.”

The market didn’t actually close until the evening, but Ron knew he’d be met with a barrage of questions from the twins when he got back. They’d want to know where he’d been, and he could already hear their relentless teasing. It wasn’t like he couldn’t come up with a good story, though, even if it was a bit far-fetched.

Ron stepped outside, the crisp air greeting him. He’d just tell them he’d gotten caught up helping Mr. Buckley with a few things, maybe spin a tale about rescuing a cat or some such nonsense. They’d probably give him a hard time about it, but in the end, they'd believe whatever he told them. After all, they were used to his tall tales by now.

When he finally made his way back to the shop, his arms weighed down with bags from the market, he was met with the twins’ eager faces.

“So, where’ve you been off to, then?” George asked, leaning on the counter.

“Yeah, you weren’t off gallivanting somewhere, were you?” Fred chimed in.

“Just gave Mr. Buckley a hand with a few bits and bobs—ended up having a natter longer than I meant to.” Ron said.

The twins exchanged a look that clearly said they didn’t quite buy the whole few bits and bobs, but were too amused to care. “Did you now?” George grinned. “That’s a new one.”

Ron grumbled and waved them off. “Well, it’s all part of the job, innit? Now, let’s get on with it.”

He threw himself into the work, pushing through the tiredness that was creeping up on him. When the clock ticked closer to midnight, his pace didn’t falter. Ron was determined to make the most of his shift, knowing he’d have the chance to rest soon enough. 

“We’re going home this Saturday,” Fred announced as they tidied up the shop before closing.

Ron, hunched over and scrubbing the floor, looked up with a frown. “But we just visited last week, didn’t we?”

George gave him a look and smacked his forehead with the newspaper he’d been using to dust off the shelves. “Didn't you read the letters? Mum's been running around like mad, all because we're supposed to celebrate Ginny's graduation!”

Ron rubbed his head, shooting a slightly annoyed glare at his brother. “Well, how’m I supposed to remember things like that when I’m up to me elbows in work all the time?” He caught himself, realising how petty he sounded. It wasn’t Ginny’s fault; it was just the way things had ended up. Her special day made Ron feel a bit left out and unappreciated. “Guess it’s just how things go,” he grumbled, trying to push the irritation aside. “Might as well get used to it.”

As the days ticked down to Saturday, Ron found himself increasingly absorbed in his work while his brothers were all abuzz with the preparations for Ginny’s celebration. They chattered endlessly about the plans, the decorations, and, most of all, the cost of it all.

“Did you hear how much Mum’s spending on the cake?” Fred asked one afternoon, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s not just any cake; it’s a proper showstopper.”

“Yeah, and all the decorations she’s ordered,” George added, rolling his eyes. “Merlin, might as well just set up a whole new room for the party.”

Ron, dusting away at the shop counters, tried to tune them out, focusing instead on his chores. It wasn’t that he begrudged all of this—far from it. He just felt overwhelmed by the constant talk of expenses and preparations.

“Sounds like a right fortune,” Fred groaned, “Isn’t there a limit to how much you can spend?”

George shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “When it’s Ginny’s special day, apparently not.”

“Why do we need to go all out on something that costs a fortune when we know we’re skint?” Ron grumbled, scrubbing the shop counter with more force than necessary. “We’ve got bills piling up, and it’s not like we’ve got a bottomless pit of cash!”

Ron knew his brothers would likely reprimand him for questioning the extravagant plans. After all, it was Ginny—the one who seemed to be held up as special, deserving of all this fuss. They’d always been quick to remind him how Ginny, like the rest of their siblings, was one of those who'd gotten a proper education. It was as if her achievements somehow warranted a higher level of celebration.

Of course, they’d say it’s all worth it because she’s getting a proper education, just like the others. It’s always ‘Ginny this’ and ‘Ginny that’ because she’s got this special status now.

With the celebration approaching, Ron knew he’d be pulling double duty in the background. It was always him who ended up scrubbing away the mess, setting up for the party, and generally doing all the behind-the-scenes work. The excitement for Ginny’s birthday meant he’d likely be up all night getting everything ready.

Ron grimaced as he thought about it.

He could already picture the scene: cleaning up after the festivities, prepping food, and setting up decorations. It seemed like there was no end to the tasks that fell to him, with little chance of getting a proper rest. “No doubt I’ll be running on fumes by the time the party’s in full swing,” he thought, bracing himself for the inevitable exhaustion.

As to be expected, when the three of them finally returned home, Ron was already knee-deep into the chores. He was mopping the floors, dusting off every surface, and arranging the decorations, while his parents barely acknowledged his presence, too caught up in their own preparation. His siblings, having come home that day, were similarly absorbed in their own plans and discussions. 

By the time dinner rolled around, he found himself alone in the attic, where his room was. He sat at a small, makeshift table, eating his meal in solitude. The only company was the quiet hum of the evening and the view from the window, which offered a distant, indifferent look at the world outside.

Ron then suddenly heard a series of squeaks coming from the windowsill. Turning his attention to the sound, he saw four rats scuffling over a small piece of cheese that had somehow ended up inside.

The rats were quite a sight: small and scrappy, darting around and squealing as they bickered over their prize. One rat had managed to grab the cheese but was being persistently challenged by the others, who were clearly determined to get a share.

Ron then glanced down at his bread, breaking off a small piece of bread and placing it near the window where the rats had scattered. When he did, the rats, who had been skittering away in surprise, paused and looked back cautiously. They seemed startled by the sudden offering.

“Sorry,” Ron said, “I’m just sharing a bit of dinner with you lot. No need to be afraid.”

Gradually, the rats approached the bread, sniffing it tentatively before nibbling away. He watched them for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Have you guys been living in my room?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if he were afraid of disturbing them.

Ron watched the rats nibbling on the bread, then he flushed a bit, feeling slightly foolish for talking to them. He wasn’t quite sure why he was speaking to the rats; it seemed absurd. Yet, there was something oddly comforting about the simple act of talking, even if it was to the small creatures sharing his meagre meal. He then leaned against the wall, looking thoughtfully at the little intruders. “If you have, you’ve been quite the quiet neighbours. But if you have been living there, it’s a bit of a problem. That’s my space, you know?”

The rats continued to nibble at the bread, seemingly indifferent to his musings. Ron shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion. “Alright, I’ll let you have your little feast. Just do me a favour and find somewhere else to stay. Mum won’t be too pleased if she finds you’re having a little party in my room.” He straightened up, grabbing his plate and giving the rats a final, somewhat bemused glance. “Well, I suppose I’d better head downstairs.”

Ron slowly made his way downstairs, the old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet, as he moved carefully, not wanting to disturb the household or draw attention to himself.

He was about to reach the bottom of the stairs, when he noticed a faint light glowing from his parents' room. Ron paused, glancing toward the source of the illumination. It was late, and he’d expected everyone to be either settling down or busy preparing for tomorrow’s celebration.

His mum and dad were probably still awake, engrossed in last-minute arrangements or discussing the details of Ginny’s party. Given the importance of the event, it made sense they’d be up, making sure everything was just right.

When Ron walked past his parents' door, he caught snippets of his name drifting through the crack. He stopped, curiosity piqued. It was clear they were discussing something involving him, likely behind his back, but the fact that they were talking about him at all made him pause—he stood there quietly, straining to catch the full conversation between his parents. 

“What would he think if he knew, dear?” His dad said. “He’s been working so hard, don’t you think it is a little bit too much?”

“Arthur, don’t you fret about it. We’ve planned this, and If you keep your mouth shut, he’ll never suspect this!”

Ron edged nearer to the door, and through the narrow gap, he glimpsed his mother crouched by their bed, placing a neatly wrapped box beneath it. “Well, it’s all sorted now,” his mum sighed. “With the money the twins sent, and a bit of what Ron managed to put aside for the debt, there’s more than enough for Ginny’s celebration. I just hope she’ll love it. She’s been looking forward to this for ages, and we couldn’t let her down, could we?”

Ron nearly dropped the plate he was holding, the clatter of it was loud enough to draw attention. But before they could spot him, he was already darting back to his room, his heart pounding in his chest like a runaway drum. 

What did her mum mean by that? Are they using the money he'd been sending home for years—money that’s meant to help with their debts—to fund Ginny’s ridiculous celebration?

Ron dropped to his knees, his grip faltering on the plate. It shattered on the floor with a loud crash, with the fragments scattering around. He stared blankly at the broken pieces, tears began to well up in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe it. The thought that his hard-earned savings, sent with the intention of easing their debts…

He had been working tirelessly, scrimping and saving every knut he could manage, all with the hope of alleviating their financial struggles. It wasn’t just about the money being spent on Ginny’s celebration; it was the deeper, more painful question of what he had been given in return. He wondered if his family had been setting aside funds for Ginny’s education even before she was born, while he had been left to fend for himself without the same opportunities. 

The rats, having noticed the commotion, scurried over to Ron, their tiny feet pattering across the floor. He sniffled loudly, his voice breaking with the strain of his emotions as he scooped them up into both hands.

“Thank you,” Ron said softly, his voice trembling as he looked down at the rats. They seemed to be nudging him gently, their small bodies pressing against his hands in a comforting gesture. 

Chapter Text

Ron wiped the sweat from his brow, grimacing at the dampness clinging to his skin. He’d been labouring away at the Burrow’s farm the whole day, shovelling dirt around the vegetable patches. The sun had been an absolute scorcher, and his shirt was plastered to his back. His arms were throbbing from the work, so he took a moment, feeling the weariness settling into his bones.

For two days on end, he’d been sprinting around the Burrow and the farm—really, the only places he could manage since getting back to the shop. Mum had insisted she needed assistance, which left him bogged down with all the burdens while the rest of the family went off about their business. 

Every day was the same old routine for him, up at the crack of dawn, barely able to open his eyes. He’d drag himself out of bed, grumbling under his breath, and set to work. First, it was the laundry—clothes everywhere, tangled and soggy, as if they had a mind of their own, refusing to get sorted. Then, the chickens needed feeding, pecking about impatiently, like they couldn’t wait a second longer.

After that, he’d be off to tend the vegetables, crouching over the dirt, pulling weeds and watering plants, feeling like his back was about to snap in two. And if that wasn’t enough, there were a million other chores waiting to be done. From sunup to sundown, it was an endless list of tasks, one after another, and the worst part? He wasn’t even getting paid for any of it. Not a single penny.

At least he still had food to fall back on, though it was hardly a comfort. The rats, which seemed to have taken up permanent residence alongside him, were always eager to share his meagre scraps. No matter where he went, the cheeky little blighters were never far behind, scurrying about in search of their own morsels. It was rather amusing, in a way. He’d named them Squibber, Squeaker, Squitters, and Squippy—quite the crew, eh?

At times, Ron often pondered what life might have been like had he secured a beautiful life. He realised, of course, that this line of thought might come across as rather selfish. Still, if only he’d been granted the same opportunities as his siblings, perhaps he might have had something of his own to take pride in.

Oh, and a broomstick of his own—what would that be like? To mount one and take off into the sky, wind whipping through his hair, soaring above the treetops? The thought sent a thrill down his spine. He’d seen plenty of brooms, of course, and those who had completed their magical education always received one, much like the ones handed to students when they graduated.

Ginny had a broom too, but unfortunately—It was locked up, and nobody seemed too thrilled at the idea of him borrowing it. So, when he needed to get into town, there he was, stuck on foot, trudging through the woods like with no better option.

Each time his boots sank into the muddy ground, he couldn’t help but think how much simpler it’d be to just hop on a broom and zoom straight there—no hassle, no aching legs. But no, that wasn’t happening. Ron was left to slog through the woods, dodging low-hanging branches that seemed to come out of nowhere, and, naturally, getting twigs and leaves tangled in his hair. It was like the universe had it out for him, making sure he had the most miserable trip possible.

He’d been plodding along for what felt like ages—two hours, at least—only stopping now and then to swig some water before pushing on. His legs were starting to feel like lead, but there was no getting around it; someone had to fetch the supplies. Bill, the oldest of the lot, was coming home with his wife, and their brood of kids in tow. And, of course, with more mouths to feed, that meant he had to carry even more on his back.

Ron was just about ready to curse his luck when he heard it—a sharp snap of a twig somewhere off to the side. He froze, heart hammering in his chest, and his first thought was bears. Of course, it had to be bears. Just his rotten luck. He immediately fumbled for his wand, pulling it out of his pocket. The thing was practically ancient, looking more like a twig itself these days, but it’d have to do.

His grip tightened on it, his mind racing through the few spells he knew. They were mostly cleaning charms—nothing impressive—but he reckoned he could whip up enough of a distraction if it came down to it. Better than standing there like a sitting duck, waiting for something to leap out at him.

He crept forward, his wand clutched tightly in one hand, eyes darting around like mad, taking in every rustle of leaves, every creak of the forest. His nerves were shot, on edge with every tiny sound. It felt like the trees themselves were out to get him, and his heartbeat drummed loud in his ears. He paused, barely breathing, waiting for something—anything—to jump out at him.

Then, without warning, there was a sharp noise from behind him. His body reacted instantly, whipping around so fast it made his heart leap into his throat.

“Oh,” Ron breathed, his tense shoulders dropping. There, standing quietly in front of him, was a horse. But not just any horse—this one was pristine, its coat gleaming white, so brilliant it practically glowed against the surroundings. A saddle rested on its back, neatly secured, though it was clear someone had been careless enough to let it wander off.

But something was off. The horse was frozen stiff, its eyes wide, almost wild with fear. It looked like it was about to bolt any second, completely petrified, as if it sensed danger lurking just beyond the trees. Ron mentally kicked himself—what was he playing at, pointing his wand at the poor thing? It wasn’t a blasted bear!

He lowered his wand at once, switching it out for his hand, palm open and steady as he reached toward the trembling horse. “Hey,” he said softly, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The truth was, he wasn’t sure who was more rattled—him or the horse. His voice was calm, though, as he kept talking, hoping the words would settle the animal’s nerves. “No one’s gonna hurt you, not while I’m about, alright?”

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, like they were sharing some unspoken understanding. The horse’s eyes were still wide, pupils blown with fear, but it didn’t budge when Ron dared to take a step forward, slow and deliberate. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure the creature could hear it, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again, inching even closer, his hand stretched out toward the horse’s brilliant coat, which was trembling like leaves in the wind. Just as his fingers were about to brush against its soft fur, a sudden noise rang out from behind—a sharp rustling that sliced through the quiet.

The horse jolted in an instant, its panic reignited by the sudden noise—and to his utter shock, the creature reared back, nearly knocking him over. Ron's arms flailed around as he stumbled backward, barely managing to avoid the sharp hooves that kicked out in his direction.

“Watch it!” Ron yelped, his heart leaping into his throat. But before he could even catch his breath, the horse bolted, galloping off into the distance with a wild snort. 

The sound came again, even sharper this time, snapping Ron out of his moment with the horse. His instincts kicked in as he spun around, wand at the ready, pointing straight in the direction of the noise. His whole body tensed, standing tall and alert, preparing himself for whatever—or whoever—was out there.

Then a figure stepped out from between the trees, their own wand drawn, aimed directly at him. Ron’s heart leapt into his throat, skipping a beat as he tightened his grip on his wand, fingers trembling slightly. He took a cautious step back, his mind racing. “Oi, who are you?” he demanded, voice a bit shakier than he’d like, but he forced it to sound strong. He tried to swallow the panic rising in his chest, keeping his wand trained on the stranger.

But the figure didn’t budge. He stood there, wand raised, staring Ron down with a calm, unnerving presence. A cloak covered most of his face, hiding his features, but Ron’s eyes caught something important—the quality of his clothes. Rich, fine fabric, the kind you’d never see on just any ordinary wizard. No, this was different. The robes practically screamed wealth and power—maybe even royalty.

Ron’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just some random bloke wandering through the woods. This was someone dangerous!

The stranger slumped against the tree, his gloved hand clutching his side, with unmistakable crimson, thick and wet, smeared all over on it. Blood. Properly soaked. The man had clearly been trying to hide it, but now it was everywhere, dripping through his fingers like some nightmare Ron had hoped to leave behind.

So he immediately scrambled forward, his feet tripping over themselves as he rushed towards the man. Ron had no idea what to do, absolutely no clue, but he couldn’t just stand there like a helpless monkey. There was a stranger dying right in front of him! 

But the man shook his head, his legs buckling beneath him as he coughed, a harsh, ragged sound. “Don't!” he gasped, straining. “I need the horse...now.” The words came out like an order, sharp and commanding, as though the stranger was used to giving instructions and having them followed. But right now, it wasn’t quite working for him—not when he was pale, barely holding himself up, and obviously on the brink of collapsing. He might’ve had some authority once, but in his current state, it was slipping away fast.

Ron, who was notoriously rubbish at taking orders even on a good day, certainly wasn’t going to let some half-dead stranger boss him about now. His hands flew up in pure frustration as he spluttered, “You’re dying, mate! And you’re worried about a horse?!”

The stranger, clearly in agony, managed to shove him aside, wheezing as his breath came in short, ragged bursts. “You don’t...understand,” he gasped, face contorted in pain. “That horse...it was important—”

Ron stared down at the injured man lying there, looking half-dead but still managing to sound a bit stubborn. “And not your life? You’re barking mad!” he shot back, completely gobsmacked—as if the absurdity of the situation couldn’t get any worse. “Look, just let me clean your wound, alright? I don’t need anyone going around saying I let some bloke die out here in the woods. I’ve got enough on my plate without people thinking I’m a murderer!”

The bloke didn't respond right away, maybe thinking about it or just trying to summon the energy to speak through the pain. After what felt like an eternity, the man groaned, “Fine,” though it sounded more like a grudging surrender than actual agreement. “But I'll hunt you down if you’ve killed me,” he added, still managing to throw in a threat.

“I’m not like that!” Ron exclaimed, though the man was in no state to argue further. The stranger slowly removed his hand, and that’s when the bile rose up in Ron’s throat. He almost lost it right then and there. The wound was massive—gaping open like someone had taken a right nasty swipe with a blade, not a wand. The thought of it made his stomach churn, but he fought to keep it together.

Ron steadied his breathing while fumbling for his wand. "Right...cleaning spell first," he muttered to himself, trying to recall the proper incantations. This was one of those moments where he was grateful for all the spells he'd picked up at work, even if most of them were to patch up himself. Pointing his wand carefully, he muttered a quick incantation, watching the dirt and blood clear away.

“Rip my cloak,” the man croaked.

Ron glanced at the cloak, posh and expensive-looking. “No way!” he protested, “You’ve got a fancy cloak right there, mate, I’m not about to ruin it—"

“Just do it!” The man was getting impatient now, his voice strained with pain.

Honestly, dealing with a dying man shouldn’t be this bloody difficult. He reluctantly tore into the cloak, ripping off a large piece to press against the wound, doing his best to stem the bleeding. His hands were a bit shaky, but he managed to wrap the makeshift bandage securely enough, muttering something about how this was the last time he played healer.

As he worked, Ron threw a glance at the man, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you know any healing spells?”

The man, pale and grimacing, just shook his head. “I’m still struggling...with that,” he rasped, clearly drained. 

Ron fussed over the patchwork job he’d done on the wound, looking it over with a bit too much concern for someone who wasn’t a professional. "I’m no healer, so you’d better get it checked up when you’re back in town." He paused, casting a glance around the woods, where every rustle of leaves or snap of twigs made his nerves prickle. "That’s if a bear or a wolf doesn’t catch a whiff of your blood and come sniffing around first."

The stranger let out a faint chuckle, a sound that seemed oddly out of place given the situation, and when he did—the hood he’d been wearing slid further back over his shoulder, revealing his face. Ron, who had been more focused on his dodgy patchwork job than anything else, almost missed it. But when he glanced up, his heart nearly stopped.

The man's features were unexpectedly young—probably around Ron's age, which threw him off even more. His face was pale, sure, but Ron could still make out the remnants of a tan beneath all that pallor, like he’d spent plenty of time outdoors before ending up in this sorry state. His hair, though, was a right mess—completely dishevelled, like he hadn’t bothered combing it in a month. It stuck up at odd angles, bits of dirt and leaves tangled in the strands.

Ron's face was heating up so fast he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears. Of all the people to stumble across, it just had to be a handsome one, didn’t it? Ron felt like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. The contrast couldn’t have been more painful.

"Cheers," the stranger muttered, eyes still half-closed as he finally blinked them open, turning to face him—and holy shite—Ron had never seen eyes like that before. They were this intense, almost unnatural shade of green, like the grass at the Burrow after a fresh mow in the middle of summer, and there was a certain warmth to it too, a bit of brown mixed in, like autumn leaves just about to fall. It made the whole thing seem like some kind of seasonal painting, right in front of him.

Ron, who was blatantly staring, immediately looked away. "Er, do you...still feel any pain?" he mumbled, awkwardly clearing his throat, as if he hadn’t just been gawking.

The stranger chuckled softly, offering a small, crooked grin. "Just a bit," he replied, "Hope I didn't stop you from getting on with whatever you were up to."

Ron waved him off, trying to seem casual, but it came out more flustered than anything. "Nah, no worries, mate…”

"Then, would you mind if we stay like this for a bit longer?"

"I couldn’t exactly leave you here on your own, now, could I? That wouldn’t be very decent of me.” Ron began, still half-convinced he should be on his way. But the words didn't come out as firmly as he'd meant. "I can stick around...just till you're back on your feet, yeah?" He’d decided. Sod the errand.

Ron eased himself back down, trying to convince himself he wasn’t making a colossal mistake. Surely, he wouldn’t be that late. No, he thought, I’ve got a perfectly good reason for sticking around, haven’t I? But as much as he tried to settle his nerves, he could feel a lump of discomfort rise in his throat.

The thing was, sitting this close to someone he barely knew—shoulders nearly brushing—it felt odd. Really odd, actually. His skin tingles at the nearness, not in a pleasant way. He wasn’t sure why it felt so exposing, this whole business of sitting too close, but it did. The space between them was almost non-existent, like it was begging to be filled with a conversation.

He, who wasn’t exactly one for overthinking when the situation got a bit sticky, decided to just go with what came naturally to him—talking. It wasn’t like Ron had many other options at the moment, was it? Action was always better than stewing in awkwardness. 

"So, uh, do you...have a...err...family?" he blurted out, as if the question had slipped out before he could really get a hold of it. He wasn’t sure if that was the best way to break the ice, but it was something, at least. But hey, it was better than sitting there in silence, wasn’t it?

The stranger sighed wearily, as if Ron had just plucked the very question he didn’t want to face. "Yeah, and they were expecting me to bring the horse this afternoon."

“Oh,” Ron stared at his shoes, suddenly far more fascinating than the situation at hand. "Sorry…If I’d known it was important, I wouldn’t’ve let it run off..." Merlin, why did he always have to muck things up?

"It was a present for my baby sister." The man let out a small, almost self-conscious chuckle. "Well, I was going to buy her a broom," he admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed by the idea. "But, I mean, she was only a baby then, wasn’t she? What use would she have for both?”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the branches overhead as if agreeing with the absurdity of gifting a broom and a horse to a newborn.

Ron nodded a little at that. A present, huh? He let the idea roll around in his head for a moment. He couldn’t quite remember ever getting anything when he was a baby—certainly not something like a broomstick. The only thing he could remember from being that young was standing on a stool at the Burrow, sleeves rolled up, doing the washing-up when he was six. Hardly a gift, but it’s what you did in a family like his.

Life had been different back then, hadn’t it? Growing up in a house full of siblings, hand-me-downs and chores were more common than presents, especially for the youngest boys. That didn’t bother him now, though. In fact, it almost seemed funny—the way the past shaped you in ways you didn’t notice until later.

"You should probably buy a foal," Ron leaned back against the tree, crossing his arms and letting the idea sink in. After all, he’d always enjoyed being around animals—far better than scrubbing dishes, that was for certain. “That way, you could let your sister take care of it. ” He continued, imagining a little girl with wild hair, giggling as she chased after the creatures around the garden.  

"That’s a great idea, yeah," the stranger smiled, and he seemed to warm to the suggestion. "There’s a bit more to it than just feeding and brushing, right?"

“Of course, I worked with them a lot back then!” Ron said, his enthusiasm bubbling over, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You’ve got to know how to handle them right, you see. It’s not just about feeding them and giving them a pat now and then—you’ve still got to watch their temperaments, too. Some are a bit skittish, others are as gentle as can be—and grooming? It’s essential—keeps their coat healthy and shiny. And don’t get me started on the mucking out! It’s a bit of a chore, but it’s all part of the deal, innit?” He then caught himself mid-sentence, realising he was rambling on. “Sorry, err. I suppose I’m just a bit passionate about it. You know how it is with horses. They can be right stubborn if you don’t know what you’re doing…”

The stranger looked at him, amused. “No, it’s alright,” he chuckled, clearly intrigued. “I’ll have to take your advice, then. You seem to know a thing or two about it.”

Ron felt a flush creep up his cheeks, half-embarrassed but also a bit pleased. “Oh, well, I’m not really, not like the proper ones, anyway,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Just grew up around them, you know? Plenty of time spent mucking about with whatever animals we had at the time.”

He recalled the days spent wrangling animals at the Burrow, alongside chickens and geese waddling about. He had a right motley crew of them, you see, and it fell to him to make sure they were all well-fed. Mornings were often a bit of a rush, darting about with buckets of feed in hand, calling out to the creatures, their clucks filling the air. 

The stranger leaned closely, as if they'd just stumbled upon something unexpectedly fascinating. "You're quite an interesting one," he said, "I must say, I’m rather surprised you haven’t tried to take any advantage yet,”

Ron blinked, brow furrowing in that familiar way whenever something went right over his head. "Er—pardon?" he muttered, trying to sound polite but completely thrown by the comment. 

"Most would leap at the opportunity," 

Ron wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel flattered or insulted. "Right..." he mumbled, still none the wiser

The stranger glanced at him, then came the laugh—light and airy. “You really have no idea, do you?" The stranger shook his head ever so slightly, as if Ron had done something both baffling and endearing. “Well, I haven't introduced myself properly, have I now?"

“It’s no bother if we don’t know each other at all," Ron muttered, puffing out a breath, clearly trying to brush off the conversation. He didn’t fancy handing out his name to just anyone, especially not to some stranger he was unlikely to cross paths with again. It wasn’t like there was any point, really. He was just another face in the crowd, easily overlooked—and frankly, he preferred it that way. The last thing he wanted was to impress someone who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

"You've caught my attention," The man leaned in, that grin plastered on his face now bordering on ridiculous. "And when someone does, I make sure they stay in my sights."

"Right, well, glad I could be the day's entertainment,”

"Oh, I reckon you’re more than just a bit of entertainment, don't you think?”

That did it. Ron felt the heat rush to his freckled cheeks, before letting out a strangled laugh. He wasn’t used to someone talking to him like this—at all. Most barely gave him a second glance. They were usually distracted by their own thoughts to notice the scruffy bloke who’d just come in from working, dust and grease smudged across his shirt.

Ron had grown used to blending in, really. He was more of a background figure—there to help, not to be noticed. But now? Now he was sitting here, face burning up like a furnace, feeling like he was the centre of some mad attention he wasn’t quite ready for.

It was flustering, to say the least, but there was something oddly magnetic about it, too.

"So, are you not going to introduce yourself, then?" Ron tilted his head slightly, trying to seem relaxed. But he wasn’t. Not one bit. 

The man leaned in just a fraction of more, eyes glinting. "Harry," he answered, like he was attempting to make his name sound more interesting than it had any right to be. “That’s my name. Or, at least, it’s what my father gave me,”

Ron laughed heartily, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It was nice to meet you, Harry,” 

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them saying a word, but it didn’t feel awkward anymore—not at all. There was something warm in the air between them, something that made him feel oddly comfortable. 

“What about you, then?” Harry asked, those brilliant green eyes, bright as ever, were locked onto his, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had shrunk down to just the two of them. 

“It’s…” Ron began, his voice wobbling just slightly, not quite as steady as he’d like. It felt like the words were getting stuck halfway up his throat. He was just about to blurt out his name when—

Bang! A sudden noise behind them shattered the moment, making them both flinch. 

Chapter Text

From the moment Harry James Potter entered this world, it was as if recklessness had been his birthright, etched into his very soul.

Those who surrounded him, from the stern tutors who sought to shape him into a prince, to the household staff who observed him from the shadows, "He’s at it again," they’d murmur, glancing towards the garden where Harry had undoubtedly climbed something far too high or attempted some daring feat unbecoming of his station. The footmen, though sworn to decorum, could not resist the occasional chuckle when recounting his latest escapade, each tale wilder than the last.

And it was true, of course. 

Those who had the privilege—or misfortune—of knowing Harry personally could attest to it. The young prince had built a reputation that preceded him, one of bold decisions and impulsive actions that sent hearts racing, not always in admiration. And whether he was galloping across the palace grounds on his spirited steed or slipping away to lose himself in the clamour and colour of the bustling town streets, Harry lived for the thrill of the moment.  

But now, the sands of time have shifted. 

Harry had reached that inevitable age when duty could no longer be ignored. His elders spoke with grave importance of finding a suitable bride, forging alliances, and fortifying the strength of the kingdom. The weight of the crown—a burden he had danced so skillfully around all his life—now settled on him, pressing down with an insistence he could no longer evade.

The expectations weighed on Harry like a mantle he hadn’t but chosen to don. Charm a princess, secure an advantageous union, and prepare to step into the role of a future king. Each demand felt like a stone added to the ever-growing pile he carried. And now, came the news that his mother was with child once more. 

When Harry heard it would be a sister—a beautiful young girl soon to grace their lives—a strange emotion bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t dread or irritation, though he had no shortage of either when it came to matters of responsibility. No, this was softer, lighter.

“Easy,” his mother murmured, voice soft and reassuring as she gently guided the tiny bundle into Harry’s reluctant arms.

He stared down at the impossibly delicate figure nestled against him. The baby, his sister, blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes, and for the first time in years, Harry felt the flutter of genuine nerves. 

What if he dropped her? What if she started crying? He was used to handling reins and broomsticks, not something so...fragile. Harry's fingers tightened ever so slightly, trying to find the balance between supporting her properly and not squeezing too hard.

“There now,” his mother said with a smile, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “See? You’re doing just fine.”

Fine? Harry wasn’t so sure. His heart thudded in his chest, and he swallowed hard, but as he looked down at the little one in his arms, a strange warmth began to replace his nervousness. Her tiny hand, no larger than a rose petal, reached out and curled around his finger.

At that moment, Harry felt something shift. He had faced powerful wizards in tournaments, stern councils, and the towering expectations of the crown without flinching, but none of it compared to the quiet awe that now filled him. This wasn’t a duty or a task. This was family—a bond that needed no royal decree or obligation.

For the first time, Harry thought, maybe he wasn’t as unfit for his role as he feared.

Harry had never been one for extravagant gestures, but this time felt different. 

His younger sister deserved something special. It wasn’t as though he had planned it meticulously or agonised over countless options—no, the decision had come to Harry as naturally as a breath of fresh air, as if the universe itself had whispered its approval.

And now, someone had dared to attack them.

It wasn’t just any horse, either—it had cost him an extortionate sum, a rare and magnificent creature, chosen carefully as a gift to mark her special day. Whoever it was, Harry thought bitterly, had clearly underestimated the lengths he would go to recover what was his. 

Harry clutched his side, his fingers slick with the warmth of his own blood, a grim reminder of his vulnerability. He let out a sharp hiss of frustration, the pain biting deeper with every breath. Damn it all. For someone who had learned so much—so many spells, so many incantations—how could he still be so utterly useless when it came to something as crucial as a healing charm?

But here he was, staggering and wounded, unable to mend the simplest of injuries. Harry straightened himself as much as he could, teeth clenched against the agony. He had already dispatched several trusted aides and a handful of loyal companions to scour the forest in search of the missing horse. But no word had reached him for over an hour, and his patience was already wearing thin—so Harry resolved to take matters into his own hands.

His eyes then caught sight of something pale glinting amongst the trees, so Harry quickened his pace, his wand steady in his grip, but when he stepped beyond the gnarled trees—his gaze fell on a stranger standing in the clearing. Only moments ago, this figure had almost held the horse by the fur—until the creature, with a wild toss of its mane, had bolted once again into the shadows.

He’d been determined to remain composed, perhaps even intimidating, but his plan was unraveling fast. Those blue eyes—striking, almost otherworldly—had caught his gaze, and Harry felt as though he might drown in their depths. It was maddeningly distracting.

Then, with a grimace, Harry stumbled slightly and leaned against the nearest tree, wincing at the indignity of it all. Threatening someone while looking like you might keel over at any second wasn’t exactly the mark of a regal prince. Worse still, the stranger—tall and annoyingly adorable—was eyeing him with what could only be described as nervousness. This was turning into a rather embarrassing affair.

The prince found himself utterly incapable of averting his gaze from the stranger who now knelt beside him, trembling hands fumbling as they attempted to secure the cloth around his wound. Though pain lanced through his side with every breath, he found his senses drawn elsewhere—drawn inexorably to the young man before him. 

Harry could not help but take note of the stranger’s hair—a rich shade of red, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost aflame. It fell in unruly waves, shifting with each anxious movement, strands bouncing with a softness that seemed wholly out of place amidst the brutality of their current predicament. 

He did not know what had possessed him to stare so intently, nor why his mind should fixate in such details in a moment fraught with peril. Perhaps it was the loss of blood clouding his judgement, dulling his wits and rendering him susceptible to strange fancies. But for now, he said nothing. He merely watched, allowing the stranger to work, guiding him as best he could, though he felt certain that the trembling in the young man’s fingers was not solely from fear.

And Harry also found himself momentarily stunned. This stranger did not know him. How could such a thing be possible? His face had graced all the pages of every newspaper and the broadside in the kingdom since infancy, his every milestone chronicled with relentless fervour. The press had pried so deeply into his life that even moments of familial intimacy had been laid bare for public consumption, reducing his existence to a spectacle for all to observe and dissect.

And still—this young man did not recognise him. It was this very ignorance, this unfamiliar absence of deference or intrigue, that intrigued Harry in turn. A desire, perhaps, to understand the stranger before him, and, in doing so, to experience, what it might mean to be known not as a prince, but as himself.

Before the stranger could so much as utter his name, a sudden and resounding noise shattered them. The stranger started violently, his eyes widening in alarm as he turned his gaze toward the disturbance. Harry, though burdened by the searing pain in his side, pushed himself to his feet with a resolve that allowed no room for hesitation. A sharp breath escaped his lips as he drew forth his wand, his fingers curling tightly around the polished wood, its tip poised unwaveringly in the direction of the sound.

The dense foliage ahead stirred—a low rustling among the thick brambles and towering trees, the shadows shifting ominously. Then, from behind the great gnarled boughs, two figures emerged into view. Harry’s breath hitched, his grip tightening upon his wand for a fraction of a second before recognition dawned him. 

"You're highness—"

"Harry!" He cut in.  "My name's Harry."

Sirius's expression flickered with surprise, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he cast a swift glance toward his husband, Remus. The latter, ever composed, arched a single brow in quiet amusement, mirroring the subtle gesture Sirius himself had made only a moment prior. 

"Very well, Harry," Sirius conceded at last, his voice edged with wry resignation. But his tone shifted swiftly, frustration bleeding into his words. "You do realise your father is going to scold me again for taking on this task in your stead!" The man exclaimed, nis sharp gaze flickered downward, and his expression twisted with fresh alarm. "Is that blood?"

Harry exhaled a weary sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly beneath the weight of the day’s events. His godfather and Remus had been searching alongside him for the lost horse, yet in the midst of their efforts, the prince had made the unfortunate decision to break away, following a shadowy figure—a thief who had vanished before his very eyes, slipping through the labyrinth of trees as though the night itself had swallowed him whole. And in doing so, Harry had lost not only his way but also the time that would have spared him this interrogation.

"I'm fine," Harry said, his tone carrying the kind of stubborn resolve that often did little to reassure those around him. He straightened, though the ache in his side persisted. "And more importantly, tell the others to stop searching for the horse. It’s a lost cause."

Sirius looked as though he had plenty to say about that, "And who is that?"

His gaze had shifted to the stranger who had aided Harry, and at his words, both Sirius and Harry turned in unison. The young man, when realising the sudden scrutiny upon him, flushed a deep shade of crimson. The stranger immediately rose to his feet, though his movements were stiff and uneasy. His hand—still smeared with blood—wavered slightly as he lifted it in what seemed to be an instinctive attempt at reassurance.

"You—" Sirius began, his eyes narrowing sharply as realisation flickered across his face. Without hesitation, he reached for his wand, his every movement brimming with sudden and unyielding suspicion.

"Sirius, no!" Harry burst out, stepping forward at once, his own hand shooting up to stop his godfather before things could escalate further. "He's not—he's not the—”

The young man's eyes widened in alarm before he turned on his heel and fled. Harry made to follow at once, instinct propelling him forward, but scarcely had he taken a step when a searing pain lanced through his side, forcing him to stagger. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his legs gave way beneath him, and he pitched forward. Before he could strike the ground, a firm hand grasped his arm, steadying him with practised ease. 

It was Remus, his ever-faithful advisor, his expression taut with concern. "Harry…”

Harry, breathless and weary beyond words, made a feeble attempt to wrench himself free, though his strength had long since abandoned him. "Let me go," he murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. His gaze, however, remained fixed in the dwindling figure of the young man disappearing into the trees. "His name..."

His body, traitorous in its fatigue, would not heed his will. Darkness wavered at the edges of his vision, and he swayed, barely conscious of Remus’s firm grip anchoring him to the present.

Harry stirred, his mind sluggish, drifting in that hazy space between waking and sleep. As his senses gradually returned, he became aware of his surroundings—the silken sheets pooling around him, the vastness of his chamber stretching beyond his bed, and the faint glow of morning light seeping through the heavy drapes. He shifted, attempting to move towards the edge of the mattress, but the sheer expanse of the bed only served to frustrate him further. The prince pushed himself upright, running an unsteady hand through his already disheveled hair. 

He then tried to piece together the remnants of the night before. He must have been in a truly wretched state if he could recall so little. His gaze fell to his side, and with some hesitation, Harry grasped the hem of his tunic, lifting it to inspect the wound that had once marred his skin. To his astonishment—and undeniable relief—he found the gash entirely healed, leaving no more than the faintest remnant of pain.

Without further delay, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet pressing against the cool stone floor. He rose, albeit a touch unsteadily at first, and strode towards the large table in the center of his chamber, where a robe had been neatly folded in waiting. He seized it, draping it over his shoulders, before turning his attention to the grand double doors before him.

Harry threw them open, the heavy wooden panels slamming against the walls with a resounding echo. The guards stationed outside started visibly, their hands instinctively twitching towards the hilts of their swords before they registered the prince’s presence.

But Harry spared them no glance. He had no time for formalities. 

He needed to speak with his parents.

"I want you to cancel the ball,”

His father, seated upon the ornate throne at the head of the chamber, slowly lowered the newspaper he had been reading. A single blink was his only immediate response, as though he had not quite comprehended—or perhaps refused to believe—his son's request. "Forgive me, my dearest son, but I fear I must have misheard you, err—what was it you said just now?"

"The ball, Father.” Harry insisted then rather impatiently, “I wish for it to be cancelled at once. Have the Lord Lucius Malfoy put an end to the preparations, instruct the royal heralds to withdraw their proclamations, it must not take place—”

"And why, pray tell, would my son make such a request?” The King's brows lifted in an arch of mild surprise. Then, with an indulgent chuckle, he leaned forward, drumming his fingers against the carved arm of his throne—the knowing humour of a man who had seen many years and many stubborn heirs. "Have you, perhaps, already chosen a bride? If that is the case, tell me her name at once, and I shall see to it that an invitation is dispatched posthaste. Lily will be most delighted to receive a future princess into our court—”

"Yes, err—well, that is to say—kind of," Harry murmured, his words stumbling over themselves. A faint flush then crept up his cheeks, betraying his thoughts as they strayed, unbidden, to the mysterious stranger who had so thoroughly unsettled him.

The King’s eyes gleamed with curiosity, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Oh?" he intoned, arching a single, imperious brow. Then, as though struck by sudden inspiration, he straightened in his throne. "Wait just a moment—this must be discussed at length. I shall summon Sirius and Remus at once, and together we shall—" But before he could complete his decree, the great doors of the hall creaked open with an almost theatrical flourish. There, standing upon the threshold with the air of men who had been caught in the very act of mischief, were the very gentlemen in question. 

Sirius, ever the rogue, leaned lazily against the doorframe, a glint of amusement dancing in his grey eyes, while Remus, his expression more subdued but no less curious, stood just behind him, hands clasped behind his back in feigned innocence.

Harry let out a long, suffering sigh—pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as though doing so might ward off the impending onslaught of teasing. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake," he groaned, his patience visibly fraying. "I knew it. You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?"

"Who, us?" Sirius drawled, feigning affront as he stepped further into the room. "Harry, how could you accuse us of such dishonourable behaviour?"

"Because you’re you," Harry muttered darkly before shaking his head. "Never mind that now. Just listen to me—I need you to cancel the ball at once."

At this, both men exchanged glances before turning their attention back to him, the glint of intrigue in their expressions only deepening.

"Hm?" Remus finally spoke, his voice mild but edged with unmistakable curiosity. "And why would you wish to do such a thing?"

Harry swallowed, his cheeks warming once more. "Because," he began, his voice tight with reluctance, "I have met…someone."

"The country boy?" Sirius drawled, his lips curling with barely concealed amusement. "You cannot mean that thief—"

"He is not a thief," Harry snapped, irritation flashing in his emerald eyes as he turned to face him. "He—he aided me when I was injured. He tended to my wound."

"Which is to say that you were still in a most wretched state when we dragged you back to the castle," Remus interjected, his tone far more measured but no less sceptical. "Forgive me, Harry, but if that was his idea of healing, I shudder to think what his idea of harm might be."

Harry bristled, his frustration mounting. "What I mean to say—"

"The country boy?" The King interrupted, his interest now fully piqued. He leaned forward in his gilded throne, his keen gaze fixed upon his son. "Tell me, tell me everything—”

"I met him, all right?" Harry said at last, exhaling sharply as he pushed his unruly hair back from his forehead. "It was yesterday—when I was searching for the horse. There was a thief, yes, but it was someone else entirely, not him. And then—" He hesitated for the briefest moment, as though recalling a memory too delicate to be spoken of lightly. "And then he appeared. A stranger. He stayed with me and talked about horses—"

A strangled laugh from Sirius shattered the moment. Harry shot him a glare so sharp it could have cut through steel.

"Sirius, I swear, shut the devil's mouth before I do it myself—"

Sirius merely smirked, but Remus, ever the diplomat, raised a hand to suppress his own amusement. The King, however, remained intent, his expression unreadable. "You did not learn his name?" 

Harry exhaled heavily. "No," he admitted, frustration creeping into his tone. "I didn’t. And now, I may never see him again."

His father regarded him for a long moment, then let out a weary sigh. "Listen to me, my son," he said, "I can see that you are quite taken with this country boy—truly, I can. But understand this: I cannot simply call off the ball on a whim. It is a tradition, one that has endured for generations. It is your duty, as Crown Prince, to find a bride—the future Queen of this kingdom."

“But—”

"The people expect it, Harry. The court demands it. And whether you wish it or not, duty must come before all else."

"But what of Mother?” Harry pressed, his voice edged with defiance. "When you met her—was it at a ball? Did tradition dictate your love?"

His father’s expression shifted, a shadow of nostalgia passing over his features. For a moment, the King hesitated, as if recalling a memory both sweet and distant. "She was a princess, Harry," he answered simply. "It was different."

Harry felt his stomach twist at those words. 

Different. 

Because she had been born into royalty, because the laws had allowed it. But what of him? What of the feelings that had settled in his heart, unwelcome yet undeniable? Was he to cast them aside simply because tradition demanded it? His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That is not an answer," he muttered.

"Harry—"

"I'll speak with the Grand Duke myself," Harry declared, squaring his shoulders.

“Am I being summoned, then?” A voice, smooth and cool as polished silver, interrupted him. All heads turned toward the grand doors as they creaked open with stately elegance. There, framed in the entrance, stood the Grand Duke of Malfoy, his very presence commanding attention. Two attendants flanked him, their expressions impassive, but it was him—Lucius Malfoy—who held the room in his grasp.

The man was tall, his aristocratic features sharp and intransigent. His long, pale hair had been slicked back with what must have been the most expensive pomade available in the kingdom—not a single strand out of place. His posture was impeccable, his every movement exuding the refined confidence of a man accustomed to power. Harry and Sirius were already glaring at him.

Lord Malfoy smirked at them before striding forward, his polished boots clicking against the marble floor. Stopping before the King, he dipped into a shallow bow—just deep enough to show respect, yet not so much as to suggest subservience.

"My King," he intoned smoothly, his voice as silken as the embroidery on his robes. Straightening, he clasped his hands before him, his expression unreadable. "Apologies for the sudden disturbance, but I bring urgent news—of a rather private nature."

Harry's father let out a chuckle, waving a dismissive hand. "That can wait, Lord Malfoy. There will be time enough to discuss such matters later." His tone was light, but his eyes glimmered with knowing amusement. "Your arrival is timely, however. The ball, of course—I trust all is proceeding as planned?"

Lord Malfoy inclined his head, his sharp smile never faltering. "Indeed. The invitations have already prepared to dispatch—to every noble house within the kingdom and even those beyond our shores."

A thought struck Harry then, sudden and electrifying. He turned swiftly, his gaze locking onto Malfoy’s. "Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the conversation. "Only to the noble houses?"

"But of course, Your Highness," Lord Malfoy replied smoothly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Surely, you would not wish to stain the grandeur of your kingdom by allowing those of…lesser standing to tread upon its hallowed halls?"

Sirius bristled, parting his lips as if to deliver a scathing remark, but before he could utter a single word, Harry lifted a hand to silence him. His gaze never left Malfoy’s, burning with defiance. "That cannot do," he said firmly, then turned sharply to his father. "If the ball is to proceed, I have a request. A condition."

"Go on," his father said, watching him closely.

Harry took a steadying breath before speaking. "I would like you to send an invitation to every household in this kingdom, Father," he declared. "If I am to become King, then I must see them, must let them see me. This ball should not be a spectacle for the privileged few but a celebration for all—to remind them that we," he added pointedly, his gaze locking onto the Grand Duke, "are equals, no matter the station we were born into."

"Impossible," Lord Malfoy scoffed, his cold smile faltering for the first time. "Surely, Your Highness, you have heard the reports—thieves slipping into grand halls under false pretenses, sneaking about, stealing whatever their filthy hands can grasp. And those commoners who attend not for the honour, but to flaunt themselves shamelessly, as if they belonged among the nobility?" He shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him. "No, Prince Harry. It would be madness to throw open the doors to everyone."

"To you," Harry shot back, his voice tight with restrained fury. Anger simmered in his blood, but he forced himself to remain composed. "But not to me." He turned to his father, his expression earnest, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Please, consider it, Father."

A brief silence settled over the room before Remus spoke, "That is a brilliant idea," the man said, stepping forward slightly. "Not only would it strengthen the trust and bond between our people and the crown, but it would also send a clear message—that we stand as one. That we are not merely rulers above them, but protectors with them, always striving to aid those in need."

"Exactly," Sirius chimed in, though his sharp gaze remained locked on Lord Malfoy with open disdain. "Right, James?" he pressed, turning to the King. "You always wanted to be a ruler of the people, didn’t you?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as all eyes turned to the King, waiting for his answer. "I suppose it wouldn’t hurt," he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "However, security must be reinforced in every hall—just in case something untoward occurs."

Lord Malfoy’s expression darkened, his steely gaze narrowing at the Prince. But he bowed nonetheless, though not without a distinct air of displeasure. "As you wish,’ he said, his tone smooth yet edged with barely veiled irritation. "I shall see to it that the necessary adjustments are made to our preparations."

Harry's father clapped his hands together, as though settling the matter entirely. "Now that we are all in agreement, I believe it is time I paid a visit to my wife." He turned to Harry with an arched brow. "I trust, my son, that you will behave yourself at least until the week's end?"

Harry hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had no intention of making such a promise—behaving was not exactly in his nature, especially when there was something he wanted. But under his father’s expectant gaze, he exhaled and muttered, "Yes."

The King chuckled, clearly unconvinced. "Good," he said. "We shall see." And with that, he strode from the hall, leaving Harry standing in the company of two smug-faced godfathers and one particularly furious Duke.

Chapter Text

Ron trudged back to the shop, his boots scuffing against the uneven cobbles, his shoulders weighed down not only by fatigue but by the sheer absurdity of all that had transpired. The affair in the forest had been bad enough—an ordeal he would rather not dwell on—but what truly stung was the betrayal that awaited him. His own parents, those to whom he had entrusted the fruits of his labour, had seen fit to squander his hard-earned wages on a frivolous celebration. A grand affair, no doubt, for Ginny had at last completed her schooling at Hogwarts, and such an occasion, it seemed, demanded a feast fit for royalty.

And what of Ron? Did he, too, not deserve a moment’s respite? He had stayed on an extra day, believing he might indulge in the rare luxury of a well-earned rest, perhaps even a small holiday to call his own. But the moment the festivities died down, the truth revealed itself. There was no holiday to be had, no corner in which to sit and gather himself, no moment in which to stretch his aching limbs and bask in the rare delight of having nothing at all to do. Instead, he had been set to work from dawn till dusk, scrubbing, fetching, tidying—tasks which, in the grand household order, had somehow fallen squarely upon his shoulders. 

And so, with little choice but to bear it, he had done what was expected, all the while seething at the unfairness of it all. Now, as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the shop, he sighed. Back to work. He was back to the endless cycle of labour, of coin earned and spent, of expectations he never met.

Ginny had made her decision—she would join a Quidditch team and carve out a name for herself, just as she had always planned. It was no sudden fancy, no fleeting ambition, but a dream she had clung to for years, one that had now taken flight. Their parents had not stood in her way. They had fretted, of course—muttered about the dangers, the instability, the uncertainty of such a life—but in the end, they had given their blessing. 

Because whatever path she chose, they would stand behind her.

Ron, meanwhile, swallowed his bitterness, he told himself he was proud of her, and truly, in some small corner of his heart, he was. But the part that had long grown weary under the weight of obligation, could not help but resent the ease with which she seized her future. Ginny had dared to dream, and her dreams had been allowed to take root. And what of him? He had been tethered to a fate not of his own making, thrust into work before he had scarcely had the chance to imagine anything else.

The shop had become his world, and with each passing year, the walls seemed to close in further. Was this it? To stand behind the counter, to toil from dawn till dusk, to watch as others chased their fortunes while he remained fixed in place? He clenched his jaw, willing the bitterness away. It would do no good to dwell on it. It was not as if there had ever been another choice.

By the time Ron drew the heavy wooden shutters across the shopfront and slid the iron bolt into place, exhaustion had settled over him in a manner so absolute it felt as though even his very bones ached beneath its weight. 

Fred, ever at liberty to indulge his whims, had made himself scarce for the evening, off to some unknown engagement with the ease of a man unburdened by responsibility. George, though present in body, was far removed in spirit, hunched over his latest invention in the workshop at the far end of the shop, utterly consumed by his craft. And so, as ever, the menial labour had fallen to Ron, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that he should be the one left behind to shoulder it.

The broom scraped against the worn floorboards as he swept, the dust rising in protest before settling once more, as if mocking his efforts. Shelves were wiped down with a damp rag, counters polished until they bore no trace of the day’s endless transactions, and at last, when every surface had been set to rights, he trudged towards the narrow staircase that led to his meagre lodgings. The room that awaited him was no more than a cramped, dust-laden space, its single window so begrimed that little light ever managed to filter through.

He sank onto the hard mattress, the straw-filled stuffing shifting beneath his weight. He stared up at the low ceiling, watching the flickering shadows cast by the candle at his bedside, and allowed himself, for but a moment, to dream. But it was a futile thing, this dreaming. Morning would come, and with it, the same burdens, the same expectations, the same unrelenting cycle.

And so, with no choice but to surrender to the weight of his reality, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him. But no matter how fiercely he willed himself to forget, the moment he closed his eyes, his thoughts were drawn inexorably back to the events in the forest—those very moments he had sworn to banish from his mind. A stranger, hurt and in need, had crossed his path, and in an instant of misplaced hope, he had believed—that he had found a friend at last. But it had not been so. No, it had ended as it always did. Accusations. Suspicion. They had branded him a thief. Of course these fancy people had. 

If they deemed him a thief, then surely the law would too. And the law, in its cold and merciless certainty, would have him already clapped in irons and cast into a cell before he could so much as protest his innocence. 

And so he ran.

The following morning dawned with an unexpected bustle, as the number of patrons frequenting their joke shop had grown rather noticeably. There was, however, a peculiar matter at hand—one that left George and Fred in no small degree of exasperation. Their wares, for reasons entirely perplexing, had become entangled in a muddle of mistaken goods, leaving their prized fireworks subject to confusion among the inventory. 

And so Ron wakes with a start, his head thick with sleep, only to find himself thrust into chaos before he has even the chance to rub the drowsiness from his eyes. The younger one barely had time to register the full extent of his surroundings before reality slammed into him—the morning was already well underway, and his brothers, evidently too preoccupied with their own affairs—had left the task of fetching supplies squarely on his shoulders.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for the nearest garments—worn, slightly damp, and in desperate need of repair. He fumbles with the fastenings of his coat, fingers still clumsy from sleep, while his brothers continue their barrage of complaints.

"You’d best be quick about it," George warns, already turning towards the door, "or you’ll find yourself in a world of trouble before the day’s out."

Ron stifled a yawn as he stumbled out into the street, the cobbles slick beneath his boots from the morning mist. The town was already alive with the clamour of traders calling their wares, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant odours of livestock and damp earth. Tugging his coat tighter around himself, he trudged forward, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a sack of grain slung over his back.

"Good morning!" A loud, hearty voice rang out, startling Ron so suddenly that he nearly stumbled over his own feet. He had been minding his own business, weaving his way past a modest little stall piled high with fruits and vegetables. And behind the stall stood a large woman—her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, her apron dusted with flour and bit traces of soil. 

"Err, good morning," Ron replied, his voice a little hoarse from sleep as he straightened himself. He then cast a quick glance back at the array of produce, his stomach giving a faint, traitorous grumble at the sight of the fresh goods. He pointed towards a pile of plump, richly-coloured tomatoes, their skins glistening in the weak morning light. "How much for those big ones?" he asked, tilting his head as he eyed them with interest.

"Four galleons," 

"Not today, thanks," Ron said at once, stepping back as if the mere mention of the price had personally offended him. Gour galleons for a tomato? He hadn’t even a single galleon to spare, let alone two. His meagre savings for the day wouldn’t stretch that far—not unless he fancied returning home empty-handed and facing the wrath of his brothers.

The woman gave him a look, her expression shifting from friendly to indifferent in the space of a heartbeat. She turned away, her attention already fixed on the next potential customer, greeting a passing gentleman with the same enthusiasm the woman had offered Ron only moments ago. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he moved on, muttering under his breath about highway robbery and the absurdity of market prices.

Ron trudged back to the shop, only to find the place eerily quiet. Not a single customer lingered inside, and the usual buzz of chatter had faded into an unsettling stillness. George stood behind the counter, arms braced against the wooden surface, his expression unusually grim. 

"They’ve all gone," he muttered as Ron stepped through the doorway. "Cleared out the moment we ran out of bloody fireworks."

Ron frowned, glancing around the empty shop. The shelves were still cluttered with all sorts of oddities—trick sweets, joke wands, and an assortment of mischief-making supplies—but without the dazzling fireworks to draw attention, the place suddenly felt rather abandoned. "Is there some kind of occasion or something?" He asked, tugging off his coat and draping it over the rack.

"Dunno," Fred called down from the spiral staircase, peering over the railing with an easygoing shrug. "But they were all nobles—ones I’ve never seen before. Must be some fancy event for the high and mighty."

Ron nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t as if their shop was entirely lacking in customers; in fact, it had built up quite the reputation over time. Infamous, really. Not that it bothered them—business was business, and their brand of chaos had its own appeal.

He was just about to return to the back of the shop, prepared to resume his labor of shoveling coal now that he had completed the morning’s orders, when the bell above the door gave a sharp chime, announcing the arrival of another customer.

The door swung open, and through it stepped a man of refinement. His long, fair hair had been smoothed back to a gleaming finish, and he was wearing a coat of deep black—its fabric rich and heavy—adorned with elaborate silver embroidery and polished buttons. The man also carried a cane of dark wood, its head wrought also in silver, a mere accessory rather than a necessity. His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept across the humble interior as he moved further inside, each step deliberate, as though the very floorboards were beneath his notice.

Behind the counter, George stiffened. "Malfoy," he said, the name escaping his lips in a low, almost venomous whisper. “What—”

"As much as I loathe this wretched place, I must admit—it will be the last time I set eyes upon it," 

Ron, crouched behind the worn wooden shelves, pressed himself against the rough planks, straining to catch sight of the exchange. His brow furrowed in bewilderment as he flicked his gaze between the twins, silently urging them to explain the significance of Malfoy's presence. But neither brother spared him a glance—both stood rigid, their attention wholly fixed on their unwelcome visitor.

Malfoy tapped the head of his cane against the floor, the soft knock punctuating the tension in the air. "Oh, but that was a separate matter entirely," he drawled, his tone deliberately measured, meant to provoke. "There is yet another concern that requires discussion, Mr. Weasley.”

"If it is money you’ve come for, we can pay it immediately, just—" George began hastily, his words tumbling out in a rush.

"My apologies," Malfoy interjected smoothly, cutting him off before he could say another word. He lifted his cane and gestured toward the nearest display of goods, its polished head glinting in the light of the shop. His sharp eyes roved over the shelves with something between curiosity and disdain. "I was referring to this enterprise of yours," he continued, as though he were merely indulging in idle conversation. "The establishment itself. How curious that it has already begun to flourish."

Fred, standing rigid beside George, narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly do you mean by that?" he asked warily.

Malfoy exhaled, almost as if he pitied their ignorance. "You see, this part of town was never rightfully claimed by any one merchant. It has long remained in a state of uncertainty, neither here nor there, belonging to no man outright. And yet, here you both stand, proprietors of a business that—against all odds—has taken root."

“And?”

"And yet, somehow, this land has found itself under the particular ownership of the Parkinson family," Malfoy continued, his tone one of idle musing, though there was a sharp edge beneath it. "For years, they scarcely paid it any mind, too preoccupied with loftier affairs to so much as glance in this direction. And now, quite suddenly, they are rather incensed. Furious, in fact. Imagine their shock upon discovering that an establishment—your establishment—has been raised upon it."

A flush of deep red crept up George’s neck, burning hot against his freckled skin. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he forced out a gruff response. "I’ve no idea what you’re talking about," 

Malfoy arched a single, unimpressed brow. His smirk was slow and deliberate, the kind of expression worn by a man who already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Tell me, Mr. Weasley," he said, "was it mere coincidence, or did you take it upon yourself to claim this particular piece of land as your own?"

"You’re lying," Fred said sharply, his jaw set in defiance. "This land was never owned by anyone—we bought it fair and square!"

Malfoy lifted a gloved hand, waggling a single finger in mock reprimand. "Ah, but are you quite certain?" he mused. "It would seem, dear Weasleys, that you have placed your trust in a rather unfortunate contract. A shame, truly."

George stiffened beside his brother, his face darkening, but before he could find the words to retort, another voice cut through the room.

"That’s unfair!"

Ron, no longer content to remain hidden, stepped out from behind the shelves, his face flushed with anger. His fingers curled into the fabric of his worn sleeves as he glared at Malfoy, his frustration boiling over. "What—you expect us to simply pack up and leave?" he demanded, his voice raw with disbelief. "We’ve been here for years! What the hell gives you the right to tell us otherwise?"

"Ah, the youngest son of the Weasley family," Malfoy drawled with a sneer, idly toying with the signet ring upon his gloved finger. "One would think you might have done something of worth by now, given that you have been toiling since childhood. But alas, the state of your family remains as shameful as ever. A most pitiful affair."

Ron straightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides, though he dared not lash out. His coat was threadbare, his boots scuffed, and despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, he could not shake the chill of standing before someone who had never known hunger nor hardship.

"What is it you want, Malfoy?" George interjected, stepping forward. “You did not come all this way merely to waste our time with idle taunts. If you want something, then fucking out with it!”

Malfoy sighed, as though burdened by the necessity of explaining himself to those he deemed beneath him. He dusted a fleck of imagined lint from his sleeve before lifting his gaze once more. "The land, Mr. Weasley," he said at last. "Your father’s debts, most unfortunate as they were, left little choice in the matter. The estate was relinquished, and the noblemen who acquired it have now deemed it necessary to sell. A regrettable outcome, truly, but such is the nature of business."

A hush settled over the room, the weight of his words sinking into the worn floorboards beneath their feet.

"No," George said firmly, despite the simmering frustration beneath. He squared his shoulders, his fingers tightening at his sides. "I signed a contract. It was made clear that this land was ours, purchased fairly and without dispute."

"We shall see," Malfoy murmured, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his intent. "Not all contracts serve as irrefutable proof, particularly when the other parties involved are less than trustworthy. Or have you truly been so dim-witted as to believe otherwise?"

Ron surged forward, his patience utterly spent, his arm already swinging in blind fury. His blood boiled at Malfoy’s sneering words, his body moving on instinct, driven by years of pent-up resentment. 

But before his fist could meet its mark, a strong hand seized his arm and wrenched him back. “Don’t," Fred hissed, his grip tightened, not unkindly, but enough to remind Ron that they could not afford to let anger dictate their actions—not now, not with so much at stake.

Lucius Malfoy, entirely unfazed, let out a slow, amused chuckle, his lips curling in amusement. He straightened his coat with deliberate ease, as though the mere idea of Ron laying a hand on him was too ridiculous to entertain. "How predictable," he mused, casting a glance over his shoulder as he turned toward the door. "You Weasleys always let your tempers get the better of you. A flaw that never fails to amuse." He paused, tapping a gloved finger idly against the doorframe before adding, "I shall return soon, and when I do, the Parkinsons will accompany me—and we shall have a most civilised discussion about what is to be done with this land. And perhaps, we might finally see some Weasleys placed where they truly belong.”

George sucked in a sharp breath, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. He caught himself just in time, though the weight of the revelation bore down on him heavily. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration. “The scoundrel’s merely found some ridiculous loophole to swindle us out of our own hard-earned living.”

Ron, shifting uneasily, glanced between them, his brow deeply furrowed. “But…it isn’t true, is it?” he asked, uncertain. “I mean, you did sign the contract, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I bloody well did!” George snapped, dragging a weary hand over his face. His temples throbbed, and the entire ordeal made his head spin. “Fred, fetch some firewhisky—we’ll be drinking tonight, and we’ll be shutting up shop for now."

Fred, ever the one to take things in stride, gave a brief nod. “Right you are,” he said, already making his way towards the back.

Ron, still standing awkwardly near the counter, cleared his throat. “I’ll just have some err, water,” he muttered, as if that might soften the mood.

The days that followed were marked by an uneasiness, a shadow cast by the ill-fated encounter with Lucius Malfoy. They had taken to closing earlier than usual, unwilling to risk another unwelcome visitation. George, ever resourceful, had managed to track down the very individual who had first offered him the contract, buf, to their growing alarm, no reply had been forthcoming. 

And if the land had never truly belonged to them in the first place, that they had unknowingly signed that deceitful contract—fraudulent from the very start. Then, how had Lucius Malfoy been aware of the deception all along. How had he known? And if the man had been privy to this knowledge for so long, why had he waited years to reveal the truth? Why now, when their shop had finally begun to prosper—when they had poured blood, sweat, and tears into finally making something of themselves? 

It reeked of ill intent, as if the fucking bloke had deliberately held back, biding his time, waiting for the precise moment to strike and snatch it all away.

He stood alone at the counter, his hands moving idly over the worn surface, though there was little work to be done. The shop, once alive with the murmur of trade, feels strangely hollow now. Only a few customers have wandered in throughout the day, their purchases small, their coin purses drawn tight, and with each passing hour, the silence grows heavier, settling over the place like a damp fog that refuses to lift.

Hunger gnawed at Ron, but there was nothing fresh to eat, nothing warm to stave off the ache in his stomach. From the depths of the cupboard, he has salvaged a small crust of bread, its edges hardened from neglect, its centre cold beneath his teeth. He took a bite nonetheless, chewing like a man who knows he cannot afford to be picky. It was dry, tasteless, and did little to fill him, but he swallowed it down all the same, brushing the stray crumbs from his fingers before turning his gaze back to the empty shop, waiting for something—anything—to break the monotony.

Just as Ron swiped the last of the crumbs from the counter, the shop door swung open with a faint creak, letting in a gust of air from the street. Two young women stepped inside, their laughter spilling in after them, light and unbothered, the kind that speaks of well-fed comfort and idle amusement. He straightened up instinctively, though they seemed entirely unaware of his presence at first, caught up in their own hushed conversation, their gloved hands fluttering as they exchanged whispers behind barely concealed smirks.

Then, at last, one of them deigned to acknowledge him, though it was done with the kind of indifference that suggested she had never once had to concern herself with the likes of him. "Excuse me," she began, her tone pleasant enough, though she did not bother to properly look at him before wrinkling her nose, as if only now realising the stale scent of bread and dust that lingers in the air. "Do you, perhaps, sell laces that tie themselves about the waist?"

Ron blinked at her, taken aback for a moment, not just by the question but by the sheer audacity of asking it in such a manner. “Er,”

"Does it come in different colours?" the second woman inquired, her tone carrying the same expectation as if she were merely confirming something she already knew to be true.

Ron, caught slightly off guard, straightened his shoulders and gave a brief, uncertain nod. "Er—I think we’ve got some in the third section," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck before turning towards the shelves that loomed at the far end of the shop. It wasn’t as if he particularly cared about laces or their variety, but it was his job to fetch them, so fetch them he would.

The two women lingered where they stood, making no immediate effort to follow. Their hesitation was obvious, as though stepping further into the shop might somehow sully their expensive skirts or expose them to something unseemly. But after a brief exchange of glances, they seemed to resign themselves to it, lifting their hems slightly as they trailed after him, their boots clicking against the wooden floor with every step.

Ron reached the towering shelves and tilted his head back, scanning the neat rows of bundled laces stacked upon one another. He could just about make out the different shades—a dull array of earth tones mixed in with the occasional richer hue—but before he could even reach up for them, one of the women let out a sudden gasp, clutching at her companion’s arm with an excited squeal. 

"Oh my!" she cried, her eyes widening with delight as she pointed towards a particular set. "Why, this is absolutely perfect!"

The other woman followed her gaze, taking only a moment to assess before nodding in decisive agreement. “We’ll take all of these colours."

Ron’s hand, which had just been reaching for one of the bundles, froze in mid-air. His brow furrowed slightly, and he blinked at them in mild disbelief. All of them? Every single colour? He resisted the urge to ask if they were serious, but something about the way they stood—expectant, assured, utterly unbothered by the practicality of such a request—told him they were. He reached for the first bundle, already calculating in his head how long it would take to wrap up the entire lot.

Just as Ron turned to gather the laces, the door swung open once more, sending another faint gust of cool air drifting through the shop. Three more women stepped inside, their expressions bright with anticipation, their gazes sweeping quickly over the shelves before landing—inevitably—on the very same display of laces.

Ron frowned slightly, glancing between them and the two women already beside him. It was odd, having so much sudden interest in something as simple as waist laces, but before he could dwell on it, the bell above the door chimed again. Then again. A steady stream of well-dressed women began filtering into the shop, their conversations overlapping in excited murmurs, their eyes all drawn to the same section, as if guided by some unseen force.

Ron stiffened. This wasn’t normal. Not for a quiet little shop, not for something as mundane as laces. Within a few moments, the shop floor had become a flurry of skirts and eager voices, the chatter growing louder as more women spoke over one another.

“Oh, thank heavens, they’ve still got some left!”

"Everywhere else is selling out so quickly!"

His eyes darted around, the once-empty shop now brimming with customers, all reaching for the same handful of goods. The fine laces—delicate, embroidered pieces that had been the pride of their modest little stall—had been snatched up in a frenzy, the last of them disappearing from the counter before Ron had even fully grasped what was happening. One moment, there had been a small pile neatly arranged before him, and the next, the greedy hands of well-dressed women had stripped it bare. 

"Well, that was disgracefully fast."

"Not a single one left?"

"And what are we supposed to do now?”

He felt their eyes on him, sharp and brimming with displeasure. Ron ducked behind the counter pressing his back against the rough wood as if it might shield him from their piercing stares. For Merlin’s sake, this is a joke shop! Not some fancy dressmaker’s, not one of those high-end fabric shops where ladies fussed over silk and embroidery. They just happened to sell laces that tie themselves—as a gimmick. A daft little trick, not some miracle solution to whatever sudden crisis had them all flocking here like pigeons after breadcrumbs. 

Another hour had dragged by, and just as he had begun to suspect the twins had run off to some debauched mischief, the door burst open. Fred stumbled in first, his arms laden with what could only be described as an absurdly large parcel wrapped in a luxurious ribbon, the likes of which Ron was certain he had never before seen in his life. The sight of it was so out of place, so utterly nonsensical in the context of their usual affairs, that for a moment he simply gawked.

"Bloody hell!" Fred exclaimed, hoisting the box with the air of a man who had just conquered something formidable. "Nearly lost a limb getting this, I’ll have you know!"

Ron, still rather sore from his own recent misfortunes, straightened up with an exasperated scowl. "Where have you two been? I was nearly murdered by a horde of women not an hour past!" He gestured vaguely at the door, as though expecting the memory of his suffering to materialise before them for proof.

George, who had sauntered in behind his brother with the smug air of a man who had profited handsomely from some underhanded dealing, raised both hands in mock surrender. "Now, now," he said smoothly, his grin never faltering. "Business is business, little brother. Can’t be helped, you know."

Ron’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he finally tore his gaze from their unconcerned expressions and fixed it upon the parcel in Fred’s arms. It was a striking thing, its bright blue wrapping gleaming under the dim light, the ribbon tied so extravagantly that it seemed almost offensive in its finery. He did not trust it. He did not trust them. "And what am I looking at?" he asked at last, eyeing the object as though it might explode at any moment.

Fred and George exchanged a knowing glance, one of those irritatingly smug, conspiratorial looks they so often shared—the kind that made Ron feel as though he were the butt of some elaborate joke. 

"Ronniekins, didn’t you hear the news?" Fred began, his tone positively dripping with exaggerated incredulity.

Ron, whose patience had already been whittled down to a frayed thread, scowled. "I don’t care," he said curtly, his arms crossing over his chest in a display of pure, simmering exasperation. He was still reeling from his near-death experience with the aforementioned horde of women, and he had little interest in whatever nonsense the twins were peddling this time.

Unfazed, George tilted his head towards the mysterious parcel, his grin widening. "Well, this," he announced with theatrical flair, giving the extravagant box a small but deliberate shake, "is a dress. One Ginny had ordered."

Ron’s frown deepened. A dress? His sister had ordered something wrapped up in that absurdly posh packaging? What in Merlin’s name—"And I feel it bears mentioning," George continued, his tone turning almost wounded, "that it cost nearly a full year’s worth of my hard-earned wages."

Ron’s jaw fell open. His mind reeled. A year’s wages? "You’re telling me," His eyes darted from the parcel to his brother, as though he were trying to make sense of some impossibly cruel trick of the light. "that our Ginny—that is, our little sister—spent more gold than you make in a year on a single frock?"

Fred sighed in mock sympathy, shaking his head. "Heartbreaking, isn’t it?"

George nodded gravely. "Truly, a tragedy for the working man."

"What—but why?" Ron spluttered, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and mounting horror. How in Merlin’s name had their parents agreed to such an outrageous extravagance? It was one thing for Ginny to dream up grand notions, but quite another for their mother and father—who scarcely had two Knuts to rub together—to indulge her in this absurdity.

Fred let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in exaggeration as though Ron’s ignorance pained him deeply. "Oh, Ronnie, for the love of all things wizarding, would you please make an effort to read the morning newspaper?" he chided.

Ron, still frowning, made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat but nonetheless snatched the crumpled newspaper Fred tossed his way. He nearly dropped it in his rush to unfold the blasted thing—his fingers fumbling against the coarse print.

To Be Held in One Fortnight: A Grand Royal Ball!

His gaze continued downward, drinking in the details against his better judgment. It was a tradition, an event hosted by the palace itself, a night of finery and spectacle where the young prince—with an unknown face, Ron now realised, he had never actually bothered to learn about—would now select a bride. 

Ron's throat tightened as his eyes caught upon a particular line, the inked words standing out as though they had been written solely to mock him. "All maidens of noble standing, as well as those of humble birth, are invited to attend." His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper, the news sinking into him with all the subtlety of a brick to the head. "You mean to tell me," he said at last, his voice low, almost hesitant, "Ginny is going to this ball? With the expectation that she’ll waltz her way into some posh prince’s affections and—what? Became queen?"

"That’s the spirit, little brother," George said cheerfully.

"Do try to keep up," Fred added.

"Well," Ron said, though his voice was laced with heavy scepticism, "so she’s gone and spent that much coin—for a single night at some royal ball—all in the hope that the prince might so much as glance in her direction?" 

"Yeah,” George said breezily, shrugging in that infuriatingly unconcerned manner of his.

Ron scoffed, shaking his head. He was about to say something else—something particularly cutting about the sheer foolishness of throwing away hard-earned wages on a silk dress and a dream—when George added, almost offhandedly, "The two of us are coming home, by the way."

Ron blinked. His thoughts momentarily derailed. "What? Why?"

"Because, you great lump, Mum said so," Fred answered, "She’s beside herself with excitement over this ball nonsense—reckons it’s a grand opportunity, all that sentimental rubbish.”

Ron could picture it now: their mother, eyes alight with a wistfulness she rarely had time for, gushing over Ginny’s dress, rambling on about destiny and fate and oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful, boys, if she had a chance? His stomach twisted—not from indignation this time, but from something far more pressing. "And what about me?" he asked abruptly, glancing between the two of them, his expression betraying something just shy of desperation.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "What about you?"

"I want to go."

Fred and George exchanged another glance.

Ron crossed his arms, determined. "I do," he insisted, his voice firm, though there was a flicker of something almost boyish beneath it—an eagerness he was trying very hard to keep concealed. "I mean, why shouldn’t I? If all manner of folk are allowed in, then I ought to be able to go too." 

The truth of it was, he had no delusions of grandeur—no fanciful notions about catching the eye of royalty or rubbing shoulders with nobility. But the thought of stepping foot in a palace, of seeing all its wealth and splendour up close, of feasting on real food—food that wasn’t just stale bread and thin broth. He imagined himself in the grand banquet halls overflowed with meats and cheeses, fine breads and sweet pastries, things he had only ever heard about in passing or caught glimpses of through the windows of wealthier households.

“Well, you see,” George began, as though he were treading carefully over uneven ground. “Mum didn’t exactly mention you in the letters.”

Ron felt the colour drain from his face, with the cold realisation that his presence had been neither accounted for nor particularly desired. His brows knitted together, an uncomfortable prickling sensation creeping up the back of his neck. 

“What d’you mean by that?” 

George, for all his usual ease and merriment, faltered. He cast a brief glance at Fred, who was unusually quiet, he cleared his throat and carried on, his words slower now, as if he were tiptoeing across thin ice. “Well, she—Mum, that is—she’s sorted things, you know, bought us all new robes and the lot…”

“And where did she come up with such a sum?” Ron asked, with an edge of suspicion, though he did his best to mask.

Fred hesitated only a moment before answering, “She didn’t—well, she didn’t exactly say,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in a manner that suggested he, too, had found the matter puzzling. “But it—it seemed a fair bit of money, that’s for sure.”

“Oh,” Ron muttered, though the single syllable barely scratched the surface of his thoughts. A slow, sinking sensation crept through his chest, for there was only one explanation that made any kind of sense. It had to be his money that he had been dutifully sending home, little by little, in the hope that it would ease the burden of household expenses, perhaps pay off what was their family owed. But, now that he thought of it, there had been mention of Ginny ordering a dress—one that, by all accounts, had been of finer make than anything they could ordinarily afford. Was that what his earnings had gone towards? Silk and lace while he had gone without? 

Still, he swallowed the thought, forcing himself to nod as though none of it mattered. “Alright,” he murmured, though the word felt strangely hollow in his mouth.

“‘Course,” Fred said, though he did not quite meet Ron’s eye as he spoke—that Ron wondered if his brother was merely trying to placate him, to smooth over whatever unease lingered between them. He merely watched as they turned away, already busying themselves with straightening the counter, tucking away loose odds and ends as though the conversation had never taken place. 

Chapter Text

The Burrow was in a state of utter commotion upon their return the following day, a din of voices and hurried footsteps filling every corner of the house. The Weasley children had all made their way back home, each summoned for a week of careful preparation in anticipation of the grand occasion—the Royal Ball. It was an event that commanded the attention of the entire kingdom, a gathering of nobility and fortunate commoners alike, where fate itself seemed to weave its intricate patterns beneath the flickering glow of chandelier light.

Among them, Ginny was by far the most enlivened by the prospect. Her excitement was a thing unrestrained, a bubbling over of bright-eyed wonderment that seemed to fill the air about her. She recounted the most thrilling detail of all—that the young prince himself had once been a pupil at the very same school she had attended. This fact alone sent her into raptures, for what greater sign could there be that destiny had a hand in all things? “And, oh, how handsome he was!” She spared no detail in her effusions, every syllable carrying the weight of admiration as she described the curve of his smile, the noble bearing of his stance, the way he moved, spoke, and carried himself with a grace that seemed beyond mere mortals.

Ron, who had been listening with half an ear while shoving a piece of bread into his mouth, found himself frowning at the sheer absurdity of it all. How, in the name of all things sensible, could a person claim to fancy someone when they hadn’t even the faintest clue what their actual name was? 

Well, to be fair, the young prince had never properly introduced himself to anyone, had he? It wasn’t as if he went about shaking hands and offering his name in the marketplace. No, everywhere he went, people only ever referred to him as Your Highness—even in the newspapers, where his every move was documented. For a reason, not a single soul seemed to know what he was actually called, and if they did—well, they certainly weren’t in any hurry to say it aloud.

Ron supposed that was just how things were with royals. All grandeur and mystery, floating about in their gilded worlds where names hardly seemed to matter. He swallowed down the last of his bread and shook his head to himself. People could be right peculiar sometimes.

"I once introduced myself in front of the prince," Percy declared with an air of self-importance, admiring his own reflection in the slightly fogged-up mirror as he adjusted the fine robes their mother had procured for him. The fabric, a deep shade of blue with subtle embroidery along the cuffs, suited him well enough, and he seemed thoroughly pleased with his own appearance. "And I must say, he wasn’t quite the dashing figure all the ladies make him out to be."

"What do you mean?" George asked, running a comb through his unruly hair with far less enthusiasm than Percy had for his own grooming.

The room was alive with movement, filled with the rustling of fine cloth and the occasional muttered curse as the Weasley brothers prepared for the grand occasion that loomed before them. It was an unfamiliar sort of gathering for a family so accustomed to simpler affairs, but here Ron's brothers were, each attempting—some more successfully than others—to make themselves properly presentable for the evening’s festivities.

"He was young, of course," Percy continued, he was still studying his reflection in the mirror, adjusting the folds of his robe with delicate precision, as though he were a dignitary preparing to address a crowd. "But if you ask me, he didn’t appear as though he came from the royal family at all. There was something—well—ordinary about him."

"Don't say that," Ron muttered, he wasn’t entirely certain why Percy’s words irked him, but they did. Perhaps it was the arrogance in his brother’s voice, the way he spoke as if he knew all there was to know about princes and kings, when in reality, none of them had ever spent a single day in their company.

Percy turned at him, as though only just realising he was there. "And what of you?" he asked, his brow arching in faint disbelief. "What exactly are you doing here? Did Mother actually permit you to attend the ball as well?"

Ron’s face burned with sting of shame. He had accompanied them only because he had been expected to, trailing behind as they fluttered excitedly about the house. 

"There is nothing for you to wear," his mother had said, her voice heavy with false regret. "You must understand, dear, the tailor simply had no cloth to spare for an extra set of robes. And the carriage—well, you see, there is only enough space for them. It would be quite improper to squeeze in another body, don’t you think?"

The lie was blatant, woven with the kind of indifference that stung far worse than outright cruelty. He had seen the extra set of robes, the fine deep-red fabric folded neatly upon a chair only the night before, set aside with every intention of being used. And the carriage—large enough that a child could have laid across the seat with room to spare—stood waiting with its doors yawning open, an empty space that could have easily held one more. But he was to remain behind. Their house would need tending, after all, and someone must be left to see to it while the rest of them vanished into the golden glow of the evening.

Ginny swept past him without so much as a glance, her small frame adorned in a gown of the deepest blue, its silken folds shimmering in the evening. The fabric clung to her as if it had been woven by magic itself, cascading in perfect, delicate waves with each step she took. She had spent the past week perfecting her movements, rehearsing the elegant tilt of her chin, the the graceful arch of her wrist as she lifted her skirts just so. And now, as she ascended into the waiting carriage, she executed each motion with a precision that could only have come from hours of tireless practice before the old mirror.

Behind her, their brothers followed suit, stepping into the carriage with a clumsy of practised refinement. The door swung shut with a soft, final click, and then, with the crack of the driver’s whip, the carriage rolled forward, its large wheels grinding against the cobblestones as it carried them away towards the splendour of the evening.

So there he stood, shoulders squared in an attempt to keep his disappointment from showing, hands curling into the worn fabric of his own sleeves as the carriage rolled away, its wheels clattering on the a. The night swallowed them whole, and with them, any foolish notion he might have had of belonging amongst them.

Ron turned from the empty road and made his way back into the Burrow. His eyes drifted towards the kitchen, where the remnants of the evening’s preparations lay abandoned in careless disarray. The dishes had piled high in the sink, some still streaked with the remnants of gravy, others stacked haphazardly as if they had been tossed aside without a second thought. A deep weariness settled in his bones, but he pushed it away, rolling up his sleeves with resignation. At least with work, there was no time to think.

He moved methodically, his hands dipping into the soapy water, scrubbing away at the plates with a vigour that bordered on desperation. It wasn’t long before he felt the familiar scurry of tiny feet along the wooden counter, the soft chittering of his only loyal companions in this house. The rats had gathered as they always did—their beady eyes watching him with a curiosity that made his lips twitch into a faint, wavering smile. They weren’t disgusted by him. They weren’t indifferent. To them, he was not an inconvenience, nor a forgotten thing to be left behind.

"Good to see you lot again," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he rinsed another dish. One of the rats—small, with patches of brown and grey fur—scampered closer, nudging its tiny nose against his wrist as if offering a silent reassurance.

The door burst open with a force that rattled the very bones of the house, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. Ron whirled around, his breath catching in his throat as a flood of cloaked figures swept into the room, their dark robes billowing like storm clouds as they moved with calculated purpose. He was too stunned to react—rooted to the spot as his soapy hands dripped water onto the stone floor. These were no common thieves—no desperate men seeking shelter from the cold. Their movements were too precise, their presence carrying the unmistakable weight of authority.

Then, through the chaos, came a figure he recognised instantly.

Lucius Malfoy stepped in behind them, his cold, aristocratic features set in an expression of quiet disdain as he surveyed the house with narrowed eyes. He did not move with urgency—there was no need. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had already decided the outcome of the night.

Malfoy’s gaze locked onto him, piercing, as if weighing his very existence and finding it utterly insignificant. At once, the cloaked wizards sprang into motion. They tore through the house with merciless efficiency, upending furniture, yanking open drawers, rifling through every scrap of parchment as though the very walls might be hiding some terrible secret.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Ron shouted, horror clawing its way up his throat as a chair was knocked aside with a crash, sending dust and splinters into the air. His voice was raw, desperate, but it did nothing to stop them. They surged past him as if he were no more than a spectre in his own home, hurrying up the staircase with heavy, unrelenting steps. Others fanned out through the lower rooms, throwing open every cupboard, every chest, seizing letters, documents—anything that bore ink on parchment.

"Get every piece of evidence you can find about the shop," Malfoy ordered, his voice cold and clipped, carrying the effortless authority of a man who was used to being obeyed. "And stop that carriage before it reaches the palace. The last thing we need is the filthiest of them all parading themselves before the Potters."

Ron barely had time to process the words before his body moved on instinct. "Stop!" he shouted, his breath coming fast and uneven as his hand shot to his pocket, fingers curling around the rough, familiar grip of his wand. But he never got the chance to raise it.

Malfoy struck him. The back of his cane—a polished, serpentine piece of silver—lashed against Ron’s wrist with a force that sent pain shooting up his arm. His fingers spasmed, and before he could so much as tighten his grip, his wand slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly onto the stone floor.

A smirk curled at the edges of Malfoy’s mouth as he watched the boy flinch, the satisfaction in his eyes barely concealed. He did not need to waste words on someone like Ron. The message had already been made perfectly clear.

Ron stumbled back, his chest heaving, his hand throbbing from the blow. Fury burned hot in his veins, but he was outnumbered, unarmed, and powerless against the storm that had already consumed his home. The cloaked figures continued their work, their hands tearing through every drawer, every scrap of parchment, while others stormed up the staircase, their boots thudding against the wooden steps.

Somewhere beyond the walls of the house, the carriage carrying his siblings was still rolling down the road, oblivious to the danger now racing after them. And Ron—trapped, helpless, forced to watch his world being torn apart—could do nothing but seethe.

A masked wizard descended the staircase, his gloved fingers clutching a single document as though it were the key to some great and terrible truth. His cloak billowed slightly as he stepped into the dim light of the hall, the heavy silence thickening around him like a shroud. Without a word, he extended the paper towards Malfoy, who took it with the air of a man receiving a long-awaited prize.

Malfoy hummed in satisfaction, his eyes scanned the document, and whatever lay upon that parchment, it was exactly what he had been searching for. "Very well," he murmured, rolling the paper neatly between his fingers. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he turned towards the door. "Follow me."

The wizards moved in perfect unison, their boots echoing against the stone floor as they swept out into the night. They did not spare a glance back at the ruin they had left behind, nor at the lone figure standing amidst the wreckage of what had once been a home.

Ron stood frozen, his breath shallow, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Around him, the house lay in utter disarray—furniture overturned, drawers wrenched from their frames, papers scattered like fallen leaves. The lingering scent of ink and dust filled the air, mingling with the cold bite of night that seeped in through the open door. It was as if a storm had ripped through the very heart of the place, tearing apart every fragile semblance of order and leaving only destruction in its wake.

His gaze flickered to the remnants of his life—the broken chair, the torn letters, the dishes still half-submerged in soapy water. A part of him wanted to move, to fix, to gather the pieces and make sense of what had just happened. But another part of him, the part that had been beaten down time and time again, knew the truth. This was not something that could be cleaned away.

Ron stepped forward on unsteady legs, his body moving without thought as he reached for the door. It groaned on its hinges as he pushed it shut, the heavy wood settling back into place with a dull, lifeless thud. He reached instinctively for the latch, fingers fumbling over splintered remains—only to realise, with a hollow sense of finality, that the lock had been completely destroyed.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his hand falling away. There was no use trying to bar the entrance. The house was open now, exposed to the night, to the wind, to whoever might choose to walk in next. The security it had once held, however little, had been shattered alongside everything else. Ron dragged himself across the wreckage-strewn floor, stepping over broken drawers, trampled papers, and an overturned table that had lost two of its legs. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Ron cast another wary glance toward the door, his pulse quickening in his throat with a steady, ominous thud. His thoughts tumbled over themselves in frantic succession—was it Malfoy again? Had he come back to finish the job, to silence the lone witness to whatever foul deed he had committed? A cold dread settled in Ron’s chest, but he remained rooted to the spot, paralysed by the weight of uncertainty.

His breath caught, as the door, moved by some unseen hand, creaked upon its hinges with an excruciating slowness. Then, through the widening gap, a cloaked figure emerged, their silhouette at first nothing more than an indistinct shape. And then, as the flight briefly licked the edge of the stranger’s hood, illuminating a face lined with the passage of years, he saw her—an old woman, draped in heavy cloth that sagged from her frame like burdens long carried.

"Oh, pardon me, dearie," she said mirthly, "Terribly sorry to barge in so unannounced, but I find myself in need of your aid."

Ron stared, his mouth working uselessly before managing a strangled, "Aid?"

The woman chuckled softly.. "Ah, but I was ever so parched, you see,” she said, her lips curling at the corners, as though she found some quiet amusement in his obvious bewilderment. "I've been upon a long and weary journey.”

"Of course," Ron blinked, still thrown off by the strange turn of events. The redhead was uncertain whether to move or remain idle, but the decision was swiftly made for him.

The rats—quick, nimble creatures that had long made a home in the crumbling corners of the place—scurried across the counter, their tiny claws clicking against the wood as they nudged a battered old pitcher forward. Ron barely spared them a glance, so accustomed was he to their presence, and instead reached for a glass, its surface smudged from too many uses and too few washings. He filled it to the very brim, the water sloshing slightly as he turned to offer it to the woman.

She took it with fingers that were thin and gnarled, the skin stretched taut over knuckles that had seen many years of toil. "Thank you,” she said, before she lifted the glass to her lips and drank deeply, as though she had been parched for days. "Pray, tell me—what manner of happenings have befallen this place?"

Ron felt the heat rush to his face at an alarming speed, his ears burning with the telltale betrayal of guilt. His mouth worked faster than his thoughts, words tumbling out in a manner entirely lacking grace. "Nothing!" he blurted, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his own panic. The old woman’s gaze did not waver. If anything, her scepticism deepened, her wrinkled lips pressing into a thin line as though she could see straight through his feeble attempt at nonchalance.

He had the distinct sensation of being a small, scrawny boy caught filching an extra crust of bread from the baker’s stall—though in this case, there was no stolen loaf, only the damning evidence of whatever disaster had unfolded mere moments before her arrival.

The old woman chuckled, it was the kind of laugh one gave when they already knew the truth but wished to hear the guilty party fumble through a poor excuse all the same. She tilted her head, examining him with a shrewdness that made Ron feel as though she were peeling back the very layers of his soul.

"Did the others left you to fend for yourself, all alone?" she asked, her tone light but edged with something that suggested she knew the answer before she had even asked the question.

Ron stiffened, the way she said it, as though he were some pitiful stray left to his own devices. His pride flared, though it did little to disguise the truth of the matter.  

"Oh, but no fret, kind sir!" the old woman said cheerfully, as she turned towards the door. And with surprising sprightliness, she stepped outside, her tattered shawl flapping in the cool evening air as she beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. "Come along now, you’ve only three hours left before the clock strikes midnight—you must seize this opportunity and go to the ball!"

Ron hesitated, his feet stubbornly rooted to the spot. He had half a mind to feign deafness and pretend he had misheard her entirely, but the eager glint in her eyes made it abundantly clear that she meant every word. 

"Err—" He scratched at the back of his head, his brow furrowing in sheer bewilderment. "Sorry, I don’t reckon I could do that..."

The old woman gasped, clutching her chest in exaggerated horror. "But you could!" she insisted, as if the very idea of refusal was an affront to common sense. Before Ron could get another word in, she reached into the folds of her ragged garments and produced—of all things—a wand. "Oh, but first—let me make a small adjustment!" she declared with a delighted cackle.

Ron’s face twisted in alarm, but he barely had a second to react before a sudden, blinding light erupted from the tip of her wand.

For a brief, terrible moment, he was absolutely certain he was about to die—obliterated into nothingness by an overzealous old crone wielding unholy magic. He staggered back, throwing an arm over his face as the brilliance enveloped the space around them. His ears rang, and for one dreadful instant, he thought he might never see again. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the light dissipated.

Blinking rapidly, Ron lowered his arm, heart hammering against his ribs. Where once had stood a hunched, withered old woman now stood a young lady—no older than twenty, by his reckoning—with long, wavy blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulders in shimmering cascades. Her tattered shawl had vanished, replaced instead by a gown of silver that glittered in the moonlight, its fabric flowing like liquid bright starlights.

"...Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

"I'm Luna Lovegood," the young woman announced with a serene smile, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, but do call me a fairy godmother, won’t you? My father always told me that if I were ever to appear in such a fashion, it would be proper for people to address me as such."

Ron stared at her, his mouth opening slightly before snapping shut again. 

But Luna—if that was truly her name—seemed entirely unfazed by his bewilderment. If anything, she looked positively delighted by it. "Oh, but we mustn't dawdle!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in excitement. "The Royal ball is set to begin at any moment!"

Ron took an instinctive step back, his hands raised in protest. "Wait, I can’t go!" he burst out, shaking his head fervently. "I—I mean, my family would see me! And Mum—she’d have my head if she found out I’d run off to some fancy ball without so much as a by-your-leave!"

Luna, however, merely giggled, the sound light and airy, as though she had expected precisely this reaction. She tilted her head, her golden curls shifting with the movement. "Oh, you needn’t worry about any of that, silly," she assured him with a knowing smile. "I knew who you were from the very beginning, Ron Weasley. And I—well, I simply wished to give you the most wonderful evening you’ve ever had."

There was something so earnest in the way she said it, so entirely devoid of mockery, that Ron felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. He wasn’t accustomed to such kindness, at least not in a way that didn’t come with strings attached. He swallowed thickly, shifting on his feet, uncertain whether to argue further or to let the strange, dreamlike nature of the night carry him forward. 

"What—what exactly are we gonna do, then?" Ron asked, his voice laced with nervous apprehension. 

Luna blinked at him, as if surprised he even needed to ask. "Oh, but that’s obvious," she said, with the same dreamy certainty as before. "We must make you handsome!"

Ron balked at that. He felt rather insulted, truth be told—was she implying he wasn’t already? He wasn’t exactly some chisel-jawed prince, but handsome was a bit of a strong word to throw around, wasn’t it? He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Right, well, I think I’ve got some old robes in my room somewhere—" he began, already considering a mad dash up the stairs in hopes of ending this conversation before it could go any further.

Luna, however, dismissed the idea with an airy shake of her head. "Nope!" she declared, her voice ringing with cheerful finality. "I meant this."

Before Ron could so much as take a step backward, she flicked her wand towards him. There was no warning—no gradual change or subtle shift—just a sudden, overwhelming sensation of warmth sweeping over his body, as if standing too close to a roaring fire. 

His breath hitched as a soft golden glow engulfed him, spreading from the tips of his fingers down to his toes. And then, as if the very air around him had been woven into silk, his tattered garments began to change.

The frayed edges of his old tunic melted away, the fabric stretching and shifting into something impossibly fine—rich, velvety robes of deep crimson, embroidered with intricate golden patterns that shimmered with every movement. His sleeves lengthened, the coarse wool giving way to a silken texture so light it hardly felt real. His scuffed, near-hopeless shoes vanished in a flicker of glimmering gold, replaced by sleek, polished footwear that gleamed beneath the candlelight. And then—perhaps the strangest touch of all—his rough, calloused hands were suddenly encased in a pair of golden gloves, the fabric fitting so perfectly it might as well have been spun just for him.

Ron stared at himself, wide-eyed, barely daring to breathe. "...Bloody hell," he muttered once again, turning his hands over as though they might belong to someone else entirely.

Luna, watching him with evident delight, clapped her hands together. "Oh, you do look rather splendid," she mused. "Just as a proper gentleman should!"

"Wait—but," Ron stammered, his mind still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all. He held out his hands in protest, watching the golden fabric shimmer with each movement, as though trying to prove to himself that this was all some elaborate trick of the light. "Is this really necessary? I mean—what if they saw me? What if someone recognised me?"

Luna, as unbothered as ever, simply raised her wand again, pointing it directly at his face. 

Ron barely had time to flinch before she murmured something—some strange incantation he didn’t recognise—and, from the tip of her wand, a fine silver dust burst forth. 

The delicate particles drifted towards him, catching the faint glow of the moonlight before vanishing into the air, as if absorbed by his very skin. "There," Luna said cheerfully, lowering her wand with an air of satisfaction. "They won’t recognise you anymore."

Ron's hands shot up to his face, patting his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, as if he might physically feel the change. "Alright, but—" he began, still trying to piece together what in Merlin’s name was happening, when Luna suddenly thrust something into his hands.

"Oh, here," she said, holding out a small, unassuming cup. It was a simple thing—nothing like the grand goblets he'd imagine royalty drinking from—but there was an odd weight to it, a peculiar hum in the air around it. "It’s a Portkey. In two minutes, it’ll transport you right to the very entrance of the palace."

Ron tightened his grip on the cup instinctively, a fresh wave of panic rising in his chest. "Two minutes?" he echoed, his voice inching higher.

Luna nodded, completely undeterred by his distress. "Oh, and of course, your transformation will wear off when the clock strikes midnight," she added, as though that particular detail were only a minor inconvenience. "So, when that happens, you must return to the exact spot where you arrived. The same cup will appear there, and you must touch it so it can bring you back here.”

Ron’s stomach twisted at the implications. "Must?" he repeated warily. "And what happens if I don’t make it back in time?"

Luna simply smiled, though there was something just a touch too whimsical about it. "Well," she said vaguely, "I suppose you could always take your chances explaining to the nobility why a dishevelled commoner in tattered robes has suddenly appeared in the middle of their grand ball."

Ron let out a strangled sound, his grip on the cup tightening as panic fully took hold. “What, hold on, I don't—”

He was going to die.

Chapter Text

Harry stood before the grand, gilded mirror, he had spent the better part of an hour attempting to tame the unruly tufts of jet-black hair that refused to submit to the comb’s authority, each stubborn strand springing back into disarray the moment his fingers left his scalp. Frustration knit his brow as he dragged his hand through the troublesome locks once more, only to be abruptly thwarted by a sharp slap to his wrist.

Harry scowled at his reflection, feeling a peculiar sort of resentment towards his own appearance, now polished and princely, but utterly unrecognisable. He had spent an age standing before this mirror, not out of vanity, nor even out of concern for his attire, but because his feet would not take him to where he was meant to go.

Tonight, the palace would gleam with golden chandeliers, the grand ballroom would be filled with music, laughter, and the swish of silk skirts as hopeful maidens twirled beneath the watchful eyes of nobility. And he, the prince, the very reason for this grand affair, was expected to take his place among them, to seek out the woman who would, by the kingdom’s expectation, become his bride. 

"The ball will begin in a few minutes, Harry," Hermione said, she stood just beyond the threshold of his chamber, hands clasped before her, her posture poised with the effortless grace befitting a noblewoman. And regardless of the finery of her violet gown, the carefully pinned curls framing her face, and the regal air she had mastered over the years, there remained a certain familiarity in her expression—one that not of courtly obligations but of an old and steadfast friendship.

Hermione had been at his side since his very first year at Hogwarts, a bond forged not through titles or expectation but through shared trials, whispered confidences, and an unshakable trust that had never once wavered. She was, perhaps, the only one in all the kingdom whom he could rely on without question.

But even as she stood there, waiting for him to gather himself, Harry found his throat tightening, his reluctance pressing down upon him like a weight he could not shake. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with an unreadable gaze. 

"Do you think he will come?" Harry asked rather quietly, though the chamber’s silence made it sound far louder than he intended.

"Are you still thinking about him?"

"Well, yeah," Harry admitted, shifting his weight uneasily. 

"Harry, you must at least pretend you are searching for a bride. If nothing else, dance with a few of the ladies. Make it appear as though you are trying."

Harry exhaled a weary sigh, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disturbing it slightly. "Could I not simply dance with you instead? That would be far easier."

"You cannot," Hermione said with a pointed look. "Do you know how quickly rumours would spread? By the time the music stopped, half the court would have you engaged, and the other half would be weaving tales of secret rendezvous in the palace gardens."

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Brilliant. So I am to endure an evening of meaningless conversation, forced pleasantries, and dances I do not wish to have, all while pretending I am not hoping—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Hermione watched him carefully but said nothing for a moment. Then, with a small sigh, she stepped forward, reaching for his arm. "You must do this, Harry. For now, just play the part."

He looked at her, searching for some argument, some excuse, but found none. So, with great reluctance, he allowed her to lead him toward the doors, where the distant strains of music were already beginning to drift through the palace halls. The moment Harry stepped into the grand ballroom, he was met with the customary flurry of courtiers—lords and ladies draped in opulent silks, their voices blending into an indistinct murmur of greetings, pleasantries, and names he neither cared to remember nor made an effort to. He inclined his head where necessary, murmured vague acknowledgments where required, and did his best to navigate through the sea of finely dressed nobility without becoming ensnared in needless conversation.

It was only when he spotted two familiar figures standing near the marble staircase—both grinning at him in a way that promised nothing but mischief—that he felt a flicker of genuine sentiment. Sirius Black, dressed in dark velvet finery that barely concealed his untamed spirit, and Remus Lupin, whose composed demeanour did little to hide the amusement in his eyes.

"It’s your time to shine, pup," Sirius said, clapping a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.

"There’s nothing to shine for," Harry muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Sirius scoffed. "Come now, at least pretend you’re enjoying yourself. That’s what royalty does best, isn’t it?"

Remus, ever the more tempered of the two, gave Harry a reassuring glance. "It won’t be as dreadful as you think," he said mildly. "A dance or two, polite conversation—just enough to keep the court satisfied."

Harry exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to tug at the high collar of his ceremonial attire. "And what if I don’t care for the court’s satisfaction?"

Sirius chuckled. "Then you’ll be making things far more interesting for the rest of us."

"Good evening, Lady Hermione," Remus greeted with a courteous nod.

"A good evening to you as well," Hermione replied, though the slight stiffness in her tone suggested she was still recovering from the ordeal of trying to usher Harry into the ballroom. She smoothed down the folds of her gown, then turned her gaze back to him. "I must take my leave—Neville has promised me a dance."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Neville?"

"Yes, Neville Longbottom," Hermione said pointedly. "And before you ask, no, I did not coerce him into it. He offered, and I accepted. A perfectly normal arrangement, Harry." Sirius snickered under his breath, while Remus merely smiled. Before Harry could formulate a response, Hermione added, "Oh, and one more thing—you should make an effort to greet our old classmates. Many of them have come tonight, and it would be rude to ignore them."

Harry groaned internally. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do," she said firmly. "Now, if you'll excuse me." With that, she swept away, her steps poised and deliberate, vanishing into the crowd before Harry could protest further.

Sirius grinned. "Well, you heard the lady. Time to play the gracious prince."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. This night was only getting longer. He then moved through the ballroom with the kind of ease expected of a prince, though inwardly, he felt anything but at ease. The sheer number of noblemen and women, adorned in their finest silks and jewels, created an almost suffocating atmosphere. Many of the young ladies giggled and whispered behind their gloved hands as he passed, their large eyes fluttering with poorly concealed excitement. He offered polite nods where necessary, a carefully measured smile here and there, but his mind was already seeking out a familiar face amidst the sea of strangers.

At last, he spotted someone he recognised—Dean Thomas, a friend from his school years, now standing confidently with a goblet of wine in hand. As soon as he caught sight of Harry, Dean lifted his glass in a casual salute. “Good to see you again, Your Highness," he said, a wry grin playing at the corner of his lips.

Harry let out a small breath of relief. "Same," he replied, stepping closer. "I swear, there are more people here than I expected."

Dean raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his expression. "Weren’t you the one who insisted on inviting commoners from every town?"

"Well," Harry began, rubbing the back of his neck, "I hadn’t quite realised just how many people that would be."

Dean chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "That, my friend, is the reality of ruling a kingdom. You make a single grand gesture, and suddenly, half the realm is at your doorstep." 

A moment later, a familiar figure appeared—Seamus Finningan, effortlessly weaving his way through the throng of nobility, a goblet of wine in each hand. "You seem to be growing taller every time I see you, Your Highness. Hope you're eating well—scrawny little thing you were, the first time we met."

"And you're still a prat," Harry shot back, though there was no real bite to his words.

Seamus chuckled, clinking his goblet against Dean’s before taking a casual sip. "Good to see you again, mate. Rare sight, you turning up at these grand affairs. Thought you might’ve vanished into some enchanted forest by now." He smirked. "Not that the Daily Prophet would’ve been any less dramatic about it. They’ve been filling their pages with all sorts of ridiculous nonsense about you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I’m well aware."

"Oh, I’ll bet you are," Seamus said, his grin widening. "I read the latest one just before coming here—apparently, someone saw you covered in blood, near death, barely clinging to life. Nearly tragic, it was." He arched an eyebrow. "Was there any truth to it, or did you just trip over your own feet again?"

Dean snorted into his wine.

Harry let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temple. "If I had truly been on death’s door as often as they claim, I doubt I’d be standing here right now."

“Aye, but it does keep things interesting, doesn’t it?"

"Women," Dean chuckled under his breath, leaning in slightly. "They have a knack for imagining men locked in some grand battle, bloodied but victorious."

Seamus let out a bark of laughter, nearly spilling his wine. "Honestly, Harry, you might as well start showing up to court covered in fake bandages. You’d have half the ladies swooning at your feet."

"That’s the last thing I need." Harry groaned.

Dean swirled his drink thoughtfully. "You must’ve noticed it by now. The moment a rumour spreads about you duelling a rogue knight or barely surviving an assassination attempt, suddenly every noblewoman in the kingdom wants to catch a glimpse of you." He took a sip of his wine. "Mystery, danger—it’s all rather thrilling for them."

Seamus nudged Harry with his elbow. "Bet you, before the night’s over, at least three of them will ask you if the rumours are true."

Harry exhaled heavily. "And what exactly am I supposed to say?"

"Depends.” Seamus grinned. “Do you want them to fall madly in love with you or be absolutely terrified by your brave recklessness?"

These two men had never truly changed since their school years—always laughing, always quick with a jest, and always managing to make Harry’s life both more tolerable and infinitely more exasperating. He had barely taken another sip of his drink when, as if summoned by the very conversation, a noblewomen drifted toward them. She was undeniably beautiful, her gown embroidered with delicate golden threads that shimmered under the chandeliers. Her posture, their smiles—everything about them exuded the grace and refinement that Harry knew his father would approve of instantly. 

The woman dipped into elegant bows, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Your Highness," she smiled, her voice light as air. "It is quite nice to finally be meeting you. Would you do me the honour of your first dance?"

Seamus, ever the troublemaker, nudged him discreetly in the ribs. Dean smirked over the rim of his goblet, clearly enjoying Harry’s predicament.

Harry glanced at the woman, his expression carefully neutral. "I'll think about it," he said simply.

The lady dipped into another graceful bow before hastily retreating, her silken skirts rustling as she disappeared into the throng of glittering courtiers. Harry's gaze had drifted beyond the revelry, past the chandeliers and swirling figures, seeking—always seeking—someone he had hoped to glimpse in the middle of the grandeur of the ballroom. There was already another who held his attention, someone whose presence he had been searching for since the night began. But, no matter how intently he looked, he could not seem to find him.

All these young women had likely come here with a single purpose—to dance with him, to charm him, to present themselves as the ideal choice for a future queen. The mere thought of it was enough to drain what little patience he had left. 

Harry stepped away from the crowd, weaving swiftly through the grand hall, past candlelight and lilting laughter, toward the raised dais where his father surveyed the gathering from above. The King sat in his gilded chair, his expression delight as he observed the nobles below. Beside him, his mother sat with her youngest child cradled in her arms, her voice a gentle murmur as she happily cooed at the baby.

Harry's gaze drifted over the grand hall below. Unfamiliar faces moved through the revelry, laughter and music weaving through the air as nobles twirled in elegant steps, utterly absorbed in their merriment. "Err," came a hesitant voice, breaking through the hum of conversation and the distant strains of music. 

He barely suppressed a sigh, already weary of another interruption. It had been the same all evening—one hopeful noblewoman after another, each eager to secure a dance with him, each seeking to present herself as a worthy match. Resigned to yet another tiresome exchange, he turned, his expression carefully composed.

But instead of the expected figure—he found himself looking at a young man. He stood before him with nervousness, there was no courtly grace about him, no practiced poise or charm. “hate to bother you, but—any idea where they’re keepin’ the drinks?”

Harry blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

At once, the stranger visibly floundered, as though realising the absurdity of his words. It was only then, as Harry turned more fully toward him, that this person lifted his head at last. And in that instant, the world around him fell away. The murmuring voices, the laughter, the sweeping notes of the orchestra—all of it faded into a dull, meaningless blur. The face was so achingly familiar that it was as though time itself had fractured, plunging him into some half-forgotten dream.

“The attendants have been moving about with silver trays,” Harry replied hastily, though his attention was scarcely on the conversation. His eyes—wide, unblinking—remained fixed on the familiar face before him. “I—excuse me, but have we met before?”

The young man regarded him with a puzzled frown, until all at once, realisation dawned on him like the striking of a bell at midnight. His ocean-blue eyes widened, and with a sharp intake of air, he gasped. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Err, Harry?”

Never in all his years had the young prince felt such an overwhelming sense of happiness. His heart, usually so well-guarded beneath layers of courtly decorum, now raced with unchecked exhilaration. He stepped forward, his eyes transfixed on the young man before him. "I have been searching for you," 

The young man—so strikingly changed from before, yet still undeniably the same—stood stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides as though they might anchor him against the tide of his own nervousness. His attire, far finer than the modest garments Harry had first seen him in, draped his frame in a manner that was almost too perfect, too enchanting for mere coincidence. 

Beautiful.

"R-really?" 

"Yes," Harry replied, breathless, his gaze unwavering. His thoughts, so often occupied with the weight of royal duty, now held space only for this moment—this chance encounter that felt so much more fated than anything dictated by law or lineage.

Harry tore his gaze away with some difficulty, composing himself with the practised ease of a man well-versed in concealing emotion. With a slight tilt of his head, he gestured towards the grand banquet table, where crystal decanters gleamed beneath the glow of a thousand candles. "The rest of refreshments are placed on the far side of the hall," he said, his voice gentle. "Might I have the honour of accompanying you?"

"No need!" the young man replied, though there was a lingering hesitance in his tone. "You seemed rather occupied, mate."

"We shall be just fine." Harry assured him, his voice carrying the effortless warmth of someone accustomed to making decisions without question. 

And with that, they moved through the grand hall, the revelry around them did not cease, nor did the music falter, but the crowd, as if moved by some unspoken understanding, instinctively parted to allow them passage. Eyes followed them—curious, admiring, perhaps even envious—but Harry paid them no mind. His attention remained steadfastly upon the man beside him, who, though composed, still bore the faintest traces of unease.

It was only when they reached the lavish banquet table, adorned with an opulence that befitted the evening, that any apprehension seemed to melt away. The young man came to an abrupt halt, his gaze falling on the endless display of delicacies before him. Towering arrangements of sugared fruits, golden-crusted pastries filled with spiced creams, and goblets of the richest wine gleamed beneath the candlelight. The sight, resplendent in its extravagance, seemed to cast a spell upon him.

His eyes, which had only moments ago held a guarded uncertainty, now sparkled with unrestrained wonder. It was a change so sudden, so utterly sincere, that Harry found himself watching him intently, drawn in by the simple yet undeniable joy that had overtaken him. For all the splendour surrounding them, nothing in that moment seemed quite as magnificent as the way the young man’s expression softened, his lips parting in quiet awe.

"Do you suppose the King would have me executed if I were to eat everything?" 

Harry let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head ever so slightly as he regarded him with amusement. "I daresay he would not mind in the least," he replied, his lips curling into a knowing smile. 

"What are you doing here, anyway?" the young man asked, his voice slightly muffled as he busied himself piling every delicacy within reach onto his plate. The porcelain dish wobbled under the sheer weight of his selections, threatening to spill over at any moment, but he remained entirely unbothered by the precarious arrangement.

Harry observed him with barely concealed amusement, arms folding loosely across his chest. "I was forced to attend," he admitted with a shrug. It was not as though this man knew who he was—nor did he seem particularly interested in courtly matters—so there was little need for pretense.

The young man gave a sympathetic wince, though his hands did not falter in their mission to gather as much food as humanly possible. "That’s dreadful, mate," he said, glancing at Harry before selecting another pastry. "Why would they force you?"

Harry supposed the answer was simple, but it still managed to weigh on him. "Because duty dictates it," he replied, though his tone lacked the stiffness one might expect from a prince discussing obligation. "Because it is expected of me, and there are few things in this world more persistent than expectation." He had not meant to say quite so much, but the words had slipped free before he could consider them fully.

But instead of the usual carefully measured responses he received from courtiers and noblemen, the young man simply nodded, tearing a piece of bread in half.

"That sounds exhausting," he remarked plainly, not with pity but with the simple acknowledgment of a man who had heard something unfortunate and chosen to accept it as truth. And, strangely enough, Harry found that he preferred that to any well-practised sympathy.

"Would you rather take this outside?" Harry suggested, lowering his voice slightly as he leaned in. "It’s rather difficult to enjoy a meal properly when one is forced to stand among prying eyes."

The young man barely hesitated. "Alright," he agreed at once, as if the thought had already crossed his mind. Harry suppressed a smirk as he watched him attempt to weave through the crowd with as much subtlety as a man carrying an overfilled plate of food could muster. It was not exactly the most inconspicuous of escapes—every now and then, a precariously placed pastry wobbled on the edge of his dish, threatening to tumble to the floor—but there was an effort, and for that, Harry found himself oddly entertained.

He took the lead, navigating the grand hall with ease, nodding politely to passing guests while making sure their route remained as unobtrusive as possible. The air grew cooler as they neared the terrace, where the night stretched vast and open before them, a welcome contrast to the stifling opulence within.

Harry stepped outside, waiting only long enough to make sure his companion had managed to do the same—preferably with all of his food still intact. "So, what about you?" He asked, leaning casually against the stone railing of the terrace as the young man settled onto the floor, balancing his overflowing plate with remarkable ease. The cool evening air was a welcome relief from the crowded grandeur of the ballroom, and he was pleased to find that they were entirely out of sight, free from the ever-watchful eyes of the court.

His companion shrugged as he picked up a piece of bread, tearing into it with a nonchalance that suggested he had not a single care in the world. "I dunno," the young man admitted between bites. "Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I always hear the customers going on about how grand the palace is—figured I’d see it for myself."

Harry tilted his head, intrigued. "Customers?"

"My customers," the young man replied absently, though the moment the words left his lips, he hesitated, eyes widening ever so slightly. "Oh—uh—" He swallowed hastily, sitting up a little straighter. "Yeah, err, I work in my brother's shop. The customers who come in, they gossip about all sorts of things, and the palace is always at the centre of it."

Harry’s brow arched, amused by his sudden nervousness. "A shopkeeper, then?"

"More or less," the young man admitted. "Well, mostly I do whatever my brother tells me to—carry things, run errands, fix what’s broken. But when I had the chance to slip away tonight, I figured—why not? The customers were right, though. The castle’s bloody enormous—just as grand as I expected."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "You do realise this was not an open invitation to the entire kingdom, don’t you?"

His companion merely grinned, popping a sugared pastry into his mouth. "Yeah, but no one stopped me, did they?"

Harry hummed as he lowered himself onto the seat opposite, his gaze fixed upon his companion with something dangerously close to admiration. 

The young man merely offered him a portion of his meal with an easy gesture, and Harry hesitated for only a moment before accepting, taking a bite without a second thought. It was strange, he had dined in countless halls, beneath chandeliers that dripped with gold, at tables groaning under the weight of the finest delicacies, yet never had he truly relished a meal.

Perhaps it was because those feasts had always been grand affairs, full of empty conversation and forced smiles, where every bite was taken under the scrutiny of watchful eyes. Or perhaps—his gaze flickered up to meet the man’s—perhaps it was because he had never before shared a meal with someone he actually wished to be beside.

Then, quite suddenly, the faint strains of music drifted through the terrace, a delicate melody threading its way through the grand hall, signalling the moment that Harry had been dreading—the time had come for him to choose his first dance.

"Have you ever danced before?" Harry asked.

The man, still occupied with his meal, took another deliberate bite of his chicken, chewing thoughtfully before finally setting it down. He swallowed, dabbing at his lips with the edge of his sleeve in a manner that was entirely too casual for the setting. "Err…I don't think so?" he admitted, his brows knitting together as though the thought had never truly crossed his mind until now. 

Harry pushed himself up from his seat, smoothing down the rich fabric of his robes before extending a hand with quiet confidence, his palm open in invitation. His expression was unreadable—neither demanding nor expectant, but there was something undeniably earnest in the way he looked at him.

"Would you care to dance with me?" he asked.

His companion blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, he simply stared, as though trying to determine whether this was some kind of jest. "Yeah, well…" The man hesitated, glancing down at his own hands as though searching for an excuse. His lips pressed into a thin line before he finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I dunno how to dance," he admitted. "I’ll just end up stepping all over your feet, anyway."

"Well, so do I," Harry admitted, because whenever he had attempted to practice, it had always ended the same way—missteps, awkward stumbles, and a great deal of apologising to whichever unfortunate soul had been tasked with teaching him. 

But this time, something felt different. There was a confidence settling within him, a certainty that had never been there before. Perhaps it was because, for once, he wasn’t dancing for the sake of formality, for the sake of appearances. No rigid expectations, no scrutinising gazes—just the two of them, standing amidst the golden glow of the ballroom, with music filling the air and no reason to hold back. So, he left his hand outstretched, unwavering, his eyes fixed on his companion with a look that spoke not of obligation but of choice.

"Fine," the man said, there was the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. He reached out and clasped Harry’s hand, his grip firm as he pulled him up with an effortless tug. "But if we end up stumbling all over the place, that’s entirely on you."

Harry let out a quiet laugh, his heart giving an odd little lurch at the contact. "I’ll be sure to catch you," he replied, the words slipping out far too easily. He barely had time to regret them before realising—rather alarmingly—that his face was undoubtedly turning pink. 

But then, to his utter surprise, his companion looked just as flustered. A faint flush had bloomed across his cheeks, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed at a loss for words. They stood there in silence, waiting for the next piece of music to begin, and when the first notes filled the air, Harry stepped closer, hesitating only briefly before resting a hand against the man’s waist. 

The gesture felt oddly natural, despite the slight awkwardness of their height difference—his partner was just a bit taller, making the positioning of their hands a little ridiculous, but Harry found that he didn’t care in the slightest.