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Chapter Text

The candlelight flickered in the dimly lit room, casting elongated shadows across the stained wood of the Hog's Head. The air was thick with the scent of stale firewhisky and damp stone, wrapping the atmosphere with unease.

Severus Snape lingered in the shadows near the door, concealed by the gloom, his ears keenly trained toward the conversation ahead. He had no intention of being seen— no desire to reveal himself— but curiosity and duty had driven him here, to listen.

Sybil Trelawney sat hunched over a goblet her fingers twitching as she murmured her usual nonsense of her tea leaves and the grim. Aberforth Dumbledore watched her with little interest, rolling his eyes as he wiped down the counter. But then— the world shifted.

The air grew heavy, pressing down like unseen hand, when she spoke again, her voice was no longer hers— it was deeper, richer, as something far older had settled inside her form.

"Upon the waning of July's final eve,

 the storm bearer is marked,

 bound to fate's decree,

 yet blind to the hands that guide him.

 Alone he walks, yet never truly alone,

 For shadows of kin and comrades stand ever near.

 Upon the dawn of March's first light,

 the serpent's chosen doth rise,

 A soul embraced, yet lost in his own doubt,

 He walks not the path laid before him,

 but the one he claims.

 And lo, upon the throne of ruin sits a ruler unloved,

 A tyrant shaped by rejection, a soul fearing the abyss.

 He calls himself the true heir, yet trembles at the specter of death.

 For power clutched in terror is no power at all.

 Storm and fang shall meet at the breaking of night,

 Not as rivals, not as mere allies, but as one.

 Two must unite, lest one consume the world.

 Separate they are lost, but united they are fate itself."

Her voice faded, collapsing into the strained whisper it had been before. She blinked rapidly as if waking from some unseen force, oblivious to what she has just uttered.

Snape did not need to hear another word— he had heard enough. He slipped away, his heart pounding against his ribs. A prophecy. And not just of one— but of two.

Dumbledore's Office-

"Two must unite, lest one consume the world."

The words felt colder as Snape uttered them aloud, standing before Dumbledore in the dim glow of the Headmaster's office. The room smelled of old parchment and wax- comforting smells which felt utterly wrong in the wake of what had just transpired.

Dumbledore sat in silence, his fingers steepled, watching Snape with that piercing gaze that unraveled everything.

Snape swallowed hard. He had never feared a prophecy before —never cared for destiny or fate. But this.... this was different.

"You must save her," he rasped, his voice unsteady.

Dumbledore's expression remained unreadable, though there was something softer in his eyes.

"Severus—"

"NO!" Snape surged forward, his fist trembling. This wasn't above a war or prophecy. This was about her.

"Lily is in danger! You know the Dark Lord will stop at nothing—"

Dumbledore sighed, standing slowly his movements deliberate, measured.

"Protection will be placed," he murmured.

Snape clenched his jaw, his breath coming fast. Protection. Promises. Words.

"Damn your promises," he spat. "I don't care about fate— I care about her. If Potter must live for the Dark Lord to fall then fine. But Lily....you must swear to me- she must not die."

Dumbledore studied him carefully, his gaze old, weary.

"I will do what I can," he said at last.

But Snape knew— somewhere deep within him, beneath all his rage, beneath all his fear- he knew that words could not stop fate from turning. And that terrified him more than anything else.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

March 1st, 1980 —

The Burrow was filled with quiet, but not the peaceful kind—the kind that settled over exhaustion, over long nights and weary hearts. Molly Weasley lay in bed, her breath uneven, sweat dampening her auburn curls. She had done this before—six times, in fact—but still, the moment clung to her as something beyond mere repetition.

Arthur Weasley sat beside her, his glasses slipping down his nose as he held her hand, murmuring soft encouragements.

And then—a cry.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just... there. A small wail, but nothing compared to his brothers before him.

Molly cradled the newborn, brushing a thumb against his tiny cheek. He was healthy, pink-cheeked, and round—but there was something different. Unlike the others, he did not cling. He did not seek her warmth immediately. He lay there, eyes barely open, his tiny fingers curled inward.

Arthur chuckled softly. “A quiet one, eh?”

Molly smiled, but it was fleeting. Her body was tired, her heart stretched thin with love divided among too many. Fred and George had been chaos in human form, Percy had been stern and serious from the start, and Bill and Charlie had been adventures from the moment they could crawl. But Ron?

Ron was simply there.

She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, as the voices of his brothers called her name. Ron’s world had begun—and from the very first breath he took, he was one of many.

July 31st, 1980 —

A soft hum of magic lingered in the air, thick and alive, as though the walls themselves knew the importance of this moment. The Potter home glowed warmly in the dim candlelight, bathing Lily’s sweat-drenched face in a golden hue.

James stood beside her, his hands trembling—not in fear, but in utter joy. He had never been afraid of battle, never flinched in duels, but this—this was something greater than magic itself.

A sharp breath. A cry—strong, piercing, filling the room. Lily laughed, weak but radiant. “He’s loud,” she murmured, pressing her forehead against James’s.

James chuckled, proud, relieved. “A born Gryffindor.” He lifted him gently, eyes bright with mischief. “Look at him, Lil—already ready to duel.”

But Lily wasn’t laughing now. She stared at her son, brows furrowed slightly. Something in her heart ached, though she didn’t know why.

James noticed. “What is it?”

She shook her head slowly, running a delicate finger over her son’s soft skin. “I don’t know... I just—” She exhaled, smiling despite herself. “I just want him to have a normal life.”

James kissed her temple. “He will.”

But even as Lily held her son close, pressing his tiny body against her warmth, the magic in the air whispered softly—this child was meant for more than normalcy.

Ron grew in the shadow of chaos.

Bill and Charlie were legendary explorers, Percy was far too clever, and Fred and George had already charmed half the house into their pranks before Ron was even old enough to hold a wand.

He was loved, undeniably so. Molly tucked him into bed, Arthur ruffled his hair, his brothers teased and played with him—but somehow, Ron never felt quite seen.

It wasn’t as if anyone meant to overlook him—it was just that there were too many of them, and Ron was always last in line.

When he first showed signs of magic, it was subtle—a floating plate that wobbled for half a second before clattering to the floor. Molly had chuckled, kissed his hair, but the moment passed, drowned in the noise of others.

Even as he grew, his name was rarely the first called. Fred and George stole attention, Percy demanded respect, Bill and Charlie earned admiration.

Ron? Ron was just there.

And slowly, he began to believe it himself.

The Dursley house did not glow. It did not hum with warmth or laughter, nor did it whisper of magic. It was plain. Stale. The kind of home that never allowed room for dreams.

Harry knew from his earliest memories that he was different.

Not because he understood magic—not yet—but because the world kept reminding him of what he lacked.

“You’re lucky we took you in,” Aunt Petunia snapped one morning, thrusting a threadbare shirt into his hands.

“Be grateful,” Uncle Vernon muttered, shaking his newspaper stiffly.

“Freak,” Dudley sneered, pushing past him—ever larger, ever meaner.

But Harry wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bitter. He wasn’t anything at all.

Because when you are alone long enough, you stop expecting anything different.

His first act of magic happened in desperation—a moment of fear, when Dudley had shoved him against the garden wall, laughing cruelly. The wind howled. The air crackled. And suddenly—Dudley stumbled back, his face pale.

Harry hadn’t touched him.

Hadn’t moved.

But Dudley had felt something. Something unseen. Something strange.

Later that night, Harry lay in his cupboard, staring at the ceiling, wondering what had happened. Wondering why, even with magic in his bones—he felt utterly alone.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

"Mum, can I go to Luna's?"

Ron peaked from the edge of the kitchen's doorframe, watching as Molly kneaded dough, her sleeves rolled up, flour dusting her apron.

"You were just there yesterday, Ron," she said, shaping the dough with practiced ease. "You know I like you staying close to home."

"Please," Ron tried, giving her the best puppy eyes he could manage. "Xeno's gone for an expedition. It's just Luna and Pandora. I promised I'd visit."

Molly sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. She wasn't one to deny kindness, and Luna was a sweet girl, so after a pause, she relented.

Ron grinned. "Thanks, Mum!".

He loved visiting the Rookery, Luna was a bit aloof but she loved playing with him- and Ginny of course, but even when it was just him she seemed interested in playing, she was terrible at chess but they would still play chatting here and there. Sometimes Pandora would join and she was a bit tough to beat but he did beat her and when he did she would praise him and reward him with cookies. That never had happened with his mother she would always be busy with either Ginny or the twins, he would be a bit disappointed but not surprised, at least dad would join sometimes. 

She muttered something about him eating properly as he darted toward the Floo, tossing in a handful of powder before vanishing in  whirl of green flames.

The Rookery-

Ron stumbled out of the fireplace, brushing soot of his jumper.

"You need to work on your landings," Luna observed, standing nearby, looking at him with excitement and amusement.

Ron rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I land perfectly fine. It's the fireplace that are dodgy."

Luna tilted her head. "I suppose that because there are so many nargles over your head always!"

Ron snorted, but before he could respond, Luna was already on her way heading upstairs.

"Wait a second! I'll bring the chess set"

Ron grinned, stretching his arms. "Prepare to lose, Lovegood."

"We'll see!" She screamed for upstairs.

He chuckled, wandering towards the bookshelves, tracing the spines absentmindedly. The Rookery was odd but welcoming, filled with strange trinkets and half-open books about magical creatures and lost civilizations.

Then- a sound.

A faint whimper. Coming from below.

His stomach twisted. The air grew colder as Ron descended the stairs, his steps quieter now, careful, alert.

And then he saw her.

Pandora lay on the floor, clutching her chest, blood trickling out of her mouth. But it wasn't just her that sent a rush of fear through him.

It was the runes.

Glowing markings, ancient symbols carved onto the stone floor, glowing and thrumming softly with power. The moment his eyes landed on them, memories flooded in-

Ron had wandered into Bill's room, watching as his eldest brother worked, head bent over the parchment, his quill scratching deliberating strokes across a sheet filled with markings.

What are you doing? Ron asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. Bill didn't lookup immediately, finishing something before stretching his arms.

"Practicing runes," he said simply. When Ron looked confused he explained "Ancient magic- the kind that doesn't fade." Ron's brows furrowed "Like spells?"

Bill grinned, tapping his quill against the parchment. "Sort of. But spells are temporary -runes stay. They're how old civilizations protected treasure, secured knowledge, and sometimes.....well, set traps."

Ron leaned in, starting at the glowing shapes.

"This looks complicated," he admitted. Bill was the literally the perfect wizard in Ron's eyes, he was sporty, studious, funny and everybody loved him...Percy was studious too he was the one who would make everybody feel stupid but Bill was the super chill dude who was the Prefect and then a Head Boy who everybody wanted to be friends with so of course if someone could do this it would be Bill but what if he messed it up? it could ne possible with ancient magic so he asked-

"What happens if someone messes this up?"

Bill chuckled, shaking his head. "That's why this is only done in supervision and only after we thoroughly practice it before hand. Rune casting requires precision. Don't worry though if you're interested, Hogwarts offers an elective course- but this, this is some advanced stuff, any mistakes can twist the magic, that's why I've got to figure this out before I go back to the camp- so this is basically my homework"

Ron liked the sound of it...it sounded dangerous but just imagining the depth, complexity and the power in something written instead of spoken excited him.

Bill hadn't noticed, but Ron had memorized how to do some strokes watching Bill work that day.

And now, as he stared at the rune beside pandora, he recognized them instantly.

"Ron- listen-" Pandora choked out, her voice weak. "Complete- the pattern-"

He barely registered his own movements. His fingers hovered over the pattern which pandora was pointing at, he scanned the rest of the runes and deduced the pattern, his mind rapidly recalling Bill's words.

He found the pattern and Pandora pushed a material- a thick black stick. He took the stick and carefully etched the missing strokes. As he did that he could feel something leaving his body- and he shuddered.

Now all the runes were glowing and pandora sighed in relief still clutching her chest- all of a sudden the glowing stopped and then-

She appeared.

Tall, elegant and deathly pale.

"Cine m-a chemat?" she murmured, her sharp voice scanning the space. Then she said in accented but clear English- "Why have I been summoned?"

Ron swallowed hard, pulse thudding in his ears.

"It-it wasn't me," he blurted. "Pandora needed help- she told me to finish the rune!"

The vampire studied Pandora, something shifting in her stance- recognition, urgency.

"You must leave now," she commanded, her accent crisp but urgent. Ron nodded instinctively, his mind racing.

"Luna!" his voice sharp, turning towards the staircase.

Moments later Luna appeared, clutching the chess set, confusion on her face when she saw Ron. She took one look at Pandora and dropped the chess pieces instantly.

"Mum!" her voice cracked, kneeling beside Pandora, her fingers shaking as she touched her mothers wrist. "What happened?"

Before Ron could say any thing, the woman picked up Pandora and said "The Hospital. Now. "

Ron acted immediately tossing the floo powder into the flames, calling out for St. Mungo's, his voice cracked with urgency.He felt Luna Grip on his sleeve, her fingers tight, as they stepped forward together, Pandora behind them cradled in the woman's arms.

The world spun as Ron staggered out of the fireplace, nearly tripping over his own feet as he landed in the bustling hospital ward.

He croaked as he stepped forward "Help! someone help." The healers rushed towards him, their robes billowing as they assessed Pandora, Floating her body gently to the nearby stretcher.

"We need a diagnostic charm-now!" one of the healers bellowed. Another muttered an incantation, swirling threads of golden light, hovering over Pandora's chest, reading the residual magic from the runes.

Ron watched numbly, his breath coming too fast, the weight of magic settling deep into his bones.

He had never felt this tired before- it wasn't just tiredness, it was as if something was pulling him down, slowing him and draining him.

Luna stood beside him, her fingers twisting around his jumper, her eyes wide locked onto her unconscious form.

"She'll be okay," Ron murmured, though he wasn't sure. Luna nodded, but her hands shook lightly. She began to ask again with tears in her eyes "What happened?"

As soon as Ron opened his mouth, A healer with a quill and some parchment on a writing pad walked towards him and asked "You're the one who summoned the Vampire?- what happened?"

Ron's eyes widened. "What!?" he croaked.

"Don't worry son just tell us what happened" an aged woman probably another healer, said while glaring at the previous healer.

He swallowed. "I heard someone in pain from the basement and saw Pandora lying there, I-I didn't know what else to do," he admitted. "Pandora told me to finish the rune, she was choking on blood and I-I recognized them, I've seen them before. My brother-Bill-he works with runes. He told me what they were, and I remembered-"

"You're saying you understood the binding structure enough to complete it?" the healer with the writing pad interrupted incredulously.

Ron nodded, his pulse still too loud in his ear.

Both the healers exchanged a look, then turned back to them.

"That was highly advanced magic, far beyond what Hogwarts even begins to teach." He paused, considering Ron carefully. "You did well. You likely stabilized the ritual before it spiraled into something worse."

Ron blinked, not knowing how to process the praise and feeling nauseous thinking how worse the situation could have been.

"But -why did she need to be summoned?" Luna asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"That's what we're investigating. If Mrs. Lovegood attempting a summoning ritual, it was likely intentional- except something went wrong."

Ron frowned. "Wrong how?"

"Perhaps an improper activation. Or interference. Or-"

Before he could finish, Ron's world tilted.

His legs buckled.

His vision blurred.

The voices around him dipped and warped, and just before everything went black, he heard someone say- 

"Inform his parents- now!"

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The first thing Ron felt was warmth—soft blankets, the hum of magic in the air. He heard some voices, and he recognized two of them.

His parents.

His eyes fluttered open, and he saw his mother's concerned face.

"Oh, Ron!" Molly’s voice shook, her arms wrapped firmly around him, as if holding him tighter could undo the past few days.

"Mum—I can't breathe," Ron choked out, coughing.

Arthur stood beside her, one hand gripping Ron’s shoulder, the other helping Molly steady herself.

"Let him breathe, Molly—you had us worried, son," Arthur murmured, hugging him once Molly moved. "I'm calling the healers."

"Oh, Merlin! You should have never—my brave son!" Molly said on the verge of tears.

"I'm fine, Mum," he croaked. It was new, seeing his mum so upset over him. Usually, if something happened, Percy was the one who took care of him.

"How's Pandora, Mum?" he asked, afraid he wouldn't hear something positive. Molly must have sensed his fear, because she said at once, "She's fine now, son. Don't worry, she's doing well. Xeno and Luna are looking after her."

Hearing that made Ron relax. At least all that trouble had helped in some way. But now that worry was gone, he suddenly felt sluggish, muscles aching, head heavy—and before he could say anything—

A healer burst through the door with Arthur. "Good evening! Ron, let's see how you're doing." He quickly performed some diagnostic charms and other tests. Finally, when he was done, he said, "There's nothing to worry about anymore. You're alright. It's just magical core exhaustion. You just need to eat a lot and rest for a week, with some nutritional potion, and you'll be back in shape in no time."

It was the same healer who had questioned him when he first arrived at St. Mungo's.

His parents and the healer talked some more, and then the healer left after wishing him a healthy recovery.

As soon as the door closed—

"He's awake!"

Fred’s loud declaration echoed across the ward, followed immediately by George’s excited whoop.

Ginny, who had been quiet, rushed inside and instantly clung to him, small arms locking around his waist, refusing to move.

"You absolute idiot," Bill sighed, ruffling his hair, though his relief was undeniable.

"You always have to do things dramatically, don’t you?" Charlie added, no real frustration in his tone—only amusement and pride.

"Bill! Charlie! What are you guys doing here?" Ron asked, shocked.

"We came to be with you, you dolt!" Charlie exclaimed. "We got the news three days ago that you performed a death-defying stunt to save Mrs. Lovegood—we had to come, didn’t we, Bill?"

"Of course. I still can't imagine how you pulled it off," Bill said, awed. "The rune Mrs. Lovegood was casting was a very ancient one that isn't even fully researched! This could've gone wrong in so many ways—"

"He's fine now, Bill. Chill out," Charlie said, comforting Bill. "Ronnie's a tough boy. He'll be fine and dandy in a couple of days."

Percy, standing near the foot of the bed, adjusted his glasses, looking at Ron with careful observation.

"It was an impressive feat," he stated simply, giving a firm nod. "You have potential."

Ron blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

A loud cough erupted from his chest, and Bill immediately handed him the glass of water with a straw on the table.

"So, what’s it like being a hero?" Fred grinned, leaning against the bedframe.

"Do we call you Sir Ronald now?" George smirked.

"Or Ronniekins the Lord Protector of Magical Runes?"

"Oh, definitely King Ickle-Ronniekins of Ancient Spellwork."

"Merlin himself would be jealous."

"Shut up," Ron groaned, ears turning red, sinking deeper into the pillows.

Ginny hadn’t let go once, her grip firm, protective, unwilling to lose him again.

And then—a quiet voice cut through the chatter from the door.

"Thank you."

Ron turned.

Luna waddled towards the edge of the bed, her hands clasped together, her wide eyes full of tears.

"You saved my mother. Thank you so much, Ron," she whispered.

Ron felt his chest tighten.

Luna suddenly looked smaller, like reality had finally caught up to her, like the weight of almost losing Pandora had only just settled in.

Ron shifted, stretching one arm toward her.

"She’s safe now, Luna," he said softly. "I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. If not, I wouldn’t get to beat a Ravenclaw at chess ever again."

She stared at him for a second, fingers clenching his hand, shoulders tensing—then, slowly, she laughed.

"You wish! Mum will beat you once you both get well," she said, a little tearily.

The banter continued, and after a while, Ron felt his eyes droop, sleep embracing him.

The Burrow

The warmth of home didn’t lessen the weight in the air.

The Weasley family gathered in the cozy, mismatched sitting room, but the presence of Xenophilius, Pandora, Dumbledore, and Valerie—the vampire Ron had unknowingly summoned—made it feel different.

Ron sat near the fire, Ginny beside him, Luna across from him, and Valerie standing silently in the shadows.

"I always wanted to understand magic at its core," Pandora began, stirring tea in slow, absentminded circles. "To know how it shapes us, guides us, binds us."

Ron watched her carefully, trying to wrap his mind around everything.

"So, the ritual—" Ron started.

"I believed it would grant a vision, a magical guide. Someone who understood the path I was meant to take," Pandora explained.

"But something went wrong," Xeno added, his usual dreamy tone replaced with seriousness.

"I completed most of it. The magic became unstable and started consuming me," Pandora continued. "But the final step—the most crucial piece—was failing. You—" she looked at Ron, something unreadable in her eyes. "You completed it for me."

Ron swallowed.

"You have no idea what you've done for us, Ron," Xeno said, his voice cracking. "I wouldn't have my wife. Luna would have lost her mum. We owe you everything."

Ron just looked at Bill for rescue, feeling awkward.

"It was nothing, Xeno... in fact, it was Valerie who helped us the most," Ron murmured.

All eyes shifted to the vampire.

Pandora nodded. "She is the answer the magic gave you."

"Huh?" Ron frowned. That made no sense.

Dumbledore folded his hands, his gaze glinting with intrigue.

"There are many misconceptions about vampires," he said smoothly. "Wizards often associate them with dark magic, but magic itself is neutral. A vampire’s nature is not dictated by their condition, but by their choices. As Pandora said, she believed the ritual would give her a guide, but because Ronald was the one who completed it, the magic aligned to his core. Valerie is his guide now."

Molly tensed instantly, her grip tightening around Arthur’s wrist.

"Absolutely not!" she declared.

"Mum! Listen to the whole thing first," Bill said, firm but kind. Even Molly looked shocked at his tone.

"Dumbledore's right, Mum," Charlie added. "And even if that wasn't the case, the magical bond would never allow her to harm Ron intentionally. She could die if she attempted it."

Molly opened her mouth, but Arthur gently steadied her. "They're not wrong, dear. Let them finish."

"I understand your fear, Mrs. Weasley," Valerie said gently. "But I was simply doing my job in Romania when I was pulled here. I feel the bond now. My duty is clear."

She paused.

"I will make an Unbreakable Vow, if that will bring you peace."

The Weasley siblings exchanged glances, recalling the time the twins nearly tricked Ron into one. They had never seen their dad so angry.

Bill sat up straighter, considering. "That’s... incredibly rare."

"It would make my intentions unquestionable," Valerie said simply.

Dumbledore nodded. "If you're sure, I will officiate."

The room held its breath.

Valerie knelt before Molly, her voice unwavering:

"I vow to protect and guide Ronald Bilius Weasley. I vow to uphold this magic—not for personal gain, but because it was forged by fate itself."

Magic hummed in the air as Dumbledore finished the incantation. The vow sealed.

Molly breathed deeply, then nodded.

Valerie smiled, extending a hand.

"Let's start fresh, Mrs. Weasley. For Ron's sake."

And just like that—a new kind of trust was built.

Later that evening, Ron sat across from Valerie, the firelight flickering between them.

"So—what do I actually do with a magical guide?" he asked, rubbing his temples.

"You may consider me a friend, Ronald, if you choose to."

"Please call me Ron," he murmured.

"As you wish, Ron," she said with a smile. "I know it must be awkward, connecting with someone out of the blue—but we'll make it work."

She handed him a black leather-bound diary.

"This is yours. Write in it, and I will receive your messages instantly. It has unlimited pages, privacy charms—no one will ever read it without your permission."

Ron turned it over slowly, realization dawning.

"You did this because I don’t have an owl."

"Well, you do... but I don’t think Errol would survive the trip back."

Ron huffed, shaking his head with a tired grin. "Guess we’ll figure this out together."

And for the first time, Ron didn’t feel like just another Weasley.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The Burrow – 

The scent of eggs and ink drifted lazily through the kitchen as Arthur sat, half-hidden behind the Daily Prophet, while Molly bustled about, humming a soft Celestina Warbeck tune.

Ron sat at the table, lazily spreading jam on toast when Arthur’s quiet voice, laced with amusement, cut through:

"Young Weasley Saves Magizoologist – A Boy’s Instinct, A Mother’s Life"

A grainy photo of Ron — eyes wide and soot-streaked — hovered awkwardly beside a clearer shot of Pandora smiling faintly from her St. Mungo’s bed.

Ron choked slightly on his toast.

Fred leaned over with mock reverence. “Do we bow to you now or later?”

George followed, dramatically clutching his heart. “Ronald the Radiant, Savior of Seers and Summoner of Shadows!”

“Please stop,” Ron groaned, ears glowing red.

“Oh don’t be modest, Mr. Hero of Hufflepuff’s Hearth,” Fred grinned. “The Prophet should’ve put your face on the front page."

"Oh wait— they did!" they said together, in perfect twin sync.

Ginny plopped down beside Ron, arms folded. “Ignore them.”

Then, more softly, “You scared the bludgers out of me, you know?”

Ron turned toward her, his expression softening.

“You just left. Said you’d play chess, not almost die saving Luna’s mum,” she said quietly, looking more serious than Ron was used to.

"It felt like I wouldn't be able to see you again," her lower lip wobbled. "When we reached Mungo's Luna was in a state, she was terrified. Mum was crying so much it was like you wouldn’t ever wake up."

"I didn’t mean to—"

“I know. But next time, if you go off doing something heroic like that again, you better take me with you.” Her eyes cleared, now glinting fiercely.

Ron blinked. “What?”

“I’m small enough to sneak in and smart enough to fix your messes,” she said with as much authority as her little frame could muster.

Ron chuckled. “Deal. Whenever I’m called to summon another vampire, I’ll take my spitfire with me for protection.”

Looking satisfied, she launched into a dramatic retelling of Harry Potter stories she’d read in ridiculous books — the ones where an infant wrestled an army of hippogriffs.

Ron, as always, tuned most of it out.

The sun was warm as the Weasleys gathered outdoors. Charlie was dragging a crate of old brooms and poking at a stubborn gnome when he paused, hands on hips.

“You lot,” he called out to the group flopped in chairs and picnic blankets. “You’re going soft.”

“We’re resting,” Fred said.

“We’re digesting,” George added.

“You’re decaying,” Charlie muttered. “Even the gnomes are laughing at us.”

Ginny threw a small pillow at him.

Charlie grinned and plopped down beside Ron. “Come on, let’s at least run tomorrow. A lap or two around the orchard. It’ll be fun.”

Ron groaned. “You said fun. That’s a lie.”

“I’ll show you how to charm your sweat to smell like dragon fruit.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

“Okay, fine — but if you come, I’ll show you one of those fire-twirling spells the dragon keepers use to practice wand control.”

Ron perked up. “Just one?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe two if you beat me in a race.”

Ron sighed. “Ugh. Fine. But I’m bringing toast.”

“Bring jam too. And no shortcuts behind the shed.”

Ron knocked on Percy’s half-open door. He was surprised when Percy had called for him — the twins teased him mercilessly, but he knew better. Percy never let anyone into his room. Not even Bill.

Percy looked up from his desk, quill mid-scratch.

“I thought you might want these,” he said, handing over a stack of slightly worn books.

Ron blinked. “Your first-year stuff?”

Percy nodded. “They’re old, but it’s the same ones Bill used. Still accurate. I’ve added margin notes where needed.”

Ron turned over Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 and saw Percy’s precise handwriting beside the Levitation Charm:

"Swish AND flick. Don’t forget to pronounce the R."

Ron smiled. “You sure?”

Percy cleared his throat. “You’ll do well, Ron. Just don’t lose the history book — that one’s special.”

Ron nodded. “Thanks, Perce. You've basically given me gold.”

For once, Percy gave him a genuine smile — no posture corrections, no grammar scolding.

As Ron finished stacking the books, a soft knock sounded.

Bill stepped in, travel cloak slung over one shoulder, his boots still sandy.

“Heading out?” Ron asked.

“Early tomorrow,” Bill nodded. “But I wanted to talk first.”

He sat beside Ron, quiet settling in.

“You scared us,” Bill said. “But I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Ron’s ears went red. “I didn’t do much—”

“You did,” Bill interrupted. “And it reminded me of something. I’m your godfather. You know that, right?”

Ron blinked. “Wait—what?”

Bill laughed. “Mum and Dad didn’t make a big deal of it. But yeah. I promised to look out for you. And now that magic’s pulling you into strange places — I want you to know you’re not alone.”

He handed Ron a polished scarab-shaped stone. “My portkey badge. If you’re ever in danger — use it.”

Ron clutched it tightly. “Thanks, Bill.”

“You’ve got something big ahead, little brother. Just don’t forget who you are.”

“I’m a Weasley,” Ron said.

Bill smiled. “Exactly. And that’s always been enough.”

That night, Ron sat on his bed with the black leather-bound diary. He dipped Percy’s quill and scrawled on the first page:

Ron:
“Um… hello? Valerie? Not sure if this is working or if I’m talking to enchanted parchment like an idiot.”

Seconds later, slanted silver writing appeared:

Valerie:
“It works. And no, you're not an idiot. You’re just new to magical ink-chat. Happens to the best of us.”

Ron let out a relieved chuckle.

Ron:
“Thought I’d broken it already.”

Valerie:
“Please. It would take more than that to break my enchantments. Try harder next time.”

Ron:
“So… do I just write to you whenever? Or is there vampire etiquette I’m missing?”

Valerie:
“You can write anytime. No etiquette. Though I draw the line at midnight poetry unless it’s truly terrible.”

Ron:
“Noted. No midnight poems. Or at least no good ones.”

Pause.

Valerie:
“You had a lot of siblings. What’s it like being one of the youngest?”

Ron:
“Loud. Exhausting. Brilliant sometimes. Bill’s cool. Percy’s strict. Twins are disasters but fun. Charlie’s fit-obsessed. Ginny? She’d hex me if I didn’t say she’s the best.”

Valerie:
“She sounds fierce.”

Ron:
“Yeah… she didn’t let go in the hospital. Full limpet mode.”

Valerie:
“That’s love. Let her cling.”

Ron tapped his quill.

Ron:
“What about you? What’s your job?”

Valerie:
“I teach. Magical etiquette. Defense. I tutor cursed kids, hybrid beings, rogue mages. The niche stuff.”

Ron:
“Wait—you’re a teacher? But you’re… cool.”

Valerie:
“And here I thought that was mutually exclusive.”

Ron:
“You just don’t look like one. You look like someone out of a history book.”

Valerie:
“Flatterer. I’m 157.”

Ron:
“WHAT.”

Valerie:
“Yes. Already a century old when your grandfather was in nappies.”

Ron:
“You don’t look a day over thirty. Or like anyone’s grandma.”

Valerie:
“That’s blood magic and skincare for you.”

Ron:
“That sounds like Percy. Minus the blood rituals. I hope.”

Valerie:
“You’re funnier than I expected.”

Ron:
“You’re less terrifying than I expected.”

Valerie:
“We’ll make this work, you and I.”

Ron smiled.

Ron:
“Yeah. We’ll figure it out. Night, Valerie.”

Valerie:
“Goodnight, Ron.”

Privet Drive – Cupboard Under the Stairs

Harry sat on his mattress, arms around his knees, staring at the crack under the door. Vernon had grunted:

"Freak. One day that weirdness will land you in real trouble."

But after yesterday, Vernon hadn’t said much else. Not after Harry looked at him the same way he had when Dudley and his gang cornered him.

They hadn’t expected the wind to slam the gate shut.

They hadn’t expected the bin lid to fly up into Dudley’s face like vengeance incarnate.

For the first time, they’d backed off.

Harry didn’t understand what he’d done. But something inside him had stirred. Old. Powerful.

And he liked it.

A paper slid under the cupboard door.

"You better not tell. Or else." – Dudley.

Harry calmly slid the note under the leg of his crooked shelf and whispered:

"Or else what?"

The air didn’t crackle. But something... stirred.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt something new.

Hope.

Hogwarts – Dumbledore’s Office

Candlelight flickered as Dumbledore reread the parchment:

“Upon the dawn of March’s first light, the serpent’s chosen doth rise...”

A Weasley — in Slytherin?

He scanned the first-year list. Two names glinted in violet ink:

Ronald Bilius Weasley
Harry James Potter

"Two must unite..."

Separate, they would be lost. Together, they might be fate itself.

This year at Hogwarts would change everything.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

Ron had kept to Charlie's suggestion.

Ever since that chaotic summer evening, he’d woken early and gone running — mostly through the orchard, sometimes a little farther toward the edge of Ottery St. Catchpole. It wasn’t that he enjoyed sweating or had suddenly discovered a passion for fitness. It was the quiet. It was the sky slowly changing from night to morning. It was being alone with the steady rhythm of his feet and his thoughts — away from the bickering, teasing, and crashing chaos of the Burrow.

The first day, he tripped over a gnome hole and nearly swallowed a bug. The second, he made three laps around the orchard. By the fifth, something shifted. The crunch of grass underfoot, the early-morning wind cutting past his ears — it made sense in a way life in the Burrow rarely did. He could think when he ran. About school. About magic. About being more than just a Weasley.

And he studied. That was new. Percy loaned him old Hogwarts material, which had also been Bill's. And Ron had actually opened the books. Valerie answered any questions through the magical journal she had given him. The journal proved useful beyond banter.

He had been lost in his thoughts one day when he heard someone open the door and come into his room.

“You’ll write to me, right?”

Ginny’s voice was quiet and wobbly. Ron looked down at his little sister, surprised to find her eyes a little red around the edges.

“Every week,” Ron promised. "And I'll be back for Christmas. You will count the days for me to go back to Hogwarts," he said with a smile.

"It's not the same," she muttered. "Everyone else has gone. You're the last one. I'll have to be alone with Mum, and you know how she can be."

Ron knew what she was talking about. If Ron felt that his mum never really cared for him — obviously she cared, but he knew he was always one of the last ones — Ginny's problem was exactly opposite. It was like Mum couldn't have enough of her, always wanting to be with her doing girly stuff, but Ginny hated it. She wanted to be with her brothers, playing with them, but Mum wouldn't allow her to play roughly with them. It was understood why. Ginny still hated it. Their mum always wanted Ginny to be ladylike, decent, and demure. But Ginny was nothing like that.

He knew this because one day, he had heard her crying in a corner. At first he thought it was the twins; they must have teased her. Their teasing would sometimes turn really mean before they realised. When Ron asked what happened and she opened up about Mum always not letting her play with them, Ron tried to explain to her that Mum was just trying to protect her — but she had basically bellowed that she hated that, she hated being treated like that just because she was a girl. Seeing her so down, Ron had shared his own problems, telling her how he felt about being the least favorite one. They had bonded over each other's problems and promised each other to never utter any of these words to anyone else.

"I promise I'll write to you as often as possible, and I'll write lengthy letters and describe everything about Hogwarts. When you'll start, it'll be like you already know everything about the castle." He reassured her.

“You better.” She hugged him tightly. “If you get into trouble, you better send word. Don’t be stupid without telling me first.”

He chuckled, ruffling her hair. “You’re such a menace.”

"I learn from the best."

As she left, he stared at the trunk which was still unpacked. He moved towards it to pack it and saw his new robes and remembered the Diagon Alley fiasco...

Sunlight filtered through the patchwork curtains of the Burrow’s sitting room, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Ron sat uncomfortably in an armchair, trying not to fidget. He’d been looking forward to Diagon Alley all week — but not like this.

Across the room, Molly Weasley stood by the fireplace, arms folded, a stubborn line set in her mouth. Opposite her, seated with her legs crossed elegantly and gloves resting in her lap, Valerie regarded Molly with serene patience.

“I’ve already packed Ron’s things,” Molly said, her voice calm but clearly tight. “Charlie's old robes fit well enough. A little short at the ankle, maybe, but we can charm the hem. No need to spend unnecessarily.”

“They’re too short,” Valerie replied evenly. “He’ll outgrow them by November, and everyone will notice. Especially the professors.”

“They’re robes,” Molly snapped. “Not an investment. There are more important things to teach a child than worrying about what others think.”

“I agree,” Valerie said. “But comfort and dignity aren’t luxuries. First-year robes are meant to last a full year. You’d rather keep adjusting them with charms that will fray the seams by winter?”

Molly flinched slightly, then straightened. “They’ve worked for four children. They’ll do for one more.”

Ron shrank into the cushions a little more, red-faced.

“Let’s talk about the wand,” Valerie said smoothly. “Charlie’s old one?”

“Yes,” Molly replied. “Still in good shape. No cracks. 12 inches ash wood wand with a unicorn hair core —solid and reliable.”

“Reliable for Charlie,” Valerie said. “Not Ron.”

Molly’s mouth opened, but Valerie was already withdrawing her own wand — slim, pale, and humming faintly even when idle.

She held it out. “Take mine. Try a basic spell.”

Molly hesitated. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Humor me.”

With a huff, Molly grasped the wand and pointed it at the teacup on the table. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

Nothing.

Molly frowned and tried again, with sharper emphasis. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The cup rattled but did not rise.

She blinked, then handed it back stiffly. “Your wand doesn’t like me.”

“Exactly,” Valerie said gently. “Wands are tools, yes — but magical ones. They’re living extensions of the wizard. Using Charlie’s wand might work at first, but the backlash, the unpredictability? That’s a risk Ron shouldn’t carry into a classroom.”

Molly’s gaze softened just a bit, flicking toward her son, who was now staring determinedly at his shoes.

Valerie’s voice grew quieter. “He deserves to learn magic without his own wand working against him.”

Molly sighed deeply. “Alright. The wand and the robes. Only because you made your point — and because I won’t have my son’s spells backfiring in Charms class.”

Valerie smiled faintly in gratitude — but then Fred and George burst through the back door, laughing about something involving decoy cauldrons and a summer prank.

Valerie turned toward them thoughtfully.

“I could get everyone a few things,” she said lightly. “Nothing extravagant—”

Molly raised a hand instantly. “No. You will not be buying for all my children.”

“I was only suggesting—”

“I won’t hear it,” Molly said firmly. “You can buy for Ron — and only the necessary things. That’s final.”

Valerie paused, then raised one gloved hand in a gesture of surrender.

“Understood. Then may I at least treat everyone to lunch? At the Leaky Cauldron?”

Molly eyed her, wary.

Valerie added, “Just lunch. My treat. I insist.”

Molly gave a long sigh. “Fine. But you'll only leave after having dinner here.” she said with a tired smile.

Valerie chuckled and agreed. They soon started talking about other matters. It was like the last fifteen minutes had never happened.

Ron muttered, “Thanks.”

Neither woman heard him — they were too busy conversing with each other, sharing stories and waiting for Pandora and Luna.

Finally, they were about to leave. The excitement was building.

Molly herded her children with practiced authority, brushing soot off Percy’s collar and fussing with Ginny’s hair even though it had already been tied neatly with a red ribbon. Fred and George were pretending to duel with breakfast forks, only half-listening to their mother’s instructions.

Valerie stood near the fireplace, perfectly composed in her traveling cloak. She looked slightly out of place in the organized chaos — poised and silent amid all the Weasley volume — but she didn't seem uncomfortable. She watched the scene with quiet amusement.

Ron stood awkwardly near the mantle, rubbing his palms together and trying not to trip over his own feet.

“Alright, everyone!” Molly called. “Same order as always — Percy first, then the twins, Ginny and Ron next, and I’ll follow with Valerie and Luna.”

Pandora, who had arrived earlier with Luna, was sipping tea in the corner, nodding at the plan. “We’ll catch up with you there.”

Percy vanished into the green flames with a confident whoosh. Fred and George followed with a flourish, spinning dramatically as they shouted, “Diagon Alley!”

Ginny gave Ron a small nervous grin and stepped into the fireplace, disappearing in a flash of emerald. Ron’s turn came, and he hesitated for half a breath.

Valerie leaned down slightly, her voice low. “Don’t overthink it. Just speak clearly and don’t blink too much. The soot doesn’t like eye contact.”

Ron blinked at her.

Kidding, she said smoothly.

He chuckled, stepped into the hearth, and said clearly, “Diagon Alley!”

The world spun, stretched, and snapped back into place with the scent of smoke and fresh parchment. Ron stumbled forward and righted himself just in time to avoid crashing into Percy, who was already holding a shopping list like a battle plan.

“Try to keep up,” Percy said crisply, before heading toward Flourish and Blotts.

The alley was bustling — witches in pointed hats floated parcels behind them, owls hooted from their cages in shop windows, and children darted through the crowd waving new brooms or licking ice cream.

Ginny squealed when she saw the magical menagerie, and the twins were already plotting ways to charm the pygmy puffs into singing rude songs.

Valerie emerged from the Floo calmly, brushing a trace of soot off her sleeve. She glanced at Ron, then nodded toward Madam Malkin’s. “Robes first?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, alright.”

Molly stayed with Ginny and Luna near the bookshop, casting periodic glances toward them as if expecting Ron to somehow lose his legs between shops.

The bell tinkled softly as they stepped inside. The shop smelled of pressed cloth and powdered chalk. Several young witches and wizards stood on stools being measured, arms out like scarecrows.

Ron tried not to look uncomfortable as Madam Malkin bustled toward them.

“First year, dear?”

“Yes,” Ron mumbled.

Valerie gave a tiny smile. “He’ll need the full set. Room to grow. Good tailoring — he might be lanky now but he’ll shoot up soon.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest but Valerie gave him a look that said: Don’t argue while someone’s holding pins.

By the time they left, Ron had a tidy package of perfectly fitted robes tucked under his arm.

Next came Ollivander’s. The door creaked open with a shiver of old magic. Dusty boxes lined the walls like watchful eyes.

The air was still and almost reverent.

Mr. Ollivander appeared without a sound.

A Weasley, he murmured, eyes glinting. “But not one I’ve fitted before. Let me see… ah yes, sixth son? I presume?” he asked while taking his measurements.

Ron nodded quickly.

“Of course. Come now, let’s see.”

Box after box was tried and discarded — one fizzled, one hissed, one gave off a smell like burnt socks. Ron was beginning to sweat.

Then Ollivander paused.

“I wonder,” he murmured, pulling a box from high above. “Redwood. Twelve inches. Basilisk fang core. Highly flexible.”

Ron took it — and the moment he did, warmth ran through his arm like water, buzzing with energy. Sparks burst into the air, bright and golden.

Ollivander tilted his head, satisfied. “Oh yes. This wand is quite selective. You’re the first it’s accepted in two decades. A warrior’s wand — sharp, unpredictable, deeply loyal. Excellent choice.”

Ron turned it over slowly, stunned.

Valerie nodded with approval but said nothing.

After supplies were tucked safely away — books for Percy, robes, potions kits, parchment — the group gathered for lunch.

Valerie had insisted on reserving a private table, and Molly had reluctantly agreed, muttering that at least this way Ginny wouldn’t try to eat standing up.

Fred and George raced to steal pickles off everyone’s plates. Ginny sat beside Luna, who was already humming to her butterbeer and feeding crumbs to an owl she wasn’t supposed to have at the table.

Molly made a few more protests about “spoiling them” before finally accepting a second slice of treacle tart.

Ron barely touched his shepherd’s pie — too distracted by the wand in his pocket, the robes in his bag, and the way Valerie simply sat there, sipping her tea, as though none of this was remarkable.

She caught him watching and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re allowed to enjoy things,” she said quietly, “even if they surprise you.”

Ron flushed and looked away. But part of him thought:

Maybe it’s alright to feel like this was a bit special.

The Burrow had finally quieted. Ginny was asleep, Fred and George had stopped their whispered plotting, and even the ghoul in the attic had gone still.

Ron lay awake, arms folded behind his head, staring at the low ceiling of his room. His trunk was packed. His wand lay safely in its case. His robes — new, unpatched, perfectly hemmed — were folded neatly by the door. And yet, he felt like his stomach was trying to knot itself into a pretzel.

He reached for the small black leather-bound diary tucked beside his pillow. Its edges were warm, almost familiar now. He dipped his quill in ink and scribbled across the first blank page of the night.

Ron:
"You awake? Or do vampires sleep like bats — upside down and dead to the world?"

It only took a moment.

Valerie:
"Only on weekends. Lucky for you, I’m still vertical. Couldn’t sleep?"

Ron:
"Big day tomorrow. Couldn’t stop thinking. About… everything, I guess."

Valerie:
"Normal. First year nerves. You’re not supposed to feel ready — that’s what makes it exciting."

Ron:
"Easy for you to say. You’re, like, ancient."

Valerie:
"157, but thank you for the flattery. Still remember my first day at school. I tripped over a ghost and dropped my cauldron. Terrible first impression."

Ron grinned a little.

Ron:
"Bet you still looked cool doing it."

Valerie:
"I always look cool. It’s in the contract."

Ron:
"...Do you think I’ll be okay?"

Valerie:
"Absolutely. You’re not going there to prove something. You’re going to learn, explore, grow. You already have the curiosity and the instincts — the rest will come."

Ron paused, biting his lip, then wrote:

Ron:
"What if I’m not like the others? I mean… everyone knows where they want to be, what they’re good at. I don’t even know what house I’ll be in."

Valerie:
"That’s exactly why you’ll be fine. You’re open to what comes next. That’s more rare than you think."

Ron:
"You don’t think that’s… weak?"

Valerie:
"Ron, knowing who you are is strength. But allowing yourself to become is a different kind of power. And frankly, more useful."

Ron:
"You sound like a professor again."

Valerie:
"I am a professor. You’re just finally listening."

He smiled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders.

Ron:
"Thanks, Val."

Valerie:
"Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when you write me from Hogwarts and tell me you haven’t blown anything up."

Ron:
"Odds are slim, but I’ll try."

Valerie:
"Deal. Now get some rest, Ron. You’ve got magic to meet in the morning."

Ron:
"Goodnight, Professor Vampire."

Valerie:
"Goodnight, First Year."

Ron blew on the ink of the page, hoping it had dried before Scabbers got any ideas. The fat old rat was already trying to nest inside one of his sock bundles, whiskers twitching as he chewed experimentally on a quill tip.

"Oi! Scabbers — not the quill again!" The rat looked up in mild offense, then thudded down into Ron's jumper like a sack of potatoes.

"You'd think he's older than Dumbledore," Ron muttered, shoving him aside and closing the diary gently, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He still felt nervous — but the sharp edge of fear had dulled. Maybe it was okay not to have all the answers yet.

Maybe he’d find them at Hogwarts.

He slid the diary under his pillow, turned on his side, and slowly drifted to sleep.

King’s Cross Station — September 1st

The Muggle train station was loud and confusing — filled with squeaky wheels, yelling conductors, and the occasional hiss of steam. Ron trailed after his family, clutching the handle of his trolley with both hands as he tried not to lose track of Ginny’s braid ahead or let the owl cage bump too hard against his leg.

Pandora Lovegood was walking beside Molly, Luna at her heels holding a bag full of fluttering parchment and glittering feathers. Pandora was calm as ever, humming absently as she adjusted her robes, but Luna looked unusually solemn.

At the very back of the group walked Valerie — elegant even in the bustle, hands tucked into her gloves, gaze sharp beneath her traveling hood. She stayed a few steps behind, blending in without drawing too much attention.

Ron was jittery. Not scared exactly, but something close. It felt like Christmas and a storm cloud at once.

They reached between platforms 9 and 10. Molly led the way with practiced ease.

“Now, watch closely,” she said cheerily, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier — bit of a brisk pace if you’re nervous. Go on, Percy.”

Percy went through first. Then Fred and George, naturally going together, grinning as they disappeared into the wall.

Molly turned to Ron, brushing his shoulder off even though he wasn’t dusty.

“Ready, dear?”

Before he could answer, Ginny launched herself at him.

“You better write,” she said fiercely. “Every week. I’m serious.”

Ron, caught off guard, patted her back awkwardly. “I will. Promise.”

“You better,” she added, and then sniffled into his sleeve.

He turned to Luna next. She also hugged him. After she removed her arms from around him, she reached into her pocket and pulled out what looked like a folded paper butterfly.

“To keep you from getting lost,” she said. “Or to distract a boggart.”

“Er… thanks,” Ron said, pocketing it carefully.

Then Valerie stepped forward.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up, fixed the fold of his collar, and gave him a quiet nod.

“You have your wand?” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Books?”

“Yep.”

“Shoelaces tied?”

He blinked. “You—what?”

She smiled. “Just checking.”

Then, gently, she placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Don’t try to be anything but who you are.”

Ron opened his mouth to say something clever — and promptly thought of nothing.

So instead, he gave a crooked smile and nodded.

Then, with a deep breath, he pushed his trolley forward — straight at the wall.

He came out the other side with a whoosh of warm wind and the sudden whooo of a scarlet engine. The Hogwarts Express stood gleaming under the wrought-iron canopy, thick smoke curling lazily overhead.

Ron’s jaw dropped slightly. Even after everything — the shopping, the wand, the books — this made it real.

The train.

He turned to find a space to lift his trunk aboard — and collided wheels-first with a trolley beside him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, stepping back.

“No, that’s my fault,” said a boy with messy black hair and glasses slightly askew. He was trying to wrestle his owl cage into position.

Ron stared for half a second.

This had to be Harry Potter.

The scar, the glasses — the boy who lived, standing here like a regular kid, struggling with a trunk that wouldn’t budge.

“You alright?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Just… new to this.”

Ron chuckled. “Same. You’ve got a pet owl though, so you’re already cooler than me.”

Harry gave a small laugh. “You’re Ron, right? Ron Weasley?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, surprised. “How’d you—?”

Harry glanced toward the station. “Your mum called you just now.”

“Oh.”

Ron helped him lift the trunk as the train left the station.

They found a compartment halfway down the train and settled in. The train hadn’t departed yet, and the bustle outside continued. Ron kept sneaking glances at Harry.

“So…” Ron finally said. “You’re really Harry Potter?”

Harry looked sheepish. “I guess so. I mean — yeah.”

Ron whistled low. “Blimey.”

“Don’t really remember anything from when I was a baby. My aunt and uncle never talked about magic. This is all kind of… overwhelming.”

Ron nodded. “My house is all magic. Loud, chaotic magic. And a ghoul in the attic.”

“You have a ghoul?”

“Yeah, he clanks pipes at night and moans dramatically when someone tries to study.”

Harry grinned.

“What about pets? Do you have one?” Harry asked curiously.

Ron sighed and reached into his robe pocket. “Just Scabbers.” He held up the rat like someone introducing a mildly disappointing relative. “He’s been in the family longer than me. Belonged to Percy, then me.”

Scabbers squeaked and promptly climbed Ron’s arm to steal a crisp from the Pumpkin Pasties pile.

“He’s a menace,” Ron added, not bothering to stop him. “Doesn’t do anything useful. Once bit Fred, though. That was his highlight.”

For a while they talked about normal things — sweets, chocolate frogs, what Harry’s cupboard under the stairs looked like (Ron was appalled), and the weird way wizarding newspapers moved.

A sudden voice interrupted them.

“Excuse me, have you seen a toad? Neville’s lost one again.”

Ron turned to see a bushy-haired girl in school robes at the door with a boy beside her, which he assumed was Neville. She glanced around the compartment, eyes landing on Harry, then Ron.

“I know who you are,” she said to Harry. “You’re in Hogwarts: A History. Well, sort of.”

Harry looked slightly alarmed.

“You’re in the Prophet too,” she said to Ron. “They said you cast rune strokes. Was that true?”

Ron blinked. “Kinda. It wasn’t a full spell or anything. More like… I copied what I saw. A little.”

She frowned. “That’s still very advanced. You don’t look like someone who—”

Ron frowned. He agreed that he didn’t know in the moment what he had been doing — but he didn’t like the way she was sizing him up. So he decided to try something which he had seen Percy revising for his O.W.L.s.

“Neville, what’s the name of your toad?” he cut her off abruptly.

“Trevor,” the boy said, confused at being addressed so randomly.

“Accio Trevor!” Ron said suddenly, wand flicking.

With a startled pop, a damp, slimy toad smacked into the compartment window.

“Thank you so much!” Neville exclaimed, clutching the frog in his hand clumsily.

The girl gasped. “That’s an advanced charm!”

Ron grinned sheepishly. “My brother Percy was practicing. I picked it up.”

Harry clapped softly. “That was wicked.”

Hermione sniffed. “Well. I’m Hermione Granger. And I’ve already learned all our coursebooks. Hopefully that’ll help me catch up.”

“Catch up to what?” Ron asked. “We’re going there to learn. That’s the point.”

Hermione bristled. “Some of us like to be prepared.”

Ron opened his mouth again, but she spun and left, taking Neville with her before he could respond.

“Well,” Harry said, “that was… something.”

“She’s a bit much,” Ron said.

Just then, the door slid open again — pale hair, pointed face, and sneer included.

“Is it true?” drawled Draco Malfoy. “You’re Potter?”

Harry stiffened. “Yeah.”

“I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” He glanced at Ron. “You don’t want to make friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

Harry looked at Ron, then back at Malfoy.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself.”

Malfoy’s face curled into a sneer, but he didn’t respond. He left in a swirl of robes.

Ron leaned back, pleased.

“Nice one.”

They both laughed.

Outside the window, the whistle blew. They began to put on their robes.

And Hogwarts was finally on its way.

The boats bumped gently against the shore, the lanterns flickering as students disembarked one by one onto the stone path leading up to the castle. The towering silhouette of Hogwarts rose against the night sky like a slumbering beast — spires reaching toward the stars, windows glowing like distant embers. Ron craned his neck as he stepped out, the sight swallowing his words.

"Wow," he muttered.

"Come on!" Harry said, tugging him by the sleeve. They followed the rest of the first-years in a loose line up the winding slope, shoes crunching gravel, cloaks tugging in the breeze.

At the castle doors stood a giant, wild-haired man Ron now recognized from the Prophet and from Harry’s stories — Hagrid.

“You’re Hagrid?” Ron asked, blinking up at him.

“Tha’s me,” Hagrid said cheerfully. “Glad yeh made it, Ron. ’Spect yer mum’ll hex me if yeh don’t come back in one piece.”

Harry grinned. “He’s brilliant. Saved me more than once already.”

Ron smiled faintly. The nervousness coming out in full swing — but it didn’t last long. As they travelled through the lake on a boat, he was so nervous he didn't register Hermione sharing tidbits of information about the lake — not when the castle doors groaned open and a stern witch with square spectacles stepped into view.

"First-years, follow me!" Professor McGonagall said briskly as they landed.

They entered the Entrance Hall, polished stone floors echoing with footsteps and torchlight glittering across the high arches. Just as Ron was marveling at the size of the place, a soft whisper and a sudden chill passed over his neck.

He turned and nearly jumped — a dozen translucent figures floated through the wall ahead. Ghosts.

"Oh—cool," whispered Ron, watching them drift by. One in a ruff was discussing the benefits of being headless. Another, pale and grim, nodded solemnly to Harry.

"House ghosts," said a girl beside them — Hermione, obviously Ron thought. “That’s the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin ghost. And Nearly Headless Nick! Gryffindor's.”

Nick smiled politely as he passed. “Evening, new students! Looking forward to the feast, I imagine?”

"Starving," Ron admitted before he could stop himself.

Nick chuckled, and the ghosts moved on.

The group was led into a smaller antechamber just outside the Great Hall. Ron's hands were clammy. McGonagall turned to address them.

"The Sorting Ceremony will begin momentarily. Your house will be like your family at Hogwarts. Your triumphs will earn you points; any rule-breaking will lose them. Four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. The Sorting Hat will decide."

A few kids looked pale. One boy was muttering about his parents being Ravenclaws. Hermione was rehearsing spells under her breath. Ron just tried not to throw up.

Then the doors opened.

The Great Hall stunned him into silence — four long tables, enchanted ceiling mimicking the night sky, candles floating in midair. His stomach flipped.

They walked between the tables. Ron caught glimpses — older students turning, whispering, nudging. A few gasped softly at the sight of Harry’s scar. He tried not to notice.

The Sorting Hat sat on a stool at the front, patched and ragged — until it suddenly opened its brim and began to sing:

...Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me...

The hat's song wound through clever rhymes about the qualities of each house. Ron barely listened — his eyes flicked to his brothers at the Gryffindor table. Percy looked worried. Fred and George were watching him, uncharacteristically quiet.

McGonagall unrolled a parchment and called:

“Abbott, Hannah!”

The girl with blonde pigtails stumbled forward. The hat barely touched her head before shouting:

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

There was polite applause.

"Corner, Michael!" — "RAVENCLAW!"

Ron started tuning out the sorting, thinking about his own.

"Macmillan, Ernie!" — also a Hufflepuff.
"Sally-Anne Perks!" — Hufflepuff again.

Well it’s just a hat. It could've been worse, he remembered what the twins had told him.

"Greengrass, Daphne!"

A pale girl with cool eyes walked forward with dignity. The hat deliberated for a moment before calling:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The green-and-silver table clapped in a snakelike ripple. Daphne nodded slightly as she took her place.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

The boy with pale hair swaggered forward.

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat cried almost instantly.

The applause was louder this time — some students cheering with glee. Ron tensed, then exhaled.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

The hat took its time before shouting out:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Neville all but sprinted to the table, tripping once on his robe.

"Granger, Hermione!"

She went up stiffly, chin high, as the hat took its time — nearly two full minutes before deciding:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Then came the name everyone had been waiting for.

"Potter, Harry."

A breathless silence fell over the hall.

Ron could hear whispers, gasps.

Harry sat on the stool, clutching the edges. The hat talked to him for a while — more than a minute — before finally deciding:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

There was a roar of applause.

Harry slid off the stool looking slightly dazed, but he grinned faintly as he made his way to the table. Ron gave him a thumbs up.

And then all of a sudden it was his turn.

“Weasley, Ronald.”

The hall hushed again.

He could feel every eye on him. The youngest Weasley. All his brothers in Gryffindor. Everyone expecting the same.

He sat. The hat was on him in a blink.

“Hmm. Interesting…”

Ron swallowed.

“Plenty of courage, yes. But clever. Sharp. Witty tongue, resourceful… Very rare instincts, boy. I see deep perception. Very rare.”

Gryffindor, Ron thought hard. My family. Put me there.

“Oh, you’d do well in Gryffindor, yes… But…”

“Slytherin… wants you.”

What?

“You’ve caught the eye of the serpent, Ronald Weasley. That doesn’t happen often.”

No, I can’t— I’m a Weasley. We’re Gryffindors.

“That may be. But this house chooses you. And I believe you will grow in it.”

Ron gripped the edges of the stool. The hat paused.

“Very well then. I’ll give you what you need.”

And then, aloud—

“SLYTHERIN!”

Loud gasps tore through the Great Hall.

Ron blinked.

The hat was lifted, and he stood — the silence ringing louder than any applause.

He looked at Harry.

Harry looked stunned. Unsure, maybe. But when their eyes met, Harry gave him a thumbs up.

We’re still friends, Ron hoped as he nodded back.
Harry gave a tiny nod back.

Ron turned. Percy was pale. The twins looked aghast. "What the bloody hell!!" they mouthed at him.

He shrugged at them and took the long walk toward the Slytherin table, heart thudding.

No one clapped, except a few polite Slytherins. He sat at the very edge of the bench, hands stiff at his sides.

He didn’t taste a single bite of the feast.

Slytherin Dungeons – Common Room

The walls were cold stone, illuminated by the soft greenish glow of sconces enchanted to flicker like underwater torches. The Slytherin common room was sleek and dark — leather chairs, a black marble fireplace, and long, curved windows showing the murky depths of the lake.

The first-years stood in a semi-circle near the hearth. The prefects instructed them to wait. One of them — a tall girl with a no-nonsense air — warned them, “Professor Snape will address you shortly. Be respectful.”

Moments later, the door creaked open.

Professor Snape swept in, black robes billowing, eyes narrowing at once as they fell upon the new students.

“Welcome,” he began, voice silken. “You are here because you are capable. Because you understand, or will understand, the value of ambition, resourcefulness, and cunningness.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Ron, unreadable.

“In Slytherin, you represent more than yourself — you represent us. Failure is not tolerated, but neither is false pride. You are expected to keep your word, keep your secrets, and protect your house.”

He took a measured step forward.

“If any of you require guidance, I am your Head of House. I do not suffer fools — but I do assist students who show potential.” His eyes hovered briefly again on Ron. “Even… unlikely ones.”

Ron stiffened slightly.

“That will be all,” Snape said with a curt nod to the prefects. “Show them to their dorms.”

As he turned to leave, Malfoy elbowed past Ron. “Hope you’re comfortable sleeping down here. We do not tolerate any blood traitors here.” he croaked, and the two dumb and dumber looking goons guffawed.

Ron exhaled slowly. Detention was not how he wanted to start his first night, and Snape didn't seem to be one who went easy with detentions.

“I get that you’re upset,” he said flatly. “Must be hard, having the Baron talk more to me than to you.”

Malfoy’s smirk twitched — but Ron didn’t stop.

“And if you think I ended up here by accident or tricked the hat somehow, then you’re not half as clever as you keep saying you are.”

There was a pause. Even Crabbe and Goyle blinked.

“Sleep tight,” Ron added, brushing past him heading upstairs towards the dorms.

He passed dorm one — Malfoy’s and the goons’ names written on the steel plate on the door. He quickly skipped it, thanking his stars he didn't get to dorm with Malfoy. He didn't think he could've tolerated that for seven years. He moved towards the next dorm.

He saw his name along with two more names, Blaise Zabini and Theodere Nott.

He reached at the handle and opened the door. Empty. Quiet.

Relieved, he stepped inside and dropped his bag. The four-poster beds had deep green hangings, and the trunks already lined the walls. He moved toward the bed farthest from the door.

After freshening up and pulling on a worn tee-shirt, Ron sat on the bed, rubbing his eyes.

The door creaked open.

Two figures entered.

One was tall, olive-skinned with sharp cheekbones and an effortless elegance and the other had a slightly messy head of dark hair and sharp, inquisitive gray eyes.

“Well, we were wondering who claimed this dorm,” Nott said, crossing his arms. “Turns out it's the Weasley.”

Ron stood a little straighter. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Zabini offered a nod. “Zabini. That’s Nott.”

“We’ve… heard of you,” Nott added carefully. “You’re the one from the Prophet. The vampire-summoner.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Ron started, but Nott waved it off.

“We’re not asking about that,” he said, sitting on the edge of his bed. “We’re asking what made the Hat put you here.”

Ron hesitated.

Zabini tilted his head. “You can trust us. Slytherins protect their own. But we’re curious.”

Ron’s fingers tightened around his sleeve.

“The Hat… said Slytherin wanted me,” he said finally. “That it had already chosen me before I even sat down.”

The room fell silent.

Zabini blinked slowly. Nott leaned forward, expression serious now.

“It chose you?” Theo asked, voice almost reverent.

“Apparently,” Ron said. “I didn’t ask for it. I wanted Gryffindor.”

Zabini glanced at Nott. “We'll.... don’t tell anyone about that.”

Theo nodded. “Definitely not. They’d tear you apart asking what it means.”

Ron nodded slowly.

As the candles dimmed, the three boys settled into their beds — not yet friends, but no longer strangers.

Ron lay staring at the ceiling.

The shadows on the stone above curled like ink in water.

What did it mean, for a house to choose him?

Why him?

He had no answers yet.

But tomorrow — tomorrow would be his first day in Slytherin.

And somehow, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

Headmaster’s Office, Near Midnight

The Headmaster’s office was quiet, lit only by the low, flickering glow of enchanted candles and the gentle chime of ancient magical instruments whirring in slow rhythm. Through the tall, arched windows, moonlight spilled across the stone floor, cold and silver. Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, slept soundly on his perch, his feathers tucked under his wings.

The soft ticking of ancient timepieces echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber, where candlelight flickered like whispers. Outside the tall arched window, the mountains of Scotland slept beneath a gauze of mist, the stars quietly watching.

Albus Dumbledore stood before the enchanted glass of the Foe Glass, gazing not at enemies but at reflections that flickered with uncertainty. Severus Snape sat in a nearby armchair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, black robes pooling around his boots like shadow.

The Sorting Hat sat quietly on a nearby stool.

“I must admit,” Dumbledore said softly, “tonight’s Sorting brought more surprises than I anticipated.”

Snape arched a brow. “Weasley. In Slytherin.”

The hat gave a little huff. “Don’t act so scandalized. The boy has the cunning, the quiet pride, and a great deal of unpolished instinct. He would have done well in Gryffindor, certainly — but Slytherin chose him before he even stepped into the room.”

“Chose him?” Snape repeated, eyes narrowing.

“Indeed,” said the Sorting Hat. “It doesn’t happen often. The house called him. I felt its pull before the boy’s name was even called. I believe... his presence awakened something. A resonance.”

Dumbledore turned, eyes thoughtful behind half-moon spectacles. “And Potter?”

“Much the opposite,” the Hat said. “He was a quiet boy, but filled with a fierce heart. I offered him Slytherin. He refused, stubbornly. It took some convincing, but... in the end, Gryffindor chose him as he chose it. A mutual pull. Rare in its own right.”

Snape’s lip curled. “Of course.”

“But he carries something dark,” the Hat added, voice lower. “Something hidden. Scarred. It clings to him like a second skin, though he knows it not.”

Dumbledore’s smile faded. “Thank you, old friend.”

With a small shiver, the Sorting Hat gave a final grumble and fell silent.

Snape waited until the door clicked shut behind the levitating hat before speaking again. “So. You’re certain now, I assume?”

Dumbledore moved slowly to his desk and unrolled a piece of parchment — the one he'd read so many times his fingers found the creases in the dark.

Upon the waning of July’s final eve, the storm-bearer is marked... Upon the dawn of March’s first light, the serpent’s chosen doth rise...

He tapped the prophecy with a long finger.

“Harry, born at the end of July — scarred, and unknowingly powerful. Ronald, born on March first — gifted with instinctual magic, chosen not by random Sorting, but by Slytherin itself. A house cannot choose unless... unless something older is at work.”

Snape was silent, brooding. Then,

“You believe the prophecy speaks not of one boy, but of two.”

“I believe they are twin stars in the same sky,” Dumbledore replied quietly. “One is the storm, shaped by suffering. The other is the serpent’s choice — shaped by doubt, and guided by something older than Hogwarts itself.”

“Chosen by Slytherin,” Snape muttered. “Not through blood, nor ambition, but through... alignment.”

Dumbledore nodded. “And, the vampire — she came unbound to Ron’s aid. That cannot be coincidence. Vampires have always been drawn to ancient magic. Perhaps Slytherin’s influence lingers within them more than we care to admit.”

Snape rubbed his temple. “You are asking me to protect them both.”

“I am asking you to watch them both. Guide, if you can. Learn what they do not know they carry. I will be asking the same from Minerva.”

“They will be enemies before they are friends,” Snape said bitterly. “They may even tear each other apart.”

Dumbledore looked up. His gaze, for once, was entirely serious.

“They must not. For they are not merely friends or rivals, Severus — they are fated. Separate, they are lost. But united, they are fate itself.”

Snape stared at the prophecy.

“And the one who calls himself the true heir?” he asked. “The throne of ruin? That line...”

“Voldemort still lives,” Dumbledore said. “Or some part of him does. And he will not ignore these boys for long.”

Silence pressed in.

Snape’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Then what are we to do?”

Dumbledore returned to the window and watched the stars shift above the mountains.

“We do what we always do, Severus,” he said softly. “We wait, and we watch. And when the time comes — we act.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The first thing Ron noticed was how quiet it was.

No clatter from the kitchen, no Ginny arguing with the twins, no smell of burning toast — just the dim flicker of greenish torchlight and the gentle lapping of the Black Lake against the stone walls.

He blinked up at the unfamiliar canopy of the Slytherin dormitory ceiling, momentarily confused. Then it all came rushing back: the train, the boats, the Sorting Hat’s agonizing deliberation — and the cold hush that had followed when it declared:

"Slytherin!"

Ron groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. His first thought wasn’t about school, classes, or even his roommates.

It was his mum.

Mum’s going to go spare.

She hadn’t known. None of them had — except Percy and the twins, who had witnessed it firsthand, their faces frozen in shock. He could only imagine the letter that would soon fly to the Burrow. His stomach twisted.

He sat up, pushing the heavy green duvet off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor was cold under his feet, but he didn’t mind. He was already used to waking up early — Charlie’s influence. The morning runs had trained his body to stir with the sun.

And now that he was here, in the literal dungeon of Hogwarts, he wasn’t going to wait around for things to go wrong.

He needed to be prepared.

“Right,” he muttered to himself. “If I’m going to survive in a nest of bloody snakes, I better sharpen my fangs.”

He opened his trunk, rummaging past folded jumpers and quills, looking for his textbooks. Standard Book of Spells, Magical Theory — Percy had given him the whole lot, complete with margin notes.

But his hand stopped on something else.

The diary.

Valerie.

Ron hesitated for just a second, then pulled it out gently and flipped it open. The pages still shimmered faintly, like moonlight caught in ink.

He dipped his quill and wrote:

Ron:

Morning. You awake?

The words faded. Then, as always, her answer shimmered back in elegant silver script:

Valerie:

Of course I am. I don’t sleep, remember? What’s wrong?

Ron took a breath and leaned over the page.

Ron:

It’s Hogwarts. I… got sorted yesterday. I didn’t tell you. It was weird. I’m in Slytherin.

There was a pause. He could almost imagine her blinking in surprise on the other end.

Valerie:

Slytherin? A Weasley? That’s rare.

Ron:

Yeah. You’re telling me. Percy and the twins looked like they’d seen a troll doing ballet. I’ve barely wrapped my head around it. Everyone was staring.

Valerie:

Did the Hat say why?

Ron hesitated.

Ron:

It said Slytherin chose me. I don’t really get it. I wanted Gryffindor. I thought I’d be there with Harry.

Valerie:

Who’s Harry?

Ron:

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived?

Valerie:

Oh. That boy.

Ron blinked.

Ron:

Wait, you know about him?

Valerie:

I’ve heard stories. All vampires follow the major magical events, Ron. The fall of Voldemort was a… moment. But go on. What’s he like?

Ron:

He’s actually kind of normal? Grew up with Muggles, doesn’t know anything about the wizarding world. But he’s sharp. Nice too. We met on the train.

Valerie:

And you’re not in the same house?

Ron:

He’s in Gryffindor. We wanted to be in the same house. Now it feels like we’re already being split.

The ink paused. Then:

Valerie:

Ron, listen to me. Houses are just walls. Friendship is stronger than that. And Slytherin doesn’t mean you’re alone — it means you’re powerful. Play it right, and no one will be able to touch you.

Ron looked at her words for a long moment.

Ron:

You think I can do this?

Valerie:

I know you can. But hold your head high. If you walk like you don’t belong, they’ll treat you like you don’t. Own it, Weasley. Show them why the serpent chose you.

Ron gave a small, half-laugh. Then scribbled:

Ron:

I’m revising first. Show those snakes I’ve got more bite than they think.

Valerie:

That’s the spirit. Now go eat breakfast. Intimidation is hard on an empty stomach.

Ron:

Thanks, Val.

Valerie:

Anytime, little serpent.

Ron closed the diary and exhaled. He still felt nervous. But somehow, with her voice in his head and Percy’s annotated textbooks in hand, he felt… steadier.

He cracked open The Standard Book of Spells and began to review. If he couldn’t change his house, then he’d own it. He’d be ready — for classes, for Malfoy, for whatever came next. There was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. The kind of glint that made snakes think twice before striking.

The Slytherin dormitory was still wrapped in shadows when Ron emerged from the bathroom, steam trailing behind him as he rubbed at his damp hair. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet, and the heavy green hangings around the beds gave the space a strange hush.

He was toweling his head when Zabini stirred in his bed, one hand covering his eyes from the dim morning torchlight. A moment later, Nott sat up with a grunt, blinking like a cat disturbed from a nap.

The three boys exchanged simple nods — measured, polite, not quite friendly, but not hostile either.

Ron quietly slipped on his robes, feeling the now-familiar weight of his wand at his side. Valerie’s words from earlier still echoed in his mind: Hold your head high. He was determined to do just that.

By the time he made it to the Great Hall, it was still early, and only a scattering of students were present, hunched over pumpkin juice and toast. He glanced at the Gryffindor table — and there was Harry, sitting alone, his eyes trailing over the house banners that floated above their heads.

Ron hesitated. There was no rule against talking to someone from another house. And they had clicked on the train — even fought Malfoy off together. Still, his feet didn’t move.

Then Harry looked up.

Their eyes met.

Ron gave a small nod, tilting his head toward the doors.

Harry blinked once, then returned the nod.

Ron grabbed two sandwiches and headed outside.

The morning air was crisp and clean, the sky stretched wide and clear over the Black Lake. He sat under a tree, waiting only a minute or two before Harry joined him, sitting down with a soft grunt.

For a few moments, they just ate. A gentle breeze rustled through the grass.

“So…” Ron began, biting into his sandwich. “Still friends?”

Harry looked at him sidelong, then grinned. “Yeah. If you’re still up for it.”

Ron smiled. “Good. ’Cause I was worried I’d have to sneak into the Gryffindor tower and declare war or something.”

Harry snorted. “Bet that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened this week.”

They both laughed softly. The tension melted.

“You nervous?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. “A bit. I mean, I only found out I was a wizard a few weeks ago. I’ve never used a wand properly. You guys all know so many things even before starting — Hermione is like a magical scientist practically, I don’t even know the basics — what if I mess up?”

Ron shrugged. “You will. Everyone does. But that’s why they teach us. It’s not like they expect you to levitate dragons on day one.”

Harry gave a small laugh. “That’s... comforting, I guess.”

Ron brushed crumbs off his lap. “And as for not knowing the basics — I can always help you catch up. Believe me, even if I’ve been raised with magic, there are so many things I don’t know. Also, think about all the Muggle-borns — they all do well eventually. Just make sure you keep up with homework.” At this, he saw Harry relax a bit.

“Classes aren’t all bad. Percy told me a bit about what to expect. Transfiguration is really strict — Professor McGonagall doesn’t put up with nonsense. Potions is with Snape. He teaches Slytherin — head of the house — so he’s biased toward the snakes, but I’ve heard the twins grumble about how much of a wanker he is.”

“Great. I don’t know why, but he’s been glaring at me since the moment we got sorted,” Harry muttered.

“What!?” Ron exclaimed.

“Yeah, I must’ve killed him in my past life,” Harry grumbled, and Ron laughed.

“Charms is fun, though,” he continued. “Professor Flitwick’s small but brilliant. Defense Against the Dark Arts changes teachers a lot, apparently, but they say it’s the most useful class. And History of Magic is taught by a ghost — Charlie said it’s basically a guaranteed free period.”

Harry was clearly paying attention now, nodding slowly. “What about Astronomy?”

Ron made a face. “Midnight classes and too many stars and too confusing. That’s about it.”

Harry laughed again, and Ron grinned. The nervous energy in his chest had settled.

“You know a lot,” Harry said.

“Percy,” Ron replied, tapping his temple. “He won’t shut up most times, but when you actually want to learn something, he’s useful. Also, he kinda forced me to learn with him — and when Percy says something, you’ve got to do it.”

They sat in silence a little longer, listening to the gentle lapping of water on the shore.

Eventually, Harry stretched. “Thanks, Ron. I mean it.”

Ron shrugged. “It’s what mates do, right?”

Harry smiled.

Not long after, Professor Snape swept toward the Slytherin table with all the grace of an offended shadow. His dark eyes scanned each student before he handed out the first-year schedules with his usual flair for dramatics — quick flicks of his wand and parchment fluttered to each hand like obedient birds.

Ron caught his as it landed before him.

Morning: Herbology with Ravenclaw – Greenhouse One Afternoon: Potions with Gryffindor – Dungeons Evening: Free / Reading hour

Chapter Text

The cold morning air bit against Ron’s cheeks as he ran his third lap around the lake, breath misting in front of him. His trainers thudded softly on the dew-slick grass, the rhythm steady, familiar, and grounding. There was something comforting about the solitude, the quiet ripples on the lake’s surface, and the way the world was still waking up. It reminded him of the early mornings at the Burrow, before the chaos of breakfast, gnome-flinging, or twin-induced disasters.

He liked this. The predictability of movement. The ache in his legs. The knowledge that, out here, there were no staring eyes, no murmurs of “Weasley in Slytherin?” and definitely no Malfoy sneers. Just the lake, the wind, and the sound of his own breath.

An hour later, Ron padded into the Slytherin common room, sweat still clinging to his collar. After a quick shower, he emerged toweling his hair dry, only to find Zabini sitting upright in bed, rubbing his eyes blearily.

“You’re mental,” Zabini said without preamble. “It's a Saturday, practically.”

“It’s not,” Ron said, grinning. “And I used to go for a run back home. Helps me think.”

Nott grumbled from behind his green duvet. “Think about what? Ways to make the rest of us feel lazy?”

“Exactly,” Ron smirked, pulling on his robes. “Glad the message got through.”

Once Nott and Zabini were presentable—or at least conscious—they all headed to the Great Hall together, the early morning sun filtering through the high windows. The atmosphere was more relaxed today. No looming first lessons, no surprise wand work or bubbling cauldrons. Just History of Magic first thing. Which was… bearable.

Greengrass and Tracey were already seated, plates half-filled and mugs steaming.

“Weasley,” Daphne greeted with a polite tilt of the head. “Still alive, I see. We assumed you’d been eaten by the squid.”

“He probably challenged it to a race,” Tracey added, popping a grape into her mouth. “And lost.”

Ron rolled his eyes and flopped down across from them. “Very funny. I was running.”

“From what?” Nott asked, settling beside him.

“Responsibilities,” Zabini answered dryly, reaching for a croissant.

“No, just keeping a habit,” Ron said. “Back at the Burrow, I used to run early. Peaceful. Less gnome attacks.”

Greengrass made a face. “That’s a horrifying mental image.”

“Which part? The gnomes or me running?” Ron smirked.

“Yes,” she deadpanned.

As they ate, Ron spotted Harry entering with Neville and Dean, laughing about something. Harry caught Ron’s wave and returned it, pointing toward his own table and mouthing “see you in class.”

History of Magic was shared with Gryffindors. That would be an easier start to the day, Ron thought. No bubbling cauldrons. No exploding mandrakes. No Snape.

The enchanted ceiling of the History of Magic classroom didn’t bother mimicking the sky. It had given up years ago — much like the ghost teaching the class.

Professor Binns floated listlessly through the blackboard at precisely the same moment he did every day, papers fluttering in his wake, voice droning even before he had fully materialized. “…and following the Bluntaxe Rebellion of 1423…”

Ron slumped into his seat at the back, flanked by Harry on one side, and Nott and Zabini on the other. The desks creaked as students filed in, barely suppressing yawns.

“Merlin,” Harry whispered, “do you think he knows he’s dead?”

Ron tilted his head. “I think he’d teach through the apocalypse.”

Nott leaned forward from behind his desk. “Don’t be ridiculous. He is the apocalypse.”

Zabini, ever composed, didn’t even look up from his notes. “I think I died halfway through Monday’s lecture and became a ghost. No one’s noticed yet.”

The four of them chuckled quietly. Up ahead, Hermione Granger sat with her hands folded on her desk, spine arrow-straight, already scribbling notes furiously. As usual. But there was an extra sharpness to her posture today — and Ron knew exactly why.

It had started three days ago, in Astronomy class. Professor Sinistra had asked a question about lunar alignment and seasonal wand effectiveness. Hermione’s hand had shot up first — as always — but before she could speak, Ron had answered from the back, unprompted.

And got it right.

Professor Sinistra had smiled at him. “Well done, Mr. Weasley.”

Hermione hadn’t taken it well.

She hadn’t said anything, of course. But the next time a question was asked, she’d nearly thrown her arm off her shoulder trying to answer first. And Ron, naturally, had taken it as a challenge. Now, every lecture felt like a silent duel: one-upping each other on facts, theories, wand movements, or spell history.

Of course, the rest of Hogwarts had taken notice. Slytherins whispered about it in the corridors. Gryffindors tried to defend Hermione’s “early lead.” Even Ravenclaws had started watching their interactions like a spectator sport. Some Hufflepuffs were taking bets.

Ron leaned toward Harry. “Five galleons say she already memorized Binns’ lecture.”

Harry grinned. “Ten she rewrote it and sent him corrections.”

Nott made a mock-annoyed face. “Can she correct death?”

“No,” Zabini replied blandly, “but she’ll probably try.”

Hermione glanced back just then, eyes narrowing. Her quill didn’t stop moving.

Ron sat back with a satisfied smirk. “You think she’s glaring?”

“She’s calculating,” Harry whispered. “That’s worse.”

Neville, who was seated a few spots away, leaned toward them and spoke in his usual quiet voice, “She’s not that bad, really. She just… doesn’t know how to talk to people.”

“Fair,” Nott said, tapping his quill. “But you’re assuming she’s trying to talk.”

Ron turned toward Neville. “She re-sorted my star chart during Astronomy. While I was still working on it.”

“She told me my breathing was ‘distracting’ during wand work in Transfiguration,” Harry added.

Zabini raised an eyebrow. “I once watched her correct a Ravenclaw on a footnote in a spellbook. The Ravenclaw was the author.”

Neville looked pained. “Okay… yeah. She might have a problem.”

“Problem?” Nott scoffed. “Hogwarts has declared her the undefeated queen of the academic arena. Except now…” He gestured toward Ron with dramatic flair. “A challenger arises!”

Ron gave a mock bow. “Happy to be of service.”

“Someone’s definitely keeping score,” Harry muttered with a grin.

The ghost of a smile tugged at Ron’s lips. “I don’t want to beat her,” he said lightly, “I just don’t want to lose.”

As the bell rang through the halls, History of Magic ended in a blur of yawns and parchment scratches. Ron stretched, rotating his sore shoulder from where he’d been leaning on it half-asleep.

Hermione gathered her things with brisk, surgical precision. She didn’t glance back. Just swept out of the classroom like a general marching to her next conquest. Neville hurried to follow her, looking like a terrified squire.

Ron watched her go, then turned to Theo. “You think she’ll ever lighten up?”

“Maybe. When she runs out of encyclopedias.”

“I give it a week,” Blaise said. “Then she’ll start organizing the library by emotional trauma.”

Harry snorted.

“Don’t forget,” Harry whispered as they packed their books, “lake, after dinner.”

Ron gave a quick grin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Nearby, Nott was dramatically reciting Binns’ entire monologue in a ghostly monotone, while Zabini rolled his eyes and shoved his notes into his bag. Hermione marched out ahead, muttering about intellectual standards and parchment margins. Neville looked caught in the crossfire.

“Reckon she’ll make a club,” Nott whispered as they filed out.

“She’ll rather make a Revised Syllabus,” Ron muttered.

They all laughed.

In the Great Hall, the clatter of cutlery was nearly drowned out by the noise of students discussing first week dramas. At the Slytherin table, Ron dug into a plate of roast beef while Tracey quizzed him about “how many scrolls of notes” he’d taken in Binns’ class.

“Let me guess,” she teased. “Six?”

“Four and a half,” Ron said with mock indignation.

“Scandalous,” Zabini murmured.

Ron smirked, then glanced at the clock. “We’ve got a free period after this. Might hit the library.”

Nott made a choking sound. “You what?”

“I’m sorry,” Tracey said dramatically, patting Nott's back, “did the Gryffindor in you come out just now?”

“I’m researching something,” Ron grumbled, stuffing a final bite of potato into his mouth.

“Ah yes, a secret quest,” Nott said, eyes twinkling. “Beware, young adventurer. You may find books in the library.”

“Shocking,” Zabini deadpanned.

Ron gave them a mock salute and left for the library, his bag swinging at his side.

The library was blessedly quiet. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching in the motes of dust that floated lazily between high shelves. Ron found an empty table near the back and pulled out his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, then three additional tomes he’d borrowed from the library on protective magic and defensive warding.

He flipped through diagrams and incantation theory, muttering to himself and sketching ward circles. The Silencio charm he’d already mastered — he'd even used it to silence his own snoring during a dorm prank test — but perimeter spells? They were fifth-year work, and much trickier.

Still, Malfoy had proven himself dangerous. Ron wasn’t about to let himself get hexed into a broom cupboard without a fight.

Nearly an hour had passed when he heard it: a laugh he knew far too well.

Fred and George Weasley.

Ron’s hand froze mid-sentence.

“Oi, oi,” Fred said, appearing from behind a bookshelf. “Is that our little Ronniekins? Or just a clever impostor with study habits?”

George leaned in dramatically. “I don’t see an explosion, so it must be the real one.”

Ron straightened, flushed but trying to stay cool. “What are you two doing here?”

“Looking for banned books on portable swamps,” Fred replied cheerfully.

“Also,” George added, “spying on you.”

“You what?”

They sat down on either side of him, identical grins in place.

“We haven’t seen you since…” Fred gestured vaguely.

“...you were swallowed by snakes,” George finished. “How’s that working out?”

Ron sighed. “You’re not mad?”

The twins shared a look. “Mate,” Fred said, “you being a Slytherin is weird, yeah.”

“But we’ve decided we’re proud. It’s like owning a pygmy puff that bites everyone but still pays rent,” George added.

Ron gave them a wary grin.

“We heard about Malfoy,” Fred said, more serious now. “He’s making life hell?”

Ron shrugged. “Trying to. I’m keeping ahead.”

George nodded, approving. “And what’s this? Wards?”

“Trying to set up a few protective ones. Fifth-year stuff.”

“Very Slytherin of you,” Fred noted.

“Also heard about your academic rival.”

Ron groaned. “You mean Granger?”

“Is it true she broke a quill when Sinistra called you the most promising in Astronomy?”

“I didn’t see it,” Ron muttered, “but Theo swears she glared me down so hard my ink dried.”

They laughed, and Ron grinned, warmth spreading through his chest. For a moment, things felt normal.

Then George asked, “Have you told Mum yet?”

The warmth vanished.

“Uh,” Ron said eloquently.

Fred looked at George. “Told you.”

George nodded. “We thought so.”

Ron leaned forward. “Please don’t—”

“No worries,” Fred said. “We’re not ratting you out.”

“BUT,” George added, “Percy might’ve.”

Ron went pale. “What?”

“We saw Hermes flying with a letter this morning.”

“He had the look, Ron.”

Ron clutched his head. “No no no no no…”

Fred patted his shoulder. “We’ll help you forge your funeral schedule.”

George nodded solemnly. “And order black robes.”

“But hey,” Fred added, “at least you’ve got snake friends, a rival genius, and a war-level ward project.”

Ron blinked. “That’s not comforting.”

“Sure it is!” George beamed. “You’re living the drama.”

They stood, ruffled his hair, and sauntered off with matching winks.

Ron stared after them, shaking his head. “Mad. Completely mad.”

The humid air of the greenhouse clung to Ron’s skin, but it wasn’t the weather making him fidget — it was the thought of a letter. Or maybe two. Or worse — one that hissed and exploded in red fury.

He had barely been able to walk.

Nott nudged him gently as they walked toward Greenhouse Two. “You look like you swallowed a Bludger.”

“Maybe I did,” Ron muttered. “Or maybe a letter bomb.”

Tracey raised a brow. “Cryptic. Even for you.”

Greengrass glanced sideways at him. “Let me guess. Owl-related anxiety?”

“Hit the broom on the handle,” Ron mumbled.

They took their places near a patch of fluttering Snargaluffs as Professor Sprout began her lecture with her usual earthy cheer, explaining today’s topic: Mimbulus mimbletonia — useful in potions, particularly if you didn’t mind being covered in stinksap.

Ron tried to bury his nerves in the lecture, raising his hand when Sprout asked about sap extraction — Valerie had mentioned it once in a diary rant about potion disasters. His answer was on point. She gave him a warm nod and five points to Slytherin. Nott gave him a subtle thumbs up. Greengrass muttered, “Show-off,” just loud enough to make him grin.

When class ended, the five of them filed out into the fading light toward the castle, the air cooler and Ron slightly more relaxed.

Dinner was already underway in the Great Hall, students pouring in from all directions. Ron sat between Nott and Tracey, the meal settling into a comfortable rhythm. He even managed a small laugh when Zabini deadpanned something about Malfoy trying to hex a suit of armor that morning and accidentally dropping his wand down a drainage grate.

That’s when the silence hit.

Hermes — Percy’s owl — swooped into the Great Hall with impeccable timing and no mercy.

Ron’s fork paused mid-air as the snowy owl dove directly for the Slytherin table. He dropped two letters. One onto Percy’s plate at the Gryffindor table.

The other landed like a curse in front of Ron.

Everything else blurred. Tracey blinked. “Ominous owl drop,” she said dryly. “You okay?”

“Nope,” Ron whispered, heart hammering.

He didn’t open the envelope. Just stared at his name, scrawled in Molly Weasley’s unmistakable handwriting. Percy’s eyes met his across the room, cool and unreadable. The twins, a few seats down, looked over — Fred with a wince, George giving him a small thumbs up.

Ron slowly pushed his plate away.

“I’m done,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t even touch dessert,” Nott noted with concern.

“I’ve lost the will to treacle,” Ron muttered, getting to his feet.

Tracey reached out and grabbed an extra piece, wrapped it in a napkin and dropped it into Ron's bag. “Keep this for emotional eating later.”

Ron barely nodded as he turned and strode out of the Great Hall, the envelope burning a hole in his palm.

Ron sat by the edge of the Black Lake, legs folded tightly to his chest, the hem of his robes dusted with grass. The sky had started to blush orange, casting ripples of gold across the lake’s surface.

He clutched the unopened letter from his mother in both hands.

Across the water, the castle gleamed in the falling light — all warm windows and tall towers — but Ron felt cold, like the parchment in his grip might explode.

He didn’t hear Harry approach until the soft crunch of shoes on grass made him look up.

“You left in a hurry,” Harry said, eyebrows drawn together. “I… figured I’d find you here.”

Ron didn’t say anything for a second, then gestured beside him. “Sit. You might want to be here in case I pass out mid-sentence.”

Harry dropped down beside him. “Is it bad?”

“Dunno yet.” Ron finally cracked the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. He scanned it quickly first, then again more slowly. His brows furrowed. His grip on the letter loosened.

“…Huh,” he murmured.

“What?” Harry asked.

Ron held the letter a little closer and read it aloud.

Dear Ron,

I expected a letter from you the moment you got sorted — instead, I hear about it from Percy’s owl. Honestly, Ronald!

I’m writing now because I was so shocked I couldn’t even find the right words at first. Slytherin? I won’t lie — I never imagined one of my children in that house. It startled me.

But Percy’s letter assured us that you’ve been doing fine. He said you’ve made friends, in Gryffindor and even in Slytherin, and that your professors already know your name — in a good way.

You have no idea how proud your father and I are.

And don’t think you can slack off just because I said that. I’m still your mother — I expect letters from you regularly. If you don’t send one soon, I will send a Howler and you know I will.

That Malfoy boy — I know his father, and I won’t have you getting into trouble with him. You watch your back. And stay away from dark arts.

We love you. Write soon.

Love, Mum

Ron stared at the letter for a long moment, then blinked rapidly.

Harry was quiet, giving him space.

“I thought… I thought she’d be disappointed,” Ron admitted quietly. “I always felt like the spare. I thought maybe now… she’d have a reason to just stop trying.”

Harry’s eyes softened. “She wrote that she loves you.”

Ron gave a weak chuckle. “Yeah. Still trying to figure out how to feel about that.”

He looked up, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “She’s proud of me, Harry. Proper proud. I don’t think she’s ever said that. Not really.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. Then, almost carefully, he said, “That’s good.”

Ron tilted his head. “You alright?”

Harry hesitated. Then: “I don’t know what that feels like.”

Ron frowned.

“I mean — my aunt and uncle — they never said anything like that. They mostly ignored me. Or shouted. Or locked the cupboard. Or starved me. I didn’t even know magic existed until Hagrid told me. And now… everyone knows who I am, but no one really knows me.”

Ron stared at him, stunned. “Starving you?! The cupboard was bad enough but starvation?”

Harry shrugged, too casually. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“That’s — no, that’s mad,” Ron said sharply, voice shaking a little. “You lived with that? That’s not normal, Harry, it’s abuse. That’s not right.”

Harry smiled, a little surprised by the outrage in Ron’s voice.

“You’re actually angry,” he said softly.

“Of course I’m angry!” Ron snapped. “You’re my best friend, and they treated you like that — nobody would do that to a bloody stray Kneazle!”

Harry blinked, the words hitting deeper than he expected.

“…Best friend?” he asked, voice small.

Ron flushed but didn’t look away. “Yeah. You’re my first real friend. Not just someone I know — not a cousin or a neighbour. A real, proper friend.”

Harry grinned. “You’re mine too. Only one I’ve got, really.”

Ron nudged him with his elbow. “That makes me your best friend by default.”

“Well, you’d win even if I had ten others.”

Ron laughed — a warm, honest sound that made the tension melt from the air. He pulled something from his bag — a neatly wrapped napkin.

“Davis put it in my bag. You still want it?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “You legend.”

They split it between them, each taking greedy bites. The breeze tugged at their robes as they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, letting the soft lapping of the lake fill the silence.

“You know,” Ron muttered between bites, “you’re not allowed to turn into a soppy prat in public.”

“Says the bloke who nearly cried over a letter,” Harry teased.

“Oi — I’m emotionally complex.”

Harry grinned. “You’re dramatic.”

“Says the Boy Who Lived.”

They laughed until their sides hurt. Then, slowly, they stood, brushing grass from their robes.

As they walked back toward the castle in the fading light, they didn’t talk — they didn’t need to.

They’d found something neither of them had known they needed: someone who understood.

The soft murmur of the lake behind him, Ron stepped through the stone archway that led into the Slytherin common room. It was quiet, save for the crackling of the green-flamed hearth and the occasional whisper of parchment turning. The emerald-hued light gave everything a sleepy sort of glow.

He spotted them right away: Nott, Zabini, Tracey, and Greengrass, all lounged in a half-circle on one of the tufted leather couches. Greengrass had her legs crossed neatly, parchment and ink before her, while Tracey sat upside down, her head hanging off the edge of the couch and her hair brushing the rug. Zabini looked half-asleep with his book resting on his chest, and Nott was poking holes in a cushion with the end of his quill.

Ron braced himself.

“There he is!” Nott exclaimed dramatically, tossing the pillow aside. “The boy who braved maternal wrath and lived to tell the tale.”

Ron laughed. “Still intact, miraculously. No hexes, no Howlers. Just a strongly worded letter.”

“Oh?” Zabini raised an eyebrow. “And here I was expecting emotional devastation and treacle tart-fueled tears.”

“I did eat treacle tart,” Ron smirked. “Thanks, by the way, Trace.”

Tracey sat upright with a triumphant grin. “Of course. I told them you’d need sugar to survive impending doom.”

“I’m starting to suspect you are sugar-fueled demon,” Ron muttered, dodging the cushion Tracey half-heartedly lobbed at him.

Greengrass sighed and nudged her scroll toward the center of the table. “While you lot are trading baked goods and trauma, I’m being slowly killed by this Locomotor diagram.”

Ron glanced over and tilted his head. “You’re drawing too tight a curve. You need a longer flick at the end, like this—” He picked up her quill and sketched the motion in the air, then redrew the shape more cleanly on her parchment. “Think of it like tossing something forward. The wand should move with intent, not just wobble.”

Greengrass blinked. “You actually know what you’re doing?”

“Weasley’s a closet academic,” Nott said solemnly. “We’ve been duped.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I had Percy breathing down my neck my whole life. The Locomotor Charm was his favourite for levitating luggage to show off. He made me practice it with potatoes.”

Tracey clapped her hands. “What an incredibly boring way to traumatize a child.”

“And yet I turned out brilliant,” Ron shot back.

Zabini made a thoughtful noise. “Tragic. But effective.”

Nott scooted in beside Ron and shoved his parchment in front of him. “Alright, Weasley the Wonder. Enlighten me.”

Tracey perked up. “Ooh, tutoring session?”

“Only because I don’t trust Nott not to accidentally launch Bulstrode’s cat,” Greengrass muttered.

“Once!” Theo cried. “It happened once and it landed on its feet!”

Ron was chuckling as he leaned over, explaining the wand movement again. “Just remember — it’s not about force. It’s about control. Intent and clarity. You don’t have to yell the spell either, that’s just for dramatic effect.”

Zabini, arms folded, muttered, “Tracey will do it dramatically anyway.”

“Obviously,” Tracey said, tossing her hair.

They laughed again, voices soft under the dim glow of the common room lights. For the next twenty minutes, the five of them passed parchment and advice and friendly insults back and forth. At some point, Nott pulled out chocolate frogs and passed one to Ron with a muttered “thanks, professor.”

Ron took it, grinning. “Don’t expect me to wear robes and a pointy hat.”

“Too late,” Greengrass said. “We’re getting you a Top Snake Tutor badge.”

Ron groaned but his eyes were warm.

As the laughter settled into comfortable silence, he glanced around at the group — the way they lounged close, how easy this felt now. The biting sarcasm was still there, but there was something else under it. Trust, maybe. Respect.

He leaned back, letting the warmth of the fireplace soak in.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Ron said, softer now. “If you ever need help again… just ask. I don’t mind.”

Tracey smirked. “Careful. That sounded dangerously loyal.”

Zabini added dryly, “Very un-Slytherin of you.”

Ron chuckled, unconcerned. “Guess you’ll just have to put up with it.”

Greengrass, without looking up from her notes, murmured, “We could do worse.”

And for a long moment, none of them spoke. The fire cracked softly, parchment rustled, and a distant murmur of the lake echoed beyond the walls.

And for Ron Weasley, nestled deep in the heart of Slytherin, surrounded by sharp minds and even sharper tongues, it didn’t feel so strange anymore.

After a long day of lectures, tension, surprise letters, and new alliances, Ron finally found himself back in the dorm. The room was dim and hushed, his roommates already turning in — Zabini leafing through a novel by wandlight, Nott halfway buried under his blanket muttering about “fanged geraniums” in his sleep.

Ron slipped behind his bed’s green velvet curtains, drawing them closed with a flick of his fingers. With a whispered, “Silencio,” the space within his four-poster stilled to silence, muting the ambient creaks and underwater echoes of the dungeons.

He tapped his wand to the fabric and murmured, “Muffliato.” Then another careful sweep: “Homenum Revelio.” — just to be sure no one else was hidden nearby.

Satisfied, he fished out the small leather-bound diary tucked inside his pillowcase. Its cover was slightly worn, but warm to the touch — faintly humming with the strange, gentle magic Valerie had woven into it.

He opened it and scribbled:

Hi. Are you awake?

The reply came seconds later, elegant and silver across the page:

I never sleep before 3 a.m., Red. What’s on your mind?

Ron smiled.

Just got into bed. Cast privacy charms. Oh — and guess what? I can do Silencio now. Properly. Doesn’t even squeak.

Ah, the humble Silencio. Useful for shutting up chatty ghosts and nosy roommates. Well done.

Thanks. Working on wards now, but they’re tricky. I mean, how do you even build one without it falling apart? Mine keeps flickering like a broken candle.

There was a short pause, then Valerie’s reply unfurled in a tidy column:

Wards are layered intention. Imagine weaving a net — it’s not just power, it’s structure. Start with anchoring points — four corners, always. Picture a shape. Hold it in your mind. Funnel your magic into the outline first. Then fill it with purpose. Be clear. Not ‘keep bad stuff out,’ but ‘repel hostility’ or ‘shield against intrusion.’ Be precise. Wards love precision.

Ron read it twice, trying to picture it like she described.

That makes more sense, he wrote. Did you learn all this when you were in school?

Not exactly. Back in my days, Romanian magical education was different — stricter in a lot of ways, more intuitive in others. I learned runes, wards, binding magics, mostly from wandering scholars. Some of them were half-feral, all brilliant. But Hogwarts... I had to research that.

Ron blinked.

Wait. What? You researched Hogwarts?

Of course. I couldn’t exactly let my bonded idiot march off into a castle full of secret staircases without knowing what kind of mess you might get into.

You talked to people?

Three Hogwarts alumni. A Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor. They were happy to reminisce. I made notes.

Ron flushed and scribbled back quickly:

You made notes? For me?

Well. You are prone to walking into chaos. And I was curious. Your country has a ridiculous magical history. Animated armor? Talking hats? Flying trees? I had to know.

Ron’s heart gave a thump. He grinned helplessly.

You’re mad. Proper mad.

Yes. And you’re mine. Deal with it.

He laughed softly, shaking his head. Across the dorm, the last of the lights had gone out, and someone was lightly snoring. Ron lay back against his pillow, the diary still warm in his hands.

Thanks, Valerie. For the tips. For checking on me. For... everything.

You’re welcome, Red. Now get some rest. Tomorrow is another day full of hexes and homework.

Ron chuckled one last time before closing the diary, tucking it beneath his pillow, and pulling the blankets up.

“Night, Valerie,” he murmured aloud.

A faint glow shimmered under the leather cover — as if she’d whispered back.

The dungeons were still cloaked in pre-dawn darkness when Ron slipped out of bed. The enchanted lanterns along the stone walls were dim and flickering, casting long shadows that made the place feel older than time itself. He moved silently, already in his running clothes — a patched, soft t-shirt and joggers that had survived Charlie’s dragon-taming phase. He’d never been happier to have brought them.

By the time he reached the castle grounds, the sun was only beginning to smear orange and lavender across the sky. The lake glistened like a black mirror, untouched by wind. Ron inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air rushing into his lungs.

And then he ran.

Not from fear, not from pressure — but for clarity. For control. The stone path curved around the lake, and he followed it, long, steady strides sending ripples through the quiet of the waking grounds. He circled once. Then again. Then a third time, slowing only when his breath began to come in shorter bursts.

Once he reached the edge near the tall pines, he stopped, hands on his knees, grinning through the sweat. “Alright,” he muttered, “time for the real trick.”

He pulled his wand from the hidden sleeve sewn into his joggers, and carefully reached into his pocket to retrieve a small folded page from his notes — Valerie’s instructions on warding.

He stood tall, grounding himself, remembering her voice from the diary:

Four corners. Visualize the net. Anchor your magic. Define your purpose.

“Repel hostile intent,” he whispered. “Anchor here—here—here—and here.”

A light shimmer flickered in the air around him. A vague dome shape. For a moment it sputtered — and then, to his surprise and delight, held. A soft crackle hummed through the air like static.

Ron grinned. “Yes!”

The dome flickered out after a few seconds, but it didn’t matter — he’d done it. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it was real. It had worked.

“Take that, Malfoy.”

Pumped with adrenaline and pride, he jogged lightly back up the path toward the castle, already daydreaming of adding this win to his next chat with Valerie.

By the time he was freshly showered and back in the dorms, the usual shuffle and stretch of Zabini and Nott waking up was underway. Blaise sat up and ran a hand through his hair, yawning.

“Merlin’s pants, Weasley,” he said, squinting at Ron’s fully dressed form. “Did you sleep at all or just ascend to the astral plane and return with enlightenment?”

Ron grinned. “Went for a run. Managed to get a ward to work too.”

Nott blinked. “A ward? At dawn?”

“Yup.”

“You’re mad,” Nott said with admiration. “And weirdly productive for a Weasley.”

“Thanks,” Ron said, half-sarcastic.

They all dressed and headed to breakfast together, the usual clinking of goblets and scrape of toast-filled plates echoing around the Great Hall. It was early still, but a few other students were already murmuring over their schedules. The scent of fresh sausages and treacle buns drifted through the air.

Snape appeared beside the Slytherin table like an unusually angry bat, robes billowing dramatically as ever. He handed out their flying schedules without a word.

Ron glanced down. “Flying lessons. With Gryffindors. Today.”

He looked across the hall and spotted Harry, who was already reading his own schedule. When Harry looked up, Ron gave him a quick thumbs-up. Harry’s grin stretched wide as he returned it enthusiastically.

Just then, the unmistakable voice of Draco Malfoy floated down the table.

“My father says I’ve always had natural broom control,” he was bragging to Crabbe and Goyle — to basically anyone who would listen. “Said I could outfly a Hungarian Horntail by the time I was eight.”

Ron rolled his eyes hard enough to risk spraining something. “Bloke acts like he invented brooms.”

Nott leaned closer. “Bet he crashes first.”

“I’m hoping he crashes first,” said Ron dryly.

Zabini just sipped his pumpkin juice. “If he flies like he talks, the broom’s in more danger than the rest of us.”

They all laughed softly as the morning sun warmed the enchanted ceiling above.

The sky was bright and clear, the perfect kind of morning that whispered mischief — or disaster.

Ron stood at the edge of the paddock, arms folded and robes tugging in the breeze, staring at the crooked line of school brooms lying on the grass like tired porcupines. Next to him, Nott looked mildly alarmed.

“These things look like they were grown in an ancient thicket.”

“They probably were,” Zabini muttered, poking one cautiously with his foot.

Madam Hooch marched out with the clipped efficiency of someone who’d seen too many broken collarbones and not enough brain cells.

“Everyone, beside a broom — now! And eyes up front!”

They scrambled into position. Ron ended up just a few places down from Harry, who caught his eye and gave a small wave. Ron grinned and returned it.

“Stick your right hand over your broom and say ‘Up!’”

“UP!”

Ron’s broom zipped to his hand instantly. Harry’s flew up too, practically eager. Malfoy’s rose smoothly, and he smirked like he’d just discovered gravity.

Neville’s broom rolled over and sulked on the grass.

“Up,” Neville whispered nervously.

Madam Hooch moved between rows, correcting grips. When she turned away, Neville’s broom suddenly jerked up beneath him. Everyone gasped as he lifted — hanging on from the broom, several feet—ten, fifteen—

“ NEVILLE! ”

“ Neville, hold on! ”

But Neville spun in the air like a rag doll, before falling with a sickening thud to the ground.

Madam Hooch was at his side in seconds.

“Broken wrist,” she muttered, supporting him. “Everyone else, STAY ON THE GROUND. If anyone flies while I’m gone, it’s detention.”

She left with Neville, her footsteps crunching against the gravel as the field fell quiet.

Too quiet.

Malfoy sauntered forward and scooped something up from the grass. “Look what fell out of his pocket.”

Neville’s Remembrall.

“Give it here, Malfoy,” Ron said, tone low.

“What are you, his nanny?” Malfoy sneered, then tossed the orb up lightly. “You know, it might be fun to see what happens if this drops from a height.”

Before anyone could stop him, Malfoy shot into the air.

Harry looked at Ron.

Ron simply nodded. “I’ll distract. You go.”

They both mounted their brooms and kicked off hard, rising fast.

Malfoy was already circling, holding the Remembrall high above his head like a trophy.

“Scared you won’t catch it, Potter?” he called mockingly.

“Look, I don’t care what you say,” Ron called loudly, flying right into Malfoy’s line of vision. “But you’re gonna look really stupid when you drop it and you’re the one who gets expelled.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Trying to protect Potter now, Weasel?”

Ron darted left and right in front of him, veering close enough to force Malfoy to readjust his position constantly.

Meanwhile, Harry climbed higher, waiting for his moment.

“Distract me all you want,” Malfoy snapped, “I still fly better than you.”

“Funny,” Ron said. “I thought show ponies pranced, not flew.”

Malfoy flushed and swung his broom wide, focusing on Ron — just as Harry dove.

Like a flash of lightning, Harry streaked downward, arms extended. The Remembrall slipped from Malfoy’s grip — and with a sudden snap, Harry caught it just inches from the grass in a flawless dive.

The Gryffindors and even some Slytherins erupted into cheers.

Harry landed, flushed and triumphant, the Remembrall secure in his grip. Ron hovered nearby, panting slightly but grinning ear to ear.

Malfoy landed a few beats later, red-faced and fuming.

“Well done, Potter,” Seamus called.

“Didn’t think Weasley could fly like that,” someone muttered.

“And the dive!”

Before any celebration could continue, sharp footsteps approached.

“WHAT is going on here?”

McGonagall and Snape strode across the pitch, their expressions equally thunderous.

“Explain,” McGonagall said coldly.

“It was Malfoy,” Tracey piped up immediately. “He took the Remembrall and flew off with it.”

“Ron and Harry went after it to get it back before he dropped it,” Seamus added.

“Is this true?” Snape asked, turning to the crowd.

Even Millicent nodded. “We all saw it, Professor. Malfoy started it.”

Snape’s eyes swept over the group, lingering on the Remembrall now cradled in Harry’s hand.

“You retrieved it… from mid-air?” he asked quietly.

Harry nodded, a bit unsure now.

“Reckless,” McGonagall muttered. “But impressive.”

Snape’s gaze flicked to Ron. “Weasley. With me. Malfoy, as well.”

Ron blinked. “Me? But—”

“No buts.”

McGonagall stepped beside him. “Potter, you’re with me.”

As the three boys followed the professors, whispers rippled behind them.

“They’re not getting expelled, are they?”

“They saved the Remembrall!”

Greengrass said a bit worriedly, “If this is just first, I can’t wait for Halloween.”

As they disappeared over the hill, Harry gave Ron a look that was half panicked, half terrified.

Ron gave him a thumbs-up behind his back.

“Please tell me we won’t get expelled before dinner,” he muttered to himself.

Ron Weasley stood outside Professor Snape’s office, foot tapping nervously against the stone floor. The corridors of the dungeon were cold and silent, except for the faint bubbling of cauldrons far away and the quiet, clipped voice of Snape within.

Inside the office, Malfoy was presumably getting an earful — though knowing Snape, he might just be getting congratulated. Ron tried not to fume about that but he did hear Snape taking 10 points off so that was reassuring.

The door creaked open, and Malfoy stepped out stiffly, eyes narrowed in irritation. He glanced at Ron with disdain but didn’t say a word before walking away.

“Mr. Weasley,” Snape’s voice called from inside. “Enter.”

Ron stepped in cautiously. Snape stood behind his desk, the firelight flickering off jars and bottles lining the walls. The room smelled faintly of herbs, ink, and something metallic.

To Ron’s surprise, Snape gestured to the seat in front of him and said coolly, “You’re not here for punishment.”

Ron blinked. “I’m not?”

Snape tilted his head slightly. “No. Sit.”

Ron did.

“I brought you here because, as your Head of House, I need to ensure you understand where you stand. Not just with Draco Malfoy,” he said, his voice like smooth steel, “but in Slytherin. Hogwarts. And beyond.”

Ron fidgeted slightly. “I… I think I don't understand?”

Snape gave him a look.

“I mean, I know Malfoy’s out for me. But the others — Nott, Zabini, Greengrass and Davis — they’ve been alright. Honestly, better than I thought they’d be. And some seniors are also treating me surprisingly well.”

Snape studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“You must be aware,” he said, “that Draco is accustomed to influence. He expects obedience. The moment you disrupted his narrative — first by being Sorted here, then by outperforming him in class and even today in the air — you became his problem.”

Ron swallowed.

“I won’t tell you not to defend others,” Snape continued. “But I will advise you to be clever about it. Don’t throw the first blow. Not when it could be used against you later.”

Snape folded his hands. “Take today as an example. What happened will damage Malfoy’s reputation. Not only did he try to destroy a student’s property in front of witnesses, but he was outmaneuvered. And worst of all — for him — you earned the approval of both Slytherins and Gryffindors. And he made the Gryffindors aware of their possible advantage.”

“I wasn’t trying to earn anything,” Ron muttered.

“Which is what makes it more dangerous to people like him.”

Snape let that settle for a moment before continuing. “If you ever require help, or if there are things you need to understand — come to me.”

Ron looked up, blinking. “You’d help me?”

“I am your Head of House, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said flatly. “I do not coddle. But I do not leave my own to flounder.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Thanks, sir.”

There was a pause. Then, with awkward courage, Ron cleared his throat.

“Er… I actually did have a question, if that’s alright?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I… wanted to learn Romanian.”

Snape blinked, just once. “Romanian?”

“Yeah. I know it’s random,” Ron rushed, “but there’s someone — Valerie. She’s Romanian. She’s… well, she was the one I summoned accidentally at the Rookery. She’s helped me a lot since then — so I thought maybe I could learn enough to surprise her. Say thanks. Properly.”

Snape’s expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, he replied, “I suppose there are worse reasons to pursue language study.”

Ron grinned, embarrassed. “So… where do I start?”

“I have a few introductory texts. You may borrow them. Come by after Potions lecture on Monday.”

Ron’s face lit up. “Really? That’s — thanks. A lot.”

Snape gave a curt nod. “If you want to learn, do it properly. Don’t butcher her grammar.”

Ron laughed nervously. “I’ll try not to.”

“Good. You may go. And 15 points to Slytherin”

Ron stood, still half-expecting Snape to change his mind and throw a detention in at the last second. But instead, Snape was already turning to a sheaf of parchment on his desk.

The green-lit corridors of the dungeons echoed with Ron’s footsteps as he made his way back from Snape’s office, still half-processing the conversation. The thought of actually borrowing Romanian books from Snape — Snape — would’ve seemed impossible just a week ago. But here he was, weirdly grateful.

He murmured the password, “Basilisk,” and the stone wall slid open.

Inside the common room, Nott, Zabini, Greengrass, and Tracey were all gathered around a low table near the fire, parchments and ink bottles strewn about, clearly halfway through homework.

“There he is,” Tracey grinned, pointing with her quill. “We were starting to think Snape fed you to his pickling jars.”

Ron rolled his eyes and dropped into an empty chair. “Nah. He was… fine, actually.”

Nott and Zabini exchanged a look.

“Define fine,” Blaise said flatly.

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “No detention. No yelling. He actually… offered to help if I ever needed anything. He gave Malfoy a talking-to too. Took 10 points off him. And gave me 15 ”

Tracey blinked. “He did what?”

Ron nodded. “Said I didn’t do anything wrong, but to be careful around Malfoy. That he’s used to getting his way.”

Daphne let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Either Hogwarts is falling apart, or you’re more of a Slytherin than we thought.”

“Snape offering help,” Nott said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “It’s either a trap or the apocalypse. I vote apocalypse.”

Ron chuckled, loosening his tie. “He’s not that bad.”

“Blasphemy,” Zabini muttered. “Next you’ll say he’s cuddly.”

“Don’t make me hex you,” Ron snorted.

As they laughed, Greengrass suddenly tapped her fingers on the table. “By the way, did you lot hear? Potter got picked for Seeker.”

Ron sat up straighter. “What?”

“McGonagall apparently marched him to the Gryffindor team captain after the broom stunt,” she said, sipping her pumpkin juice. “He’s the youngest Seeker in a century.”

Nott leaned back, smirking. “Which is hilarious, because if Malfoy hadn’t tried to show off like an idiot, that wouldn’t have happened.”

Tracey nodded. “A Gryffindor gain… but at the cost of Malfoy’s pride? I’ll take it.”

Blaise snorted. “Classic backfire. He gave his rival the spotlight. And trust me, Potter being in the air is going to keep the whole school watching him now.”

Ron shook his head in disbelief. “He’s going to freak out when I tell him you all think this is a win.”

“Oh please,” Greengrass said. “That boy did a dive and caught a glass ball midair. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was rigged.”

Ron grinned, remembering Harry’s shocked face when McGonagall had dragged him away earlier. “He didn’t even know what Quidditch was until a week ago.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Nott muttered. “He’s a walking legend book.”

They all lapsed into an easy silence after that, parchment rustling and quills scratching. Ron pulled out one of the defense books he’d checked out from the library — Foundational Hexes for Defensive Strategy — and settled into a worn leather chair by the fire. He’d started jotting down notes on minor shield spells and how magical intention influenced their strength.

He was no Hermione, sure — but he had Valerie’s voice in his head reminding him: Confidence, not perfection. And honestly? Learning spells that could actually help him stand his ground made him feel less like a misplaced chess piece and more like a player in the game.

Tracey was humming under her breath. Theo was dramatically mumbling his Potions essay. Daphne had stopped doing her homework entirely and was now flipping idly through a magazine of wizard fashion. Blaise was reading upside-down on the couch, his book propped above his head.

It wasn’t the chaos of the Burrow. But it was something. Familiar. Solid. A strange little patchwork of people who, for reasons Ron didn’t fully understand yet, had started treating him like one of them.

The lake shimmered in the golden glow of late afternoon, and Ron sat on the familiar flat stone near the water, the chill from the breeze brushing through his hair. In his hands was a cloth-wrapped bundle — this time stolen cups of pudding from dinner. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but it felt wrong to come to this spot empty-handed.

Harry arrived a few minutes later, shoulders slightly hunched but face brightening when he saw Ron.

“You’re a life-saver,” he said, sitting down and grabbing a cup.

Ron gave a half-smile. “Only the best for Hogwarts’ youngest Seeker.”

Harry rolled his eyes but grinned. “You heard already?! It was supposed to be a secret!”

“Everyone has,” Ron said. “Malfoy nearly dropped his fork when he heard. Even Bulstrode said something nice.”

“Well, she said I didn’t look like I’d fall off a broom. Which I guess is high praise.”

They chuckled, the easy silence of friendship settling between them for a moment as they chewed.

Ron broke it. “So. McGonagall didn’t give you detention?”

“Nope. Just looked at me like I’d grown wings and said, ‘You’ll do well.’ That was it. Next thing I know, Wood’s trying not to faint from joy.”

Ron leaned back on his hands. “Honestly, I was sure Snape was going to hang me upside down by my toes.”

Harry looked over. “He didn’t?”

“No,” Ron said slowly, brows furrowed. “Just… gave me this weird talk. Told me not to do anything rash. Said Malfoy’s family has connections and that I should never be the one to throw the first curse.”

Harry frowned. “That’s... kind of unsettling.”

“Kind of? Mate, it was like he was warning me I was being watched. And yet — he still gave me points.” Ron paused. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “He’s strange. Not what I expected.”

Ron glanced at the lake. “Yeah. Same.”

They were quiet again for a while, each lost in their thoughts. Then Harry shifted.

“Actually… there’s something else,” he said. “Malfoy cornered me after lunch.”

Ron turned sharply. “What? What now?”

“He challenged me to a wizard’s duel.”

Ron blinked. “Are you serious?”

Harry nodded. “Midnight. Trophy room. Said to bring a second.”

“And you said yes?” Ron asked, already sitting straighter.

“Well, yeah — what else was I going to do?”

Ron immediately scoffed. “Right. Well, I’m your second.”

Harry hesitated. “I was going to say that — but after what Snape told you, maybe you shouldn’t.”

Ron’s expression darkened. “Harry, if you think I’m letting you go alone, you’ve completely lost your mind.”

“I just meant—”

“I don’t care what Snape said,” Ron interrupted. “Malfoy’s counting on people being scared off. That’s what he does. If we let him walk over us now, he won’t stop. And I’m not leaving you to face that ponce by yourself.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.”

They shared a brief look — equal parts excitement and nerves.

“I’m bringing my best spell,” Ron said.

“Trust me, he will pee himself if you start — I bet he only knows like five.”

“Yeah, and they’re all devastating in their own incompetent way.”

Harry laughed, and Ron joined him.

After a beat, Harry added, “Hermione’s going to kill us, though. She already thinks we’re public menaces.”

“Please. She’ll write a ten-foot essay about our tragic fall from grace.”

They stood together as the sun dipped further.

“Let’s get to dinner before Trace eats everything sweet and Greengrass accuses me of starving myself again,” Ron muttered.

Harry grinned. “It’s weird, you know?”

“What is?”

“How different this place is with friends.”

Ron looked at him. “Yeah. It’s better.”

“Much.”

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet for once — a crackling fire, a few flickering lanterns, and the distant sound of someone shuffling through parchment upstairs. Blaise was half-asleep on a couch, book open across his chest. Theo was fiddling with a deck of enchanted cards that occasionally hissed at him. Daphne and Tracey sat cross-legged near the hearth, arguing over the finer points of an Alohomora charm. Ron walked in, looking far too purposeful for a Saturday evening.

Nott looked up. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Ron asked warily. “The ‘I’ve either got to fight a troll or agreed to something incredibly stupid’ look,” Blaise supplied, not even opening his eyes.

Ron scratched the back of his neck. “Er. Closer to the second one.”

Tracey perked up. “Do tell.”

Ron dropped onto the armrest of Nott's chair. “Harry’s been challenged to a duel by Malfoy. Midnight. Trophy room.”

Greengrass raised a brow. “How delightfully predictable.”

“And you’re going?” Zabini asked flatly.

“I’m his second,” Ron said.

Nott sighed and dropped his cards dramatically. “This school’s been open for five days. Five. How do you already have a duel appointment?” Tracey leaned forward, mock-serious.

“You know there are simpler ways to bond with Gryffindors. Like surviving Snape’s class or, I don’t know, not dying in Herbology.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Look, I know it’s probably a trap. But if Malfoy does show up, Harry shouldn’t be alone.”

“You’re walking straight into Filch’s arms,” Zabini muttered.

Ron shrugged. “Then I’ll walk with style.”

Greengrass crossed her arms, watching him closely.

“I’d do the same for any of you, you know,” Ron added casually, not looking at them.

That made all four pause.

Tracey blinked and tilted her head. Nott gave a long, theatrical stare, then silently resumed shuffling his cards with just a bit more care. Zabini sat up a little straighter and turned a page without comment. And Greengrass… she didn’t say anything at all. But she gave Ron a look. Not skeptical. Not cold. Just quietly… appraising.

Ron glanced around. “Okay. Weird silence. Not used to that.”

“We’re just deciding,” Nott said airily, “whether that was really noble or just another spectacularly dumb Gryffindor moment.”

Ron smirked. “Bit of both, maybe.”

“Regardless,” Greengrass said, flipping her hair back, “you’d better not get caught. If you’re going to do reckless things, at least be clever about it.”

“I’m always clever,” Ron replied.

Tracey snorted. “You fell off a moving staircase last Tuesday.”

Ron raised a finger. “In my defense, that staircase moved without consent.” Laughter rippled through the group. The tension thinned.

“Good luck, Weasley,” Zabini said finally, lifting an imaginary glass.

“Try not to duel like a Hufflepuff,” Nott added.

Ron stood and stretched. “I’ll try not to. But no promises.”

As he headed toward the dorms, the four watched him go, still half amused — but just a little impressed. He was their kind of mad.

The castle was cloaked in shadows, silent except for the occasional creak of old stone or the soft flutter of a portrait shifting in its frame. Ron moved swiftly down the corridor, hugging the wall as he approached the trophy room. His heart thumped in his chest — not from fear of Malfoy, but from the worry that they were walking straight into some stupid trap.

He pushed the door open quietly, and sure enough, Harry was already there — along with someone else.

Hermione Granger.

Ron squinted. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione turned, arms crossed and expression pinched. “I’m here to stop you from doing something incredibly foolish. Dueling in the hallways? At midnight? You’ll get expelled!”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “So your brilliant plan was to break the rules by sneaking out after curfew to stop us from breaking the rules?”

Hermione flushed. “That’s not the point!”

“It’s a bit exactly the point,” Ron muttered, shooting Harry a look. “You invite anyone else or are we forming the new Midnight Club?”

Before Harry could answer, an echoing meow rang down the hallway, followed by a too-familiar voice:

“I know you’re in here! Show yourselves!”

“Filch!” Hermione hissed.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, yanking open the door. “Come on!”

The three of them darted down the corridor, feet slapping against the stone floor. They turned corner after corner, breath coming fast, robes flapping, trying to outrun the caretaker and his miserable cat.

They skidded to a stop in front of a large door.

“It’s locked!” Ron said, rattling the handle.

“Alohomora!” Hermione whispered urgently, pointing her wand.

The door clicked open and they rushed in, closing it behind them just as footsteps echoed in the corridor behind them.

They leaned against the door, panting.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

“I think—” Hermione began, but her voice faltered.

A low, rumbling growl filled the air.

Ron raised his wand slowly and muttered, “Lumos.”

The dim light illuminated a massive creature, its eyes gleaming, and saliva dripping from three snarling mouths.

“A three-headed dog?” Harry said, backing up.

Ron stared. “That’s not a dog. That’s a bloody Cerberus! What’s it even doing inside the school?”

“It’s standing on a trapdoor,” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

One of the heads snapped at them and they scrambled backward, bursting through the door again and tearing down the corridor.

They didn’t stop running until they reached a familiar hallway, hands on their knees, chests heaving.

“Brilliant,” Ron said between gulps of air. “First week of school and we’ve already stumbled into a monster room.”

Hermione straightened, glaring at both of them. “You idiots! That whole thing was a trap! Malfoy was never going to show up!”

“We figured that out when Cerberus tried to eat us,” Ron snapped.

“And you were right there with us,” Harry added.

“I had to come!” Hermione said, furious. “Someone had to stop you two from doing something reckless — though clearly, I failed.”

Ron folded his arms. “Yeah, by following us after midnight into a restricted corridor and unlocking a door with a charm we haven’t even learned yet. Very sensible.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “Do you even realize what just happened?! We could have been — killed! Or worse…” she paused, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “expelled.”

Ron looked at her like she’d sprouted another head. “She really needs to sort out her priorities.”

Harry chuckled. “Come on, let’s get out of here before someone actually catches us.”

They made their way back toward their respective dormitories, still shaky and wide-eyed — but alive.

Just barely.

Sunday morning in the Great Hall was as lively as ever, but Ron Weasley’s sleepy yawn and ruffled hair didn’t match the mood. He slumped into his seat at the Slytherin table with an exaggerated sigh — bags under his eyes, but a grin that wouldn’t quite go away.

He was halfway through ladling scrambled eggs onto his plate when Greengrass arched a brow at him.

“You look like you wrestled a hippogriff in your sleep,” she said, “and lost.”

Ron shrugged, pouring himself pumpkin juice. “Could say I had an eventful night.”

Nott leaned forward, his voice just above a whisper. “Define eventful. Because you look like Harry.”

Ron glanced across the hall, and sure enough, Harry Potter was just arriving at the Gryffindor table — hair more of a mess than usual, sleeves uneven, and a smile barely hidden under his tired eyes.

Ron raised his fork in a subtle wave. Harry returned the gesture with a quick grin, then immediately started piling food onto his plate.

Tracey, who’d been watching the silent exchange, narrowed her eyes. “Something happened,” she muttered, “and I bet it’s Potter-related.”

Zabini sipped his tea, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “Obviously. Look at the two of them — sleep-deprived, smug, and clearly trying not to laugh.”

Greengrass folded her arms, unconvinced. “Alright, Weasley, spill. Why do you look like you’ve stayed up all night plotting your glorious political debut?”

Ron tore off a piece of toast and grinned. “Because I might’ve.”

“Spill. Now,” Nott demanded.

Ron took a long sip of juice, theatrically thoughtful. “Mmm... can’t. Too many eyes. And ears.” He gave a slight nod toward a group of curious second-years nearby.

Before they could press further, the doors to the Hall creaked open — and Draco Malfoy strode in.

Ron didn't even need to look; he felt the glare first.

Malfoy’s eyes locked onto him like a targeting spell. He looked positively murderous — dark circles under his eyes, his posture unusually tense. His gaze then flicked briefly to Harry at the Gryffindor table and darkened even further.

Zabini let out a low whistle. “Someone didn’t get their way last night.”

“Wonder why he looks like he’s about to breathe fire,” Nott muttered, amused.

“Probably has something to do with Ron looking like he won whatever happened,” Tracey added with a grin.

Greengrass tilted her head toward Ron. “Did you two duel in your pajamas or something?”

Ron chuckled but didn’t answer. “I’ll explain later. Somewhere quieter.”

“Like where?” asked Nott.

Ron dropped his voice just a bit. “Library. Hardly anyone goes there on Sundays, except me. You lot can sneak in around half-ten, yeah?”

Zabini grinned. “We’ve gone from midnight adventures to morning gossip? This house is getting soft.”

“Please, Zabini, you go soft for a warm scone,” Tracey quipped.

They all laughed, and even Ron cracked a real smile — despite the tiredness tugging at his eyes. Across the hall, Malfoy sat down with a loud clatter and shot another glare at both Ron and Harry.

The library was nearly empty, save for the occasional rustle of a page or Madam Pince’s hawkish gaze skimming the aisles like a prowling thestral. Ron Weasley had staked out his usual corner table — books stacked on magical defenses well beyond first year, his quill scribbling notes on third-year jinxes.

He was so engrossed in translating a shield charm diagram that he didn’t notice when Nott dropped into the seat opposite him with a dramatic sigh.

“I bring with me boredom, judgment, and the rest of your curious fan club.”

Ron blinked up just as Tracey slid into the chair beside Nott and Greengrass claimed the spot to his right. Zabini, as usual, looked far too graceful to be sneaking around and took the chair beside Greengrass with a raised brow.

“We’re here,” said Greengrass, steepling her fingers. “Tell us everything, Weasley.”

Ron glanced around, made sure Madam Pince was at least three rows away, and cast a quick Muffliato around their little huddle.

“You’re all ridiculous,” he muttered, though his grin said otherwise. “Fine. But no screaming.”

Tracey leaned forward with gleaming eyes. “This better be good.”

“Oh, it’s good,” Ron assured them. “So, last night, I sneak out, yeah? Quiet as anything. I get to the trophy room, expecting Harry. And who do I find there already?”

“Malfoy?” Nott guessed.

“Hermione Granger,” Ron said, deadpan.

Tracey’s eyes widened. “Granger?!”

Ron nodded. “Yep. Said she came to stop us from breaking the rules.”

Zabini chuckled. “So she broke the rules to stop you from breaking the rules?”

“Exactly!” Ron gestured. “I told her that too! She didn't like that.”

Nott smirked. “She never does.”

“So we’re bickering, and then Filch starts stomping down the corridor like he’s on a manhunt. We leg it — Harry, Hermione, me — straight through the second-floor corridor.”

Greengrass leaned in. “The forbidden one?”

Ron gave her a grim smile. “The very same. Door’s locked. Hermione, of course, opens it like it’s her personal vault — and then…”

He paused for effect.

Tracey squinted. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say.”

“There’s a bloody three-headed dog inside.”

All four of them stared.

“A what?” Nott whispered.

Ron held up three fingers. “Three. Heads. Big as Hagrid. Snarling, drooling, claws like kitchen knives. And someone — someone — left a trapdoor under it.”

“Why is there a magical Cerberus guarding a trapdoor on the third floor?” Blaise asked mildly, as if asking why the pumpkin juice was warm.

“I dunno!” Ron said, half laughing. “We slammed the door shut and bolted before it decided which head wanted to eat us first.”

“Sweet Salazar,” muttered Greengrass, genuinely rattled.

Ron leaned back smugly. “And that’s how we almost died before getting to October.”

Nott blinked, then grinned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“But you’re our ridiculous,” Tracey added, shaking her head. “And you’re never allowed to go on secret death missions without us again.”

Zabini raised a brow. “I’m not fighting a three-headed dog.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Greengrass muttered.

Tracey turned to Ron. “So what did Hermione say after all that?”

Ron gave a snort. “Said — and I quote — ‘We could’ve been killed. Or worse… expelled.’”

All four burst out laughing.

“She really said that?” Nott cackled.

“Hand to Merlin,” Ron swore, grinning. “Harry and I were too knackered to even argue.”

“Malfoy must be furious you didn’t get caught,” Zabini added.

“Oh, he is,” Ron smirked. “He looked ready to hex the entire Gryffindor table this morning.”

“Honestly,” Greengrass said, looking both horrified and impressed, “this school’s insane.”

Ron leaned forward, dropping his voice. “You lot wanted a story. That’s Hogwarts for you — and we’re only one week in.”

After he had shared the trophy room incident with his Slytherin group earlier, and their reactions — equal parts scandalized and amused — still echoed in his head. But now, he had stayed for a while to complete making notes and personal matters to deal with. He decided to write the letters before he would forget — three letters. One to Mum and Dad, one to Ginny, and one to Bill.

Ron let out a slow breath and dipped his quill in ink.

Dear Mum and Dad,

Sorry I didn’t write sooner. The first week’s been... well, a lot. Classes started right away, and things haven’t slowed down. But I’m doing alright.

Being sorted into Slytherin was definitely unexpected. I know it probably came as a shock. I didn’t see it coming either — but it’s not as bad as I thought. Really. Most of the people in my house have been decent, and I’ve been trying to keep my head down and stay focused.

You’ll be happy to know that I’ve actually earned points in every subject so far — Potions, Herbology, History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, even Astronomy. Percy probably fell over when he heard. I guess I’m not as hopeless as I thought.

And yes — I’m good friends with Harry. He’s in Gryffindor, but we talk every day. He’s brilliant. Quiet, but brave. You’d like him.

Hope everything’s alright at home. Give Scabbers’ spot on the couch to someone who won’t drool on it. (That means not Fred.)

Love,

Ron

He carefully folded the letter and smiled to himself. That should ease Mum’s nerves. Maybe.

On to the fun one.

Hey Gin,

You’re going to lose your mind — so read this sitting down. Ready?

I’m best mates with Harry Potter. Like the Harry Potter. And no, he’s not twelve feet tall or shooting lightning from his eyes. He’s just... Harry. And he’s amazing. Brave, loyal, bit awkward, but in a good way. We’re practically attached at the hip already.

Also — I’ve accidentally got myself an academic rival.

Her name’s Hermione Granger. Muggle-born. Absolutely brilliant and absolutely insufferable. I mean, she knows everything. The teachers love her. She’s constantly waving her hand like she’s trying to fly away. But we keep ending up answering questions back-to-back and the rest of the class now treats us like it’s a proper duel. I didn’t sign up for this, but here we are.

And before you ask, no, I don’t have a crush on her. (She might hex me just for writing that.)

House life isn’t half bad either. I’ve made a few friends — Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Tracey Davis, and Daphne Greengrass. Slytherins, yeah, but good ones. Even funny sometimes.

Hogwarts is a mad place. Full of moving stairs, ghosts that complain about water pressure, and portraits that gossip worse than Aunt Muriel. But I think... I think I might be finding my place here. And that’s weird. And also, kind of great.

Anyway, how’s everything at home? Anyone missing me yet? (Say yes.)

Your mostly-responsible, often-stressed, newly academic brother,

Ron

He smirked while sealing that one. Ginny was either going to love it or demand an owl every day from now on.

Last one.

Hey Bill,

So... yeah. If you’re reading this, I assume Mum’s already written to you in full dramatic flair about “our Ronald” being sorted into Slytherin. Probably made it sound like I’d joined a dark cult or started speaking like Percy in the common room.

But surprise — I’m alive. Not hexed. Not evil. Just, somehow, a Slytherin.

And before you ask — no, I don’t entirely understand it either. But the people here aren’t half bad. I mean, Malfoy’s a toe-rag (no shocker there), but my dormmates Nott and Zabini are actually decent blokes. Nott’s dramatic like he’s auditioning for the lead in a haunted opera, and Zabini rolls his eyes so much I’m surprised they haven’t stuck. But they’ve got my back, and I’ve got theirs.

I’ve also ended up in a sort of alliance group with some Slytherin girls — Daphne Greengrass (all elegance and sarcasm) and Tracey Davis (chaos in a skirt). We sort of teamed up to keep Malfoy from running the whole house like his personal empire. They’re clever and sharp and way more devious than I’ll ever be, but they’re not half bad either.

Classes are... actually going really well? I’ve earned house points in nearly every subject. Sprout praised my Herbology answer, Snape didn’t insult my potion (which is high praise from him), and Sinistra picked my answer over Hermione Granger’s in Astronomy. Yeah, that Hermione. She’s my academic rival now, apparently. We keep going head-to-head in classes and I swear the other students are placing bets. She’s brilliant but bossy. I’m calling it “friendly competition,” though she might call it open warfare.

Oh, and you’ll love this — my best friend is Harry Potter.

Yep. The Chosen One himself. And he’s nothing like the stories. No ego, no drama, just a really good kid who’s more confused about this world than I was when Dad brought home that broken rubber duck.

We get along great. We’ve been eating together, studying together, even had a bit of a flying incident together. (Not our fault — Malfoy stole something and we had to get it back. We didn’t die, but we might have had a brief encounter with Professors McGonagall and Snape. More on that later.)

Hope everything’s good with you and the curse-breaking squad. Tell me if you find any ancient tomb curses — just maybe don’t open any without backup.

Write when you can. Or better — send chocolate. And forward this letter to Charlie.

Your Slytherin (still weird saying that) brother,

Ron

Ron had just finished tying a neat knot around the last letter — the one to Bill — when the library doors creaked open. He looked up, quill still in hand, and spotted Neville Longbottom entering, followed closely by Harry, both looking slightly winded and windswept.

Ron grinned. “Look who the cauldron dragged in.”

Neville gave a shy wave and Harry dropped into the seat beside Ron with a smirk. “You didn’t even notice I was gone.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

Harry folded his arms. “I already had Quidditch practice this morning. I was looking for you everywhere. Greengrass said you were nose-deep in a book, mumbling Latin like a monk in the library.”

Ron scoffed. “I wasn’t mumbling. I was practicing. And it’s not Latin, it’s spellcasting theory — totally different.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and I suppose your new wand is whispering bedtime stories to you now?”

Neville snorted.

“I’ll have you know,” Ron said, mock haughty, “I’m on the verge of mastering a defensive ward. That’s serious business.”

“Serious nerd business,” Harry teased.

Ron rolled his eyes and gestured to the seats. “Sit down, both of you. What’s up?”

Neville hesitated. “I was asking Harry about the potions homework. The ingredient chart’s confusing.”

“And I figured we’d corner you instead,” Harry added. “Our Slytherin scholar.”

“You wound me,” Ron said, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “But fine. Let me see what you’ve messed up.”

As they pulled out their parchment and books, Neville leaned over. “By the way… last night. That was mental. I still can’t believe you saw that three-headed thing.”

Ron stiffened, glancing around before whispering, “Neville! Keep your voice down, will you?”

Harry chuckled. “I told him. He saw me sneaking back in.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I had to tell my lot too — they would've crucified me if I kept it from them. They already knew something was up after breakfast when I looked like I’d been trampled by a hippogriff.”

Harry laughed. “Davis would’ve hexed you just to get answers.”

“Exactly,” Ron said, shuddering. “Slytherins don’t let suspicious activity slide. Especially not when it involves me, after curfew.”

Neville still looked awed. “I can’t believe you fought a three-headed—”

“We ran away from a three-headed dog,” Ron corrected. “Like smart people.”

Harry grinned. “Hermione’s still fuming. Gave me the ‘you could’ve died’ speech again at breakfast.”

Ron put on a prissy voice. “Or worse — expelled.”

They all burst into laughter, drawing a glare from Madam Pince at the far end of the room. Ron cleared his throat. “Anyway, let’s get back to the boil-cure potion before she boils us.”

He pulled out his notes. “Now. Neville — you keep getting this wrong. First, you crush the snake fangs into a fine powder. Not chunks. Powder. Then dried nettles, and only then the porcupine quills. And no, Harry, poking Neville with them doesn’t count as brewing.”

“I was just testing his reflexes,” Harry said innocently.

Neville chuckled. “With a quill up my nose?”

Ron shook his head. “Honestly, you two. It’s a miracle you’ve not blown anything up yet.”

“That sounded a lot like Hermione,” Neville said, amused.

Ron rolled his eyes and Harry snorted.

“We’re saving that for Snape’s birthday,” Harry said cheerfully.

Ron helped them finish the entire chart, redrawing Neville’s ingredient diagram and scribbling memory cues in Harry’s margins.

As they packed up their work, Harry looked at Ron and said with a grin, “You know, you’ve turned into the brainy one. Who would've thought?”

Ron shrugged with a smirk. “Shocking, isn’t it? Just wait till Hermione finds out.”

Neville laughed nervously. “She might hex us all.”

“Then we better study faster,” Ron said, “before she declares academic war.”

Later that night, long after his post-dinner walk with Harry, after a spirited Slytherin group study session that ended in loud laughter and Theo dramatically pretending to faint over the Locomotor charm, Ron finally stumbled into the dorm. His legs ached a bit from the morning’s run and the day felt satisfyingly full.

He changed into his pyjamas, grabbed his wand, and drew the emerald-green curtains around his bed. A flick and a quiet murmur of Silencio sealed the space from sound, and a slightly wonky Muffliato charm kept any whispering ghosts at bay — Ron wasn’t taking chances with Peeves sneaking in.

Plopping down on the bed, he reached for his journal and uncapped his ink bottle, the candlelight flickering as he grinned. Time to check in.

Hey Val. You still lurking or have the bats in your cave bored you to sleep?

Her reply came in neat, curling ink almost immediately.

Lurking? Please. I’m far too elegant for that. I lounge menacingly.

Ron snorted, nearly smudging the page with his hand as he replied.

Right. Of course. Forgive me, Lady Valerie of the Velvet Shadows.

Much better. What’s the update, my increasingly competent snake? Did you survive the day without accidentally cursing anyone?

Shockingly, yes. No casualties. In fact, I helped Nott, Davis, and even Greengrass with Charms homework. The Locomotor charm. Nott almost floated a quill into his own eye. Greengrass tried to act cool but was clearly panicking. I saved them all. Heroic, really.

A true legend in the making. Shall I begin composing a ballad in your honour? “The Ballad of the Boy with Floating Books and No Chill”?

Oi! I’m very chill. I’m the definition of chill. Ask anyone. Except Tracey. Or Nott. Or Zabini. Or—okay, maybe not anyone.

You couldn’t “chill” if you fell into a vat of ice cream.

You wound me.

Only emotionally. Never magically. You know I’m responsible.

Ron grinned to himself, warmth blooming under his ribs despite the chill stone beneath the castle.

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know — I finally got that ward spell to work this morning. It held. First try of the day.

Ronald Weasley mastering defensive spells before breakfast? Someone alert the Prophet.

Laugh all you want, but I actually managed to bounce Nott’s parchment off the barrier by accident. He was not impressed.

What a shame. I live for Theo's drama. Did he gasp? Clutch his heart? Swoon onto the desk?

He just muttered something about betrayal and then asked if I’d help him ward his trunk next week.

That’s practically a declaration of love in Slytherin.

Ron chuckled softly. The dorm was quiet, the lake’s filtered moonlight casting silvery ripples on the stone wall behind him. For the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt... calm.

Oh — and Harry made the Quidditch team. Seeker. First years almost never do, but Professor McGonagall sort of ambushed him after he pulled off this insane dive to grab a Remembrall Malfoy stole after Neville got hurt, so I just distracted Malfoy while Harry dived for the snitch. Snape looked pissed at first- even took points of Malfoy, but he just made me promise not to get into fights and to be alert.

You distracted Malfoy? What did you do, recite poetry? Flex your wrist from all the ward writing?

I called his broom a glorified twig and asked if he needed a ladder to fly. He almost combusted.

I am so proud. That’s textbook snake behaviour. Subtle, savage, effective.

And I didn’t even get detention. Can you believe that? I wanted to be smug, but I was too shocked.

It’s the quiet victories that count. So… what else? You okay?

Ron paused for a moment. Then:

Yeah. Just… tired. But good tired. Kind of like when you’ve had a long day and your bones ache, but your brain is finally quiet. You know?

Yeah. I know that feeling.

Thanks for listening. Always.

Always. Now go to sleep, you heroic, hex-dodging, spell-slinging academic menace. You’ve earned it.

Night, Val. Don’t haunt anyone too terrifying.

Only the truly deserving. Sweet dreams, my snake.

Smiling to himself, Ron set the journal down beside his pillow, extinguished the candle with a flick of his wand, and lay back under the covers. His magic buzzed quietly around him, a soft hum of wards and comfort. Sleep pulled at him, warm and sure.

To Be Continued...