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Chapter Text

Weaselby, Weaselby Not:

All 11 year-old Ron wanted to do when he got on the Hogwarts Express was to sit and befriend Harry Potter.

Instead, he finds himself stuck in a cabin at the very back of the train, with the strangest Malfoy he had ever met. (The First also, but the strangeness was the important part.)

Surprisingly, he finds he’s all for it. 

Ron had a plan.

Well. He had had a plan.

He sat with his arms crossed, trying and failing to look casual in the corner of the surprisingly empty cabin they were in. He could feel every bump of the Hogwarts Express as they rattled along the tracks, but his mind was fixed on the same thought that had carried him through this entire morning—perhaps even the whole summer: he was supposed to meet Harry Potter today.

That had been his entire plan. It was so simple, it had practically been fool proof!—Find the boy-who-lived, introduce himself, and, somehow, strike up a friendship. It hadn’t seemed like an impossible goal back at King’s Cross, when he’d first caught sight of that tiny, bespectacled boy looking a bit lost among the bustling witches and wizards on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

He tried to imagine how it would play out. He’d casually stumble on Harry in the corridor, say something casual like, “Hello, mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.” That was what he’d practiced telling himself: natural, normal, as though he hadn’t been waiting for this moment ever since he had heard THE Harry Potter was going to join in his year at Hogwarts. Maybe they’d talk about Quidditch—Harry might like Quidditch, right? Basically everyone did. Harry’s Dad had even been part of the Gryffindor team when he’d been in school, so of course his son would have to be interested in Quidditch.

Oh it had come to him oh so clearly: Harry Potter, alone and looking around for some friendly face—only to spot him, Ronald Weasley, offering up a seat. It would be effortless and natural. Then, once they got to chatting, maybe Harry would be impressed that Ron actually had five older brothers and knew all about Hogwarts already. Ron would crack a joke or two (Fred and George always said he had potential), and Harry would laugh. Then, before Ron would know it, they’d be close friends—just like that.

It all made perfect sense!

But, given how things had panned out at that moment, Ron’s scheme had hit a bit of a snag. First of all, from what he could tell, the train was ridiculously overcrowded. Students—some older, some younger—were streaming up and down the corridors, every cabin jammed with ever excitable witches and wizards. Ron had felt as if he had spent the better part of the morning popping his head into compartment after compartment, each time hoping to see a familiar head of scruffy black hair and a pair of thin round spectacles. But the boy-who-lived had been nowhere to be found.

Ron had tried not to panic. He’d wandered down carriage after carriage, bag slung over his shoulder, ignoring the twin pangs of hunger and nerves rolling around in his stomach. Fred and George had vanished somewhere toward the front, probably off having a laugh or practicing some new trick on unsuspecting first years. Percy had sniffed something about “prefect duties” and disappeared straight away.

So Ron had been left to search for Harry on his own. But that was fine. That was good even! It certainly wasn’t as if he had told anyone else of his plan, so all the better he went at it alone. He had promised himself he would find Harry, and he wasn’t about to let a little lack of incidental support stand in his way.

Besides, if Ron were honest, there was another reason he was so eager to make friends with Harry. The bigger, more important one that he refused to tell anyone, even his mum. Even when she would ask him, ‘what was wrong’, with that little quiver in her lip. Being the youngest Weasley boy meant he was always trailing behind his brothers in one way or another. Bill had been Head Boy, Charlie had been the star Gryffindor Seeker and Quidditch Captain, Percy was now a Prefect, and Fred and George had enough charm and wit for two entire families.

And Ron loved them all, he did! But sometimes it felt like there wasn’t much room left for him to stand out—especially when Ginny was born. He loved her, of course—how could he not? But then he had stopped being the baby of the family. Suddenly all the attention Ron had himself been getting at the time was then redirected at his sister, who was not only the youngest now but the only girl between the kids. And Ron wouldn’t lie to himself and say it didn’t hurt a little to be just shuffled off to the side like that.

Harry Potter, Ron had decided, might just be his chance to change that. If he could become friends with the Boy-Who-Lived, maybe people would finally see Ron Weasley again, and not just another lackluster redheaded copy trailing after five successful older brothers.

Unfortunately, the train had seemed determined to thwart him. Each new section had turned out to be just absolutely jam-packed with students, luggage, and the occasional squawking pet. His stomach gurgled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten much since breakfast (he’d been too nervous to manage more than a few bites). He had just resigned himself to the idea of buying a snack from the Honeydukes trolley when a stern-looking train employee bustled past him and stopped short.

“You there,” she had said, eyeing Ron’s hand-me-down robes with a hint of impatience. “Why are you still wandering about? All the compartments are nearly full. Best find yourself a seat before we pick up any more speed.”

Ron opened his mouth to explain that he was looking for Harry Potter, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Cabins are crammed to the rafters, I’m afraid,” she went on briskly. “There’s only one left with a free seat—at the very back. Follow me.”

Ron’s heart sank. He cast one last, desperate look over his shoulder, but the corridor was empty and all the seats filled only with students and trunks. With a defeated shrug, he had trailed after the employee as she marched down the train.

When they finally reached the rear of the train, she slid open the compartment door and gestured inside. “This is it,” she said, sounding relieved that she’d found somewhere to stow him. “In you go.”

Ron peered around her shoulder and tried not to let his disappointment show. There was only one other person inside. A boy, pale and pointed-faced, looked up from where he lounged against the window. He was dressed in impeccably neat robes—certainly not a secondhand thread in sight. The moment Ron’s eyes landed on him, he felt his stomach twist in a new sort of apprehension. He knew who this was. Practically everyone knew who this boy was given how his name had been plastered all over the Prophet during the summer after he had collapsed.

Draco Malfoy, the Malfoy seer.  

“Right,” Ron had mumbled, forcing a polite nod as the train employee ushered him inside and slid the door shut behind her. “Er—sorry, but all the other cabins were full.”

It wasn’t the line Ron had practiced in his head. It certainly wasn’t being delivered to Harry. And it definitely wasn’t effortless or natural. Still, there was no getting around it—he was stuck here.

He had placed his tattered suitcase on the luggage rack above, then settled into the seat as diametrically opposed as possible to the Malfoy. Trying not to fidget, Ron thought wistfully of how different this journey was supposed to have gone. By now, he should have been laughing with Harry over Chocolate Frogs and Exploding Snap, perhaps even sharing stories about Hogwarts. 

Instead, he found himself face to face with a currently open mouthed blond who was actively staring at him like had just swallowed a toad. 

“Merlin’s balls, you have got to be kidding me.” He heard the other boy mumble to himself, before continuing on just soft enough for Ron not to hear the rest. “I’m late by 15 minutes and in a different compartment and WEASLEY shows up!? So much for fucking RIPPLES.”

“Hey! I’m not exactly the happiest about this either.” Ron immediately huffed in response, feeling his ears starting to go hot at the sound of the other boy’s judgemental tone. “Being stuck in a cabin with a ruddy Malfoy was definitely not what I was hoping my first ride to Hogwarts would be like. I can’t believe how bad this day has gone.” 

And out of all the responses he could have expected to come out of the pointy-faced twat across from him, a deep belly shaking chuckle that seemed to bring tears to the other boy’s eyes was most definitely not it. Malfoy was practically falling over himself with how hard he was trying to keep the cackles in and if Ron had been peeved initially, he was bloody well seeing red now, with how the other boy was just laughing at him. 

He had to physically fight the urge to leap out of his seat and wrap his hands around Malfoy’s perfectly pressed collar. Was the prat actually laughing at him?

Right here? Right now?

Right to his ruddy face?

He was seconds away from planting himself nose-to-nose with the blond git—his fists already twitching against his sides—when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy’s hand dip into a small pocket of his robe. Before Ron could even make sense of it, something bright and golden-hued came flying toward him. Startled, he jerked back, his fingers knocking the object airborne before he managed to close his hands around the shape. He heard long before he saw a sweets-wrapper crinkle beneath his grip.

“Chocolate?” Malfoy asked, as if the sudden offering out of nowhere was the most natural thing in the world. Ron blinked, ears still pounding and chest beating to a hum, his whole body practically vibrating as he glanced at the foil-wrapped sweet, uncertain whether to hurl it back or tear it open. 

“What—?” He began, still half-ready for a fight. Despite himself, his voice cracked on the single syllable. How was he supposed to respond to - to this??

Malfoy straightened in his seat, smoothing down the front of his robes in that infuriatingly prim way. His eyes were still dancing with amusement, but now he looked more composed—almost like a bored and noble  aristocrat holding court. Ron bristled at that, but he could already feel the full strength of his indignation ebbing away, caught entirely off guard by the unexpected kindness. He glanced again at the chocolate in his hand and scowled.

He was hungry…

“It’s not poisoned,” Malfoy said dryly, as though reading Ron’s mind. He gave a low chuckle, softer this time, and shook his head. “Honestly, Weasley, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just—” He paused for a moment, expression flickering with something Ron couldn’t quite pin down. “It’s just…ridiculous, isn’t it?” Malfoy finished quietly, his lips tilting in a self-deprecating sort of grin. “Us. In the same cabin. I was laughing at the situation.”

Ron’s frustration twisted into confusion. “So you…weren’t laughing at me?” He was well aware that Malfoys and Weasleys weren’t exactly on friendly terms, but he certainly hadn’t expected Malfoy to just start cackling at him in such an openly mocking way. Then again, he hadn’t exactly anticipated being half-pacified by chocolate or being stuck in the same cabin as him either. It left him feeling unsteady, like when someone had dispelled the charm on his floaty board when he had been learning how to swim…

Malfoy let out a short huff that Ron supposed, he might have mistaken for another laugh if he were still in a prickly mood. “No, Weasley. I wasn’t laughing at you, promise.” A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth, though his gaze wasn’t as icy as Ron would’ve expected. “It’s just ironic, that’s all. You were cross about your day going wrong. Trust me, mine hasn’t exactly been ideal either.”

Ron eyed him warily. “I—” He cleared his throat, feeling sheepish. He was still clutching the chocolate, and his ears were undoubtedly pink. “Fine. Thanks…I guess.” The words came out awkward, but he forced them through regardless.

A beat of silence stretched. Then, slowly, Ron unwrapped the sweet. The scent of melted sugar and chocolate made his stomach rumble, and he very quickly felt more than a bit foolish for nearly charging across the cabin a second ago. He popped the chocolate in his mouth, hoping to mask his discomfort. The treat melted on his tongue, and Ron hated to admit it tasted just heavenly.

Across from him, Malfoy let out a noise somewhere between amusement and relief. “There we go. Much better.” He shoved his hands into his robes, that smirk still hovering around his lips. “Look, you don’t want to be here, and I sure as—well, I didn’t expect to be here either. But if we’re stuck together until Hogwarts, we might as well try to not hex each other the entire time. Deal?”

Ron’s eyebrows furrowed. “Deal?” He repeated, uncertain. Then, feeling awkward, caught himself and nodded stiffly, forcing out a rough, “Yeah—fine.”

“Excellent.” Malfoy drew the word out in a silky, too-adult tone that nearly had Ron bristling all over again. “See? Now we can chat like civilized people instead of trying to throw punches. Not that I’d blame you,” he added under his breath, almost too quiet for Ron to catch. Ron wasn’t sure what to make of that, or the faintly rueful look that flashed in Malfoy’s eyes for a heartbeat before vanishing.

“I wasn’t going to punch you,” Ron muttered, though he felt his ears burn again. He fiddled with the empty wrapper, feeling downright ridiculous.

“Certainly looked like you were tempted,” Malfoy countered, but his tone was oddly teasing. “I have the strangest sensation I wasn’t exactly who you’d been hoping to share a cabin with today.” 

Ron huffed, instantly not wanting to discuss Harry Potter with Draco Malfoy, of all people. Still, the question prickled at him, and he was suddenly too worn-out to concoct anything halfway convincing. “I just—had somewhere else I wanted to be,” Ron said lamely.

He expected Malfoy to pry, like the way the twins and Ginny did at home, but Malfoy merely nodded as though it was the most natural admission in the world. “Figures,” Malfoy said. Then, with a sort of theatrical flourish, he pulled out another sweet—this time, a small, individually wrapped sugar quill—and flicked it lightly in Ron’s direction. Ron caught it more smoothly this time, scowling faintly at the quirk of Malfoy’s lips.

“Let’s call it a truce then, Weasleby,” Malfoy said with a bemused sort of smile that made him look older than his eleven years. “You let me laugh from time to time during the ride without threatening to jump me, and I’ll keep you supplied with enough sugar to last until Hogwarts.”

“That’s…mental,” Ron mumbled. But despite his scowl, he didn’t toss the sugar quill back. 

“Probably,” Malfoy conceded, turning his gaze out the window. Farmland and rolling green hills blurred past, sunlight streaking through the glass. “But maybe our day won’t turn out as terrible as we both thought. Stranger things have happened.”

Ron wasn’t sure what to say to that. He certainly hadn’t anticipated making any kind of arrangement with Draco ruddy Malfoy, of all people, on the first day of term. But there was something about the twist of Malfoy’s mouth, the way he held himself, that stopped Ron from launching another jab at the other boy. Instead, he slowly shifted in his seat, resting his back against the cushioned wall. The sugar quill rustled in his grasp.

It wasn’t long before he got bored.

Though at least he wasn’t hungry anymore after Malloy had basically just tossed a handful of Galleons at the Honeydukes carts and requested all the heartier things. Sweet breads and scones and sandwiches even. Exactly the kind of things his mum and dad would order for them on the rare occasion they went out for treats, because everything else would ruin their appetite and stunt their growth.

Malfoy had since devoured two Treacle Tarts and was currently nibbling away at the white chocolate and caramel scone, when honestly Ron just couldn’t take the quiet anymore. He shifted in his seat, arms draped loosely over his knees. He eyed Malfoy polishing off the last crumb of that caramel scone, and wondered if he should break the silence or keep quiet. Eventually, Malfoy finished licking a stray bit of sugar off his thumb and seemed to sense Ron’s restlessness.

“You play Quidditch?” The other boy asked, tone almost casual. 

Ron felt his ears prick up. Quidditch—now there was a topic he actually liked discussing. 

“Course I do,” he said. “Well, I follow it. All my brothers do. Charlie was the best flyer in our family—played Seeker back in his day. Fred and George keep trying to break every school rule to practice trick shots, and they think they’ll be Beaters one day.” He paused, warming to the topic. “You ever watch the World Cup or any international matches?”

Malfoy gave a light shrug that didn’t quite hide his interest. “I’ve been to a few international matches,” he replied, voice nonchalant. “Father traveled for business once or twice—took me along. Saw a match in France, years ago. Montrose Magpies faced the Pride of Portree in an exhibition, but there was a Bulgarian team there as well. They had a new Seeker—a kid with raw talent. I think he was only fourteen or so.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Blimey, fourteen? That’s—that’s incredible! A Seeker that young playing internationally?”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched in a half-smile, looking oddly pleased by Ron’s reaction. “People do get scouted early,” he said. “But it still takes real skill to stand out. Though I suspect Hogwarts has a few shining Quidditch stars in the making, too.”

“Definitely,” Ron agreed, feeling a bolt of excitement at the thought of stepping onto the school pitch himself—maybe not this year, but eventually. “Charlie said the Gryffindor team’s decent, but the Slytherins’ve got—” He hesitated, remembering who he was talking to. “Er…you’d know better, I guess,” he finished awkwardly.

Malfoy tilted his head and replied with a shrug. “Gryffindor or Slytherin—makes no difference if you can’t hold your own. Which position would you want, Weasley?”

Ron blinked at the question. He’d always thought about being a Chaser or maybe a Beater like the twins hoped to be. 

“Dunno,” he admitted. “Chaser’s big—scoring loads of goals, super flashy. Beaters…they’re all wild swinging and whacking Bludgers at people. Seeker’s glamorous, but I’m not sure I’ve got the reflexes for it.”

Malfoy regarded him with a thoughtful air. “You might do well as a Keeper,” he suggested without looking at him. “Requires strategy and nerve. No need to be the flashiest flyer, just someone who can see the bigger picture—and defend the hoops.”

Ron tried not to look too surprised. The idea of being a Keeper hadn’t crossed his mind much. It certainly wasn’t the most popular role, because while a good Keeper could keep a team afloat, a bad one would sink a game faster than any seeker catching a snitch would. There was a lot of pressure to the role and you couldn’t even be the front man for photos. Those went to Chasers.

Still, now that Malfoy mentioned it… “Keeper, huh?” he echoed, feeling a faint spark of curiosity. “Might be worth a shot. If I make the team.”

Malfoy shrugged lightly. “You never know. Hogwarts is full of surprises.”

Ron nodded, a curious warmth growing in his chest. “Yeah…that’s what I’ve heard. My brothers go on about secret passageways, trick staircases, the feasts in the Great Hall. They say the Sorting’s not so bad, but I—I guess I’m just…nervous.”

Malfoy’s pale gaze seemed to look right through him. He didn’t prod or tease. Instead, his lips curved in a knowing sort of smile. “First year jitters,” he said lightly. “Everyone has them.”

Ron supposed that was true, but hearing it from Malfoy was still bizarre. After a beat, he lifted his eyes to the deserted corridor, half-hoping someone might appear with news of Harry Potter. But the hallway remained empty.

Tragic.

A moment later, Malfoy spoke again, drawing Ron’s attention. “Weasley,” he said, with that same measured calm, “I recall you mentioned wizard’s chess. You said you have a set, right?”

Ron perked up again. “Yeah!” he replied, perhaps a little too zealously, he thought with a grimace. “It’s in my trunk—my old set. Actually belonged to my granddad first…hang on.” He stood, pulling down his battered suitcase from the luggage rack. After a minute of rummaging, he found a scuffed wooden box bound with a fraying leather strap. The paint on the lid was chipped, and the corners looked like they’d been repaired with Spellotape more than once. “Here,” he said, a little self-conscious, “it’s ancient, but it still works great.”

He set the box on the small table in the cabin. When he flipped it open, the pieces slowly stirred to life. Ron’s white king yawned and clutched its tiny scepter, while the pawns hopped to the edge, blinking about as if peering at Malfoy suspiciously. Ron wondered if Malfoy would scoff at the tattered edges or the chipped paint, but the other boy merely ran a careful fingertip along a knight’s dented helmet, eyes oddly soft.

“It’s…nice,” Malfoy said, voice quiet. Then he reached out to pick up the white queen, who shifted in his hand with a tiny, uncertain shiver. After a moment, she relaxed, apparently satisfied with the gentleness of his touch. “This will do nicely.”

Ron swallowed, unsure of how to respond to Malfoy’s handling of the pieces. “Er—yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “All right.”

They set the board up, each placing the chess pieces in neat formation. The weathered black and white figures clacked and shifted restlessly, clearly eager to start. Once everything was arranged, Malfoy tapped the edge of the box.

“White goes first,” Malfoy said, shooting Ron a faint smirk and let out a drawl. “Any day now.”

Ron pulled the white king upright, nodded to his pawns, and made his first move. Immediately, the pieces came alive in a cacophony of shouts and cheers as they clashed. Ron found himself quickly engrossed, eyes flicking over the board for weaknesses in Malfoy’s formation.

“Knight to C3,” Ron muttered, sliding a piece forward. His battered knight lowered its lance and made a jaunty salute before taking its position.

Malfoy responded smoothly, capturing a white bishop a moment later. “I imagine all those brothers have helped you practice,” he remarked, tone neutral as he studied Ron’s expression. “You’re not bad.”

Ron set his jaw with a mix of pride and discomfort. “I’m better than any of them, actually,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “They just…never think much of it. It’s ‘only chess,’ right?” He advanced a rook to threaten one of Malfoy’s knights. “But honestly, it’s one of the few things I’m really good at. I like it.”

He hadn’t meant to reveal that last part so plainly, but there it was, hanging in the air. Malfoy made a small hum in the back of his throat.

“And what about other things?” Malfoy asked. “Surely Chess isn’t all you have Weaselby.’”

Ron gave a short, tense laugh. “Sometimes according to my brothers it is. Percy for example, he’s always doing everything right. Top marks, following rules to the letter. Meanwhile, beating him at chess is the one thing I can count on—and even though they know I’m good, no one really cares.” He huffed, moving his bishop. The bishop—who had a chipped staff from decades of play—emitted a proud little trumpet call, then took up its new position. “It’s not like I’m flying or taming dragons like Charlie. Who pays attention to some board game?”

Without looking up from the board, Malfoy lightly said, “Check.”

Ron realized too late that Malfoy’s rook had cornered his king. He cursed under his breath, quickly shifting his queen over. “Narrow escape,” he muttered, feeling his ears burn. “You nearly got me.”

Malfoy smirked, though it didn’t really reach his eyes. “Indeed.” He paused, tapping his fingers against the table. “So… Bill and Charlie. Fred and George. Percy. All big shoes then, in your mind?”

Ron placed his rook, ignoring the rush of heat in his ears. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “They’ve all got something…big. Me, I’m just me. Ron - Decent at a game nobody thinks is important.”

Malfoy regarded him for a quiet moment before moving his knight forward. “Check again, Weasley.”

Ron gave a start and hurried to block, muttering an apology to his queen, who shrieked indignantly at being shoved in front of the king once more. His heart thumped uncomfortably. He was losing pieces faster than he liked—and losing them to a Malfoy, of all people. It was unsettling to find that Malfoy was clearly just as skilled, if not more so.

He waited for some mocking remark, but Malfoy said nothing of the sort. Instead, he merely settled back in his seat and gave Ron a level look.

“You’re better than you realize,” Malfoy stated bluntly. “At chess, sure…but at everything else, too. Perhaps you haven’t noticed because you’re too busy comparing yourself to your brothers.”

Ron blinked, not entirely sure he’d heard right. “I—I’m what?” he managed, gaze darting between Malfoy’s face and the board.

Malfoy looked faintly amused and his eyes had narrowed in a strange sort of way. “You’re pretty impressive yourself,” he repeated, tapping a black pawn that saluted him before shifting it into position. “If you applied for the chess club at Hogwarts—assuming there is one—you’d probably do well. And if there isn’t one…you could start one.”

Ron’s jaw dropped slightly. He felt an odd rush of something surge into his chest, mingled with confusion. “You’re—are you—serious?” he finally choked out. “I didn’t…I mean, nobody’s ever told me it was worth much.”

Malfoy gave a small roll of his shoulders, expression almost dismissive, but his eyes lingered on Ron’s. “Well, consider it said. Besides didn’t you know there’s just as many Galleons in chess as there are in Quidditch?”

“No way!”

“But of course.”

They lapsed into silence again as the train rattled along, but Ron’s cheeks stayed flushed. He kept sneaking glances at Malfoy, who appeared to be patiently waiting for him to continue the game. After a few moments, Ron cleared his throat, focused on the board, and slid his bishop forward.

“There,” he mumbled. “Your knight’s pinned.”

Malfoy’s brow arched, a proper smile pulling at his mouth. “Nicely played,” he said, and there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. “As expected.”

Ron wasn’t entirely sure what Malfoy meant by that, but he couldn’t help noticing how easily Malfoy responded to every move—like he’d studied strategy for years. Ron had seldom lost more than a handful of times back home, yet here, he was already on the defensive again. With every match, Malfoy seemed to adapt, forcing Ron into corners he’d never expected. But despite all of that, Ron hadn’t felt anywhere near as alive today than he did right now, even when he had nervously been looking for Harry Potter. 

By the time the train had rocked on for what felt like another hour, they’d finished two rounds—both ended with Malfoy’s victory. Ron’s old board quivered each time the black king declared checkmate, as though stunned at seeing its familiar master lose. Ron swallowed his frustration and asked for another go, determined not to end up so thoroughly beaten. He managed to snag one win, but then Malfoy took the next two.

Eventually, Ron sat back, massaging a pain in his neck, newly aware that Malfoy might just be the toughest opponent he’d ever faced. “You’re…really good,” he finally admitted, cheeks warm in the glow of defeat.

Malfoy gave a short, nonchalant nod. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he said, deftly returning the last black piece to its place in the box. “Reckon you’re the first person who’s managed to beat me in ages.”

Ron fumbled for words, still reeling from the string of defeats. “Yeah?” he blurted at last. 

“Definitely, and believe me, I know how unfair this matchup was. Soon enough you may just flip the script on our tally.”

Ron swallowed. “If we keep playing.”

Malfoy paused in closing the lid, eyes flicking to Ron’s face. For a moment, Ron half-expected a dismissive scoff, but then Malfoy merely inclined his head. “If we keep playing.”

Ron felt a strange swirl of anxiety and anticipation. “Would,” he muttered nervously, awkwardly. “Would you join? If I uh-if I….” He trailed off.

The blond just hummed in response. “Probably.”

And Ron felt a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding slip free from his lips. They packed up the old set together, Malfoy placing each piece with surprising gentleness so the pawns and knights settled quietly into their grooves. Even the most battered ones seemed to trust him now by the end of their long string of games. By the time the Hogwarts Express began to slow, signaling they were nearly at their destination, both boys had lost track of how many matches they’d played.

He rose and glanced out the compartment window. Dusk was settling over the rolling hills, and a thrill of excitement shot through him at the realization that they were almost there.

Malfoy smoothed his robes. “You probably would’ve won more if we’d had all day,” he said, snapping the worn box shut. He handed it back to Ron. “You adapt quickly. Who knows of all the things that’d be useful for.”

Ron reddened, unsure if that was another compliment, but it sure felt like one. He didn’t think anyone ever had been this generous with the compliments with him before, except maybe his distant Aunts, but they didn’t count because they gushed about everyone. And to be fair, most of them were just about Chess.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, placing the box safely into his trunk just as the train jolted. Outside, the sky was turning a deeper purple. He could feel his heart picking up speed again, that nervous excitement returning. In just a few minutes, they’d be stepping off the train to start their lives at Hogwarts.

He shot a sidelong look at Malfoy, still not entirely sure what to make of their time together. But despite all the unexpected twists of the day, Ron couldn’t help feeling just a little bit more confident than when he’d first boarded. Maybe even a little more content? Was that the right word?

The train gave one final shudder before coming to a stop. Malfoy gathered his things and straightened his robes, giving Ron a quick glance. “Ready Weaselby?”

Ron let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said, echoing that quiet confidence. He hoisted his battered trunk down from the rack. “Let’s, uh…go to Hogwarts.”

They slid open the compartment door, the noise of eager voices and scraping trunks flooding in. Ron wondered if he’d see Harry among the sea of new faces—but for once, it didn’t sting quite as much that he hadn’t. He hefted his belongings, stepping aside to let Malfoy pass.

In the hurry of students and trunks and yelling and excitement, it was rather quick that Ron lost sight of the other boy in question.

“Hmmmmmm. Very brave indeed. Very stubborn. Determined. Certainly a little lazy, but you’ve also a strong will, when the situation calls for it, alongside a mighty sense of justice and fair play. My, my, there’s quite a lot going on beneath that ginger mop, isn’t there Ronald Weasley? Interesting—very interesting indeed…”

“P-Please just get it over with, all right? I— I know I’m supposed to be in Gryffindor.”

“‘Supposed to be,’ you say? Mmm, but there’s no shortage of qualities in here that might take you elsewhere. Bravery, yes. And loyalty—strong as an oak. But do you think that’s all that defines you?”

“I— I don’t know. I never thought about it. My whole family has been in Gryffindor. My parents’ll expect it. Everyone will.”

“Families and their expectations. True, you’ve got plenty of courage. But what’s this? A certain knack for cunning, a thirst to stand out, a strong desire not to be overlooked—”

“I don’t want to be in Slytherin! That’s—That’s the house Evil wizards go to.”

“Evil is found everywhere, child. You sound fearful of the Serpent House, yet I see something else here. That Malfoy boy on the train—he is not precisely what the rumors suggest of his family, nor are you as simple as your own lineage. You gleaned some of that insight yourself, didn’t you?”

“He was… He was decent to me. Sure. Doesn’t mean— I mean, that doesn’t automatically mean I’m… Slytherin material.”

“Oh, but I see more than just one conversation. You’ve cunning to spare, my boy. Look at the ways you’ve maneuvered to keep up with so many older siblings—scrambling to be seen, to matter. You know how to plot and plan, if given the chance. You tried to plot today, and though unsuccessful, you still came away with something in the end no?”

“I— It’s just… I have to do something, right? Otherwise I’m… invisible. But my brothers… they’re all heroes in their own way. I’m just… me.”

“You are indeed ‘just you,’ Ronald Weasley, and that’s precisely the point. You’ve a certain hunger—an ambition to prove you’re not simply ‘another Weasley.’ I can place you in Gryffindor with the rest, but you’d forever worry about the shadows you know you will find there, wouldn’t you? And yet, you’re also bound for… more. There’s a thread here. Yes, yes… I see many twists in your path. And that Malfoy—he may surprise the world, too.”

“Maybe. But it’s what I know, and— and I’m not ready for everything to change. Don’t I belong where my family is?”

“Belong? You tell me—where do you want to belong? For belonging is not about comfort alone; it’s about where your true self can flourish. I see it, your potential for greatness. The question is: do you dare step from the old path?”

“I’m scared... I never thought I’d… Malfoy and I, we got on… not bad, actually. And I liked that he— that he saw me, you know? Not just ‘Percy’s little brother’ or ‘Fred and George’s tag-along.’ But Slytherin’s meant to be all about pure-blood nonsense and— and everything my dad complains about.”

“Slytherin is far more than that, if you make it so. There’s ambition, resourcefulness, cleverness. A will to rise above circumstance. You’ve hidden those qualities in yourself for years. Do you really want to keep hiding them?”

“…”

“…”

“You’re better than you realize…”

“You’re pretty impressive yourself…”

“Ready Weaselby?”

Late by 15 bloody minutes, and trying to hide from the goons that had essentially stalked him as a child (Not actually, he loved Greg and Vinny) for some piece and quiet. And what does he get?

A little drop? A couple Ripples?

How about a FUCKING TIDAL WAVE! 

Nervous blue eyes peered down towards his own, cheeks as red as his hair and his ears a bright scarlet. A tentative, terrified smile crawling its way up his lips, as the bloody fucking dolt literally walked right up to him. 

“Erm,” Weasley started awkwardly, pointing at the single open space directly beside Draco,  in the suddenly deathly quiet hall. “Sorry, but all the other spaces were full.”

Chapter Text

The-Boy-with-the-Note

Harry Potter was off to his first ever lesson at Hogwarts: Potions with the infamous Professor Snape. But on his way there, he finds himself passed a note that - for him, changes the entire class.

A courtesy, Draco Malfoy had said.

Harry trudged down the chilly dungeon corridor, the click of his shoes echoing off the stone. He clutched his brand-new school bag a little tighter, trying to remember which twisting passage led to the Potions classroom—his very first lesson at Hogwarts. Though he had only arrived just a couple of days ago, he had already gotten lost numerous times in an effort to try and explore the grounds. Already, the whole of the castle felt like a maze of little secrets and hidden marvels, each new corridor offering up some new and fascinating aspect of wizarding culture and life that just seemed to blow Harry away. 

Not that Harry was complaining. These last few days—spent before classes officially began—had been some of the most incredible of his life. He could still scarcely believe he was here honestly. The Sorting Feast felt as though it had happened both an eternity and a heartbeat ago. He remembered gliding across the Great Lake in a small boat, heart pounding as Hogwarts’ many turrets and towers rose majestically out of the expansive night sky. Then stepping inside the vast entrance space, with its soaring arches and torch-wielding gargoyles, caught in the throng of countless other nervous and excitable first years, before being utterly agog at the overwhelming beauty and splendour of the Great Hall with its floating candles, brightly coloured banners and enchanted ceilings.

Morning after morning, he’d wake in his four-poster bed inside the Gryffindor first-year dorm, blinking in amazement as sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows. The Common Room bustled with older students trading Quidditch gossip or passing around wizarding newspapers with moving photographs. Even routine announcements pinned on the notice board made Harry smile; he’d never experienced such a friendly, communal space before—so different from the silent, stiff existence with the Dursleys.

He had also grown fond of trying to navigate Hogwarts in general. Staircases that shifted unpredictably, hidden doors that required a firm push (or the right password) to open—getting lost felt more fun than frustrating. Fred and George Weasley seemed to share that sentiment; they’d all but adopted Harry at this point, cheerfully pointing out trick steps to avoid or corridors best bypassed if you didn’t want to get stuck after curfew. Harry was grateful for their guidance—and their friendship. It was dizzying to realize he suddenly had people now who actually liked him.

He had also struck up a tentative friendship with Neville Longbottom, a round-faced boy whose shy manner belied a sweet, earnest nature. Neville had lost his toad—Trevor—nearly half a dozen times already, and Harry had helped him search under chairs in the Great Hall, behind dusty suits of armor, and even down one particularly disorienting corridor that tried to turn them around every few feet. Though Neville blushed easily and tended to mumble, Harry found him a comforting presence in a place where nearly every sight was both simultaneously astonishing and slightly terrifying. Neville even confided in Harry that he hadn’t been entirely sure he had any magic at all until his accidental bursts of it in childhood. And though growing up, Harry had more the opposite experience - terrified that he was indeed some kind of monster and just wanting to be normal - that uncertainty, Harry thought, made them alike in some ways.

And speaking of uncertainties...he was trying very hard not to let the whispers get to him. All the attention over his name, his history, that one infamous night he couldn’t even recall—sometimes, it felt like he was under a lamp in one of those interrogation rooms in the police shows that Aunt Petunia really liked on the telly. Harry couldn’t help but notice the way heads turned whenever he passed. Students whispered and nudged each other, eyes flicking to the faint lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. It had been like this from the moment he’d stepped into the Great Hall for the Sorting. Even now, winding through these dim dungeon corridors, he felt the weight of curious gazes. He was the Boy Who Lived, the child celebrity of a world he barely knew—and he’d most certainly be lying if he said all the attention didn’t make his stomach clench.

A handful of older Ravenclaws were walking a few paces behind him, and Harry was sure they were discussing him in hushed tones. The day before, two Hufflepuff girls had actually asked him for an autograph in the courtyard—he’d been so flustered, he practically dropped his quill trying to sign his name. And a group of Gryffindor second years had peppered him with questions about “his greatest memory of You-Know-Who,” as if he could possibly recall more details than what everyone else already knew. He’d never been asked so many questions in his life; back with the Dursleys, most people avoided him on purpose.

He tried to ignore the knots twisting inside him, opting instead to focus on his upcoming Potions lesson with the infamous Professor Snape. Nearly everyone in Gryffindor House had plenty to say about the Potions Master. Rumor had it that Snape favored Slytherin students so blatantly that he would downright ignore correct answers from the other houses if it meant awarding points to his own. He was said to be a strict disciplinarian, always lurking around corridors to catch unsuspecting pupils breaking rules and was absolutely terrifying when it came to nit-picking exact details when it came to teaching. Someone in the common room had even mentioned that Snape had once threatened to hex a student for shredding ingredient labels—though Harry couldn’t imagine that was actually true…was it?

“You’re heading the wrong way,” A voice spoke then, startling Harry, his feet practically leaving the ground before he wound back on the speaker. “Snape’s classroom is down that corridor, then down the first flight of steps.”

Harry blinked. Standing there was a pale, almost-silver haired boy whom Harry immediately recognized as the other equally exciting rumor magnet in their current year - Draco Malfoy. He had first caught sight of the other first-year at the Sorting Feast; Draco had ended up in Slytherin, and according to a number of the other students, similar to Harry, was no ordinary first-year. Something about an incident over the summer and Draco being a “seer”. Whatever that was. But Harry himself hadn’t really spoken or interacted with him at all, aside from vaguely noticing him talking to Ronald Weasley—who, quite unexpectedly, according to the twins, had also landed in Slytherin.

He could tell that the twins definitely had thoughts about that, given how they tried very clearly to steer any sort of discussion away from their younger brother. But they didn’t seem angry. More confused than anything, and Harry thought he sort of understood. From what he had managed to infer from most of his fellow students and the sparse number of adults he had thus far encountered in the Wizarding world, Slythering was supposedly the House where all the bad eggs seemed to settle. The House where all the Dudleys and his friends would have been sorted if they were also magic. 

He didn’t even know how true that was, but he did know that probably meant Fred and George were feeling torn. He’d wanted to ask them if they’d talked to Ron since the Sorting, maybe to see if there was any real hostility there, but every time the subject skirted close, Fred or George changed tack with some joke or ushered Harry off to see a new secret thing about Hogwarts. Harry figured it might still be too new, too raw for them. The only real mention they’d made was a quick, genuine “Look, if you see him about, tell him—no matter what House, he’s still our brother,” which struck Harry as more earnest than either twin usually let on.

“Oh,” He replied awkwardly, shifting his focus back to the blond before him, already feeling a little embarrassed for being caught out. “Er...thanks.”

Draco gave a small, cool nod. He shifted on his feet, glancing up and down the corridor as though checking if anyone else was around. Then, in a sudden motion, he closed the distance between them, reached into his robes, and pressed a folded scrap of parchment into Harry’s hand.

“Here,” he said in a quiet voice, “you’ll need this.”

Harry looked down. “What is—”

“It’s a list of ingredients,” Draco explained, his tone still brisk. “Memorize them. Snape’s going to ask about them. You don’t want to look clueless.”

Harry unfolded the parchment. There, scribbled in cramped handwriting, was a small checklist: 

• Asphodel + Wormwood = The Draught of Living Death.

• Bezoar = The stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons.

• They are the same plant.

Slowly, Harry raised his eyes to Draco. “Um, why?”

A flicker of something—wry amusement? No, it was both sadder and harder than that—seemed to cross Draco’s face. “Let’s call it a courtesy.” Was the eventual reply. “Now just take it, memorize it and be grateful. And it goes without saying, don’t let on I gave it to you.”

Before Harry could ask another question, Draco nodded curtly, then slipped past him, footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Within moments, he had rounded the corner and disappeared further into the hall. Harry stared after him, heart thumping uneasily in his chest. The slip of parchment rustled in his hand, its edges slightly bent from where Draco’s fingers had pressed it into his grip. For a long moment, Harry simply stood there, uncertain what to make of this exchange.

He shook himself, aware that time was ticking. Sliding his finger under the seal, he re-opened the parchment and read over it again. That third line confused him—“They are the same plant”? Maybe Draco’s handwriting had been too cramped, or he’d left out some detail. Harry frowned, deciding to worry about it later. Tucking the scrap discreetly into his school bag, he turned back around to follow the directions Draco had given him: left at the next corridor, then down the first flight of steps.

Sure enough, after only a minute or two—and passing a scowling portrait who hissed something about “the nerve of brats nowadays always chattering about”—Harry spotted a cluster of students edging into a room lit by low-burning lanterns. The heavy smell of damp stone and some pungent, bitter aroma hit him almost at once. 

This had to be the Potions classroom.

When he entered, the room was already half-filled with students taking their seats. The tables stood in pairs, each with a high stool. Most of the Slytherins were clustered on one side, the Gryffindors on the other, though it looked like a few people hadn’t settled yet. Harry scanned the crowd and found Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley in the second row—sitting right next to one another.

Ron’s red hair was stark against the Slytherin-green of his tie and though at first glance, Harry thought the other boy seemed ill at ease, throwing wary looks around at a few of the other Slytherin first years—he actually looked almost amused, given how Draco was currently leaning towards him and the twin pair of smiles the two boys happened to be wearing. Ron, for his part, rolled his eyes, muttering some form of a retort beneath his breath to a comment Draco had made, leading the blond to let out a rather inelegant snort as he fought against his giggles.

I guess they really have become mates, Harry acknowledged, remembering how Fred and George had somehow seemed even more baffled by the fact that Ron had walked straight up to Draco of all people after the sorting than perhaps even the sorting itself. Apparently, it was some sort of family rivalry, Fred - Or was it George? - had mentioned in passing, doubled down even further due to how apparently their Dads just really didn’t like each other. 

Harry hovered by the classroom’s entrance for a few seconds, shuffling awkwardly and trying to decide where to sit. He spotted Neville at one of the tables near the middle and hurried over, nodding a shy greeting. Neville looked just as anxious as Harry felt, pale cheeks puffing slightly at the sight of the simmering cauldrons and the shelves upon shelves of mysterious jars filled with things lining the walls.

“Mind if I sit with you?” Harry asked in a low voice, setting his bag down.

Neville shook his head hastily, relief flickering over his features. “Sure—go on.” He breathed, shifting over to give Harry himself space to settle. As Harry obliged, he couldn’t help but take a breath. This was his first ever proper wizarding lesson—Potions with the famously difficult Professor Snape—and he could already feel the pressure of a thousand eyes bearing down upon him all over again. 

He couldn’t help glancing at the Slytherin side of the room, where Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley sat. The two boys seemingly wholly at ease whispering between one another, and Harry’s mind drifted to the folded scrap of parchment Draco had pressed into his hands just minutes before. 

A courtesy, Draco had called it. 

He reached into his bag, fingertips brushing the parchment. Maybe he ought to read it one more time, just to be certain… 

But as Harry gingerly tugged the note part way out from his bag, half-intending to skim it again, was when the door at the front of the classroom swept open, an immediate hush falling over the whole of the class. Professor Snape entered with billowing black robes and a cold glimmer, and all thoughts of re-reading that scrap piece of parchment flew fully from all aspects of Harry’s mind. 

Snape reached the head of the room, his gaze sweeping across the rows of cauldrons and wide-eyed first years. Harry caught the slight curl of the man’s lip—an expression that was neither a grin nor a frown, but something far more unsettling. The professor paused, then spoke in a low, almost silken voice.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes…nor the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…”

Harry swallowed, transfixed. Snape’s voice was barely above a murmur, yet the words filled the dungeon as though they were hissed directly into each student’s ear.

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

He ended his speech with a snap of dark eyes towards Harry, making him flush and almost immediately stare down towards his desk. The professor’s tone was icy and deliberate, as though waiting - pausing for effect. Sure enough, after a heartbeat in which no one dared breathe, Snape barked, loud and startling.

“Potter!”

Harry felt his cheeks flame, eyes reluctantly shifting upwards. He clutched the edge of his table, Neville beside him, sat as tense as a bowstring. 

“What would I get,” Snape continued softly, “if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

A hot jolt of panic lanced through Harry’s stomach. He knew— he’d seen these words. They were on the very note Draco had given him. But he’d read them too quickly, had been too flustered to memorize them. Asphodel, wormwood…Draught of… He had it on the tip of his tongue, yet the name refused to snap into place.

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Snape didn’t even glance at her.

Harry struggled to recall the lines from the parchment— Asphodel + Wormwood = The Draught of Living Death. But the note had also said something else cryptic, something about being “the same plant” that he hadn’t understood. Self-conscious and flustered, Harry opened his mouth to respond but managed only a stammer.

“I—I don’t know, sir,” he finally blurted.

Snape’s expression curved into a sneer. “Pity,” he drawled. “Let’s try again. Potter—where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry felt dread curdle in his stomach. The entire class, from the front row to the back, seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for his answer. Snape’s dark eyes didn’t waver; they pinned Harry in place, as if daring him to guess and be wrong. Again.

He scrambled to remember precisely what had been on Draco’s note. A bezoar— the stomach of a goat. That was it, right? 

Wasn’t it? 

His heart hammered in his chest. “I—” He swallowed. Hermione’s hand was still in the air, trembling with urgency.

“In the stomach of a goat, sir,” Harry blurted.

There was a flicker of recognition across Snape’s face—almost annoyance. He made a low, skeptical noise. 

“So,” he murmured, “the boy who didn’t know the first answer somehow knows the second? Fascinating.” He gave a slight pause, letting his gaze move over the rest of the class. 

“Correct, Potter. A bezoar can indeed be found in the stomach of a goat. It can save you from most poisons. Pity you didn’t bother learning about the most iconic of sleeping draughts first.”

Harry’s cheeks flared again. But he exhaled a silent, shaky breath of relief—he’d at least answered something right. He risked a quick glance across the room. Neville looked startled. A couple of the Gryffindors were blinking at him as though unsure how he’d pulled that off. On the Slytherin side, Ron Weasley appeared more curious than anything, while Draco Malfoy’s expression was carefully blank—though Harry thought he caught a subtle lift of Draco’s brow .

Snape made a point of ignoring Hermione’s upraised hand once more, terrifyingly turning back towards Harry. “One final question, Potter. Let us see if your sudden knowledge extends beyond just random guesswork. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry felt his stomach lurch. He remembered that last line on the note: They are the same plant. He had been so puzzled about that bit at first that it was essentially the clearest thing he could remember. Swallowing, he forced himself to raise his voice clearly. 

“They’re the same plant, sir,” he answered, hoping to all that was good and just in the world, that that was the last of Snape’s questions.

A ripple of surprise skittered through the class. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione lower her arm in dismay, clearly astonished he’d known something she’d presumably memorized from a textbook. Several students exchanged wide-eyed looks. Neville just stared at him, unbidden, mouth entirely agape. 

Snape’s expression cooled, skepticism shadowing his features. He tapped his long, thin fingers once on the desk. Then he spoke, each word slipping out like a blade. “Correct again, Mr. Potter. Fascinating indeed.” He allowed the silence to stretch.

Then, without preamble, Snape turned away from Harry and addressed the entire class. “For future reference, you would all do well to thoroughly read your textbooks—and certain additional sources—if you intend to survive my class. I will never repeat answers.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure if he should feel relief or worry as Snape chose to move on. He could sense the eyes of his classmates on him, especially those of his fellow Gryffindors. He chanced another glance toward the Slytherin side: Draco was keeping his face pointed at the board, but there was a subtle tilt to his chin, almost as though he were pleased. Ron looked like a mix between mild amazement, confusion and open fascination.

Snape picked up a piece of chalk, writing out instructions on the blackboard for the day’s potion. “We will be attempting a simple cure for boils,” he said coldly, “unless any of you would like to further demonstrate any knowledge you don’t actually possess.”

An uncomfortable shuffle of papers swept through the students. Harry dipped his head, feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions. Part of him was grateful; if Draco hadn’t given him that note, he would have been utterly humiliated. Yet Snape’s ominous stare made him think the professor suspected something was amiss.

Sure enough, a moment later Snape broke the hush again, voice slicing through the dim dungeon air. “Additionally, five points to Slytherin Mr. Malfoy,” he announced in a deceptively mild tone. “For supporting a classmate.”

There was a scattered ripple of confusion from both Slytherins and Gryffindors alike. Harry’s heart lodged in his throat. He heard a few low murmurs from some of the other students: 

Malfoy? 

Helping Potter? 

But Snape didn’t elaborate. He merely shifted his black gaze to Harry and added in the same chill voice, “And three points to Gryffindor. Mr. Potter, for heeding instruction—surprisingly.”

With that, Snape flicked his wand sharply at the board. The chalk instructions glowed brighter. “Let us begin,” he snapped, cutting off any opportunity for further questions. “We shall see if any of you can produce something vaguely fit for purpose.”

“Hey Neville.” Harry began, endeavouring as best as he could to watch their potion as it was stirred, the solution having already shifted in colour at least two or three times in the past little and as such needed to stay at its current sickly sort of vomit yellow, else it would bubble over and apparently explode . “What’s a Seer?”

Neville’s gaze shifted toward Harry, wariness written clearly across his rounded features. His eyes moved briefly toward Snape—who was moving along the rows, cutting a rather menacing figure in his dark teaching robes that seemed to billow as he walked—and then back to Harry’s question, swallowing as though he hadn’t expected to be asked anything on the topic, or perhaps more likely anything at all. At first, Harry thought Neville might not respond, given how quietly the other boy spoke in class and how flustered he often seemed to get. 

“Well…” The other Gryffindor began tentatively, continuing to stir their potion at the slow and measured pace the instructions demanded, “Basically, they’re people that know things about the future and stuff. Mostly, like little bits and pieces, but sometimes even huge things that make them sound absolutely barmy. Gran always told me there were very few genuine Seers in our world—real ones, I mean. Loads of people claim to be Seers, but most of them just guess, or read tea leaves for show. The true Seers—the ones who can see actual events before they happen—they’re meant to be really rare. Like…a handful every dozen generations.”

He paused, pressing his lips together as if uncertain whether he was explaining this properly. Harry gently encouraged him with a small nod, all the while trying not to let the swirling cauldron contents shift from that sickly yellow color. A single twitch of the ladle too fast, and the potion might change hue.

“Apparently,” Neville went on, lowering his voice even further so that only Harry could hear him over the clink of glass phials and the soft hiss of burners, “a true Seer might sometimes get spontaneous visions—like flashes of the future—or they can slip into a kind of trance that’s just terrifying to see, their eyes cloud over and everything. But it’s unpredictable, see? No Seer can just produce a vision, or - or knowledge whenever they want…though I hear some get these, er, smaller glimpses, sort of like impressions about what’s going to happen in a single day.”

Harry listened with rapt attention, tipping in another carefully measured scoop of dried nettles. He thought back to the snippet of parchment Draco had pressed into his hand. If Draco really was a Seer, then it made sense how he might have known exactly which questions Snape was going to ask. Maybe Draco had experienced one of those “smaller glimpses” Neville had described—like maybe in a dream or a strong feeling that told him Snape would single Harry out, ask about asphodel and wormwood, or quiz him on the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane. 

And if that was true, then that meant that Draco had chosen to use his abilities to help Harry. Which was, honestly, really nice of him. He didn’t even know Harry and yet still he’d decided he’d go out of his way to lend Harry a hand, in what would otherwise have been a fairly awful first lesson. Instead, Potions so far, had actually gone pretty well. Even Snape had seemed to mellow out as the class continued. Still sharp, and mean, but not to the point of actively searching for things to docks points for, grade wise and House wise. Harry would maybe even go so far as to say that beyond the start of class, Snape had been kind of fair. 

But that could also have been due to the fact that he had, as of yet, not come back again with anything negative against Harry. He actually even seemed to reluctantly acknowledge Harry’s skills with a knife while he was cutting the nettles, if that low unhappy sort of rumble the man had made could be interpreted in that way. Who knew cooking meals for the Dursleys would actually come in handy at some point? It was even a little “fun”, he thought, and though there had been a few bumps while working with Neville it hadn’t been anything too crazy. Sure, the other Gryffindor was nervous beyond words sometimes, but Harry found he was able to mostly keep up with any issues since Potion making so far was basically just more complicated cooking. 

And he glanced up towards Draco. Though he figured he’d be having far less of a surprisingly decent time, if he hadn’t had that note when the time came. He had no idea how he would have reacted, but considering his growing temper as of late, it probably wouldn’t have ended up as anywhere near as pretty for their potion as things currently were now. Absently, Harry let out a low breath, still half-watching his brew. He noticed that while Draco had a certain confidence in the classroom, Ron beside him often cast uncertain glances at the instructions on the board. Occasionally, Ron would prod Draco in the side, muttering something question-like, and Draco would respond with a quick flick of his wand or a quiet nudge to add an ingredient. 

The scene looked - nice . With Draco very clearly and actively supporting Ron while the redhead worked to gather his bearings and follow along with the board. 

Maybe, there were some nice Slytherins after all. 

Meanwhile, Snape swept down another row, pausing to eye Seamus Finnigan’s potion, which was still smoking from an earlier mishap. Harry felt Neville tense beside him; they both carefully kept stirring, ensuring their mixture did not meet a similarly disastrous fate. 

Harry, partly relieved by this slight easing in the classroom atmosphere, took advantage of Snape’s relative distraction to whisper to Neville. “So… you said Seers can’t always control what they see, right?”

Neville nodded. “Yes. That’s what Gran told me. Although some Seers are rumored to get what’s called ‘ prompted vision s’ if they focus on a particular upcoming event. Still, it’s never guaranteed. It’s not like casting a spell. It’s… unpredict—.”

“Stop stirring,” Harry whispered suddenly, pointing at the board. “We’re supposed to let it sit for twenty seconds or so, remember?”

Startled, Neville let go of the spoon, letting it hover in the brew without further motion. Harry started counting and by the time he reached twenty, the potion’s color had settled into a more neutral, sludge-like green, which matched what the blackboard predicted. Harry exhaled softly.

At that moment, Snape slid into view, silent as a shadow. He loomed over their cauldron, peering into it with an inscrutable expression. Harry braced himself for something scathing to slip from between the professor’s lips, but instead, Snape merely sniffed and gave a slight, grudging nod.

“Acceptable,” he declared in that low, disdainful tone, before seamlessly moving on, stalking toward Seamus and Dean’s workstation again. For a brief second, Harry and Neville exchanged relieved glances. Maybe, just maybe, they’d survive this lesson without losing any house points or humiliating themselves in front of the entire class.

Time ambled on, marked by the steady drip of condensation from the dungeon’s stone ceiling and the occasional hiss and whoosh of a potion gone on slightly wrong. The Cure for Boils recipe was time-consuming but not especially complicated, like mashed potatoes or lasagna, and as the lesson steadily drew to a close, Snape instructed each pair to ladle a small sample into a phial and bring it to his desk. The professor then examined each offering by holding it up to lantern light, swirling it carefully. A sharp sniff or a displeased grunt would tell each pair how well—or poorly—they’d done. Harry and Neville presented theirs, hearts thumping. Snape tipped the phial in the light, pursed his lips, and gave a curt nod.

“It does seem as though you have not produced poison,” he said sharply, setting it aside on his desk. “It is satisfactory.”

Harry ventured a brief glance at Neville, who looked as though he’d just had a weight lifted off his shoulders. Another pair stepped forward—Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown—and Harry and Neville retreated, waiting for the final tallies. Once the entire class had been assessed, Snape turned to address them all, his voice echoing slightly against the stone walls. 

“You will bottle the remainder of your successful potions— if you were successful —and label them. Bring them here, and I shall determine if they are salvageable for the hospital wing. As for those of you who utterly failed to follow instructions, count yourselves fortunate this first potion will not count significantly towards your overall final grade. Class is over,” he said coolly, “clean your work areas thoroughly and leave. If I catch so much as a single stray porcupine quill on the floor, you will all be serving detention.”

With that, the dungeon filled with the sounds of scraping stools, the clatter of cauldrons, and a sigh of audible relief from many of the students. Ron shoved his supplies into his school bag, Draco set a used mortar aside, and the pair traded a quiet snicker over something Harry couldn’t hear. Neville hastily wiped down their table and Harry himself coiled the last of their remaining quills into bushes before double-checking to ensure no ingredient scraps remained. 

He was already rehearsing in his head how he might approach Draco in the corridor—what he might say to express gratitude without sounding like an idiot. Maybe just a quick “ thanks for the help ” would be enough . He hoisted his bag over his shoulder, and across the room, he caught Draco’s eye, but the Slytherin looked away almost immediately as he worked to gather up his own belongings. A part of Harry wondered if Draco was purposely avoiding talking in front of everyone. Possibly to preserve whatever secrecy he wanted about that note.

Then, just as the students began funneling out toward the door, Snape’s voice sliced through the low chatter. “Mr. Malfoy,” the professor intoned, “A word, if you please.”

That single request caused several heads to swivel around in curiosity. Ron turned halfway, as if about to wait for Draco, but Snape lifted a brow at him in mild challenge. “You may go, Weasley,” he said, neither sharp nor warm. “You have other classes to attend to.”

Ron opened his mouth, once, twice, then looked at Draco who gave him a nod. He shot the other first-year a look of encouragement, or maybe concern, then disappeared out of sight with the rest of the students. As the last of the first-years trickled out of the classroom, Harry shuffled himself up to walk alongside Neville, his mind abuzz regarding the events over the lesson. Draco’s note had undeniably saved him from a horrible first experience with Snape, and he knew he owed the Slytherin a proper thank you. He glanced over his shoulder once, just in time to see Draco step back into the classroom with Snape, shoulders squared in a way that seemed both expectant and resigned.

Harry turned back toward the hallway, hand gingerly reaching into his hand bag to pull out the note he had been given. He frowned, patting the side of his bag absently before realization struck like a lightning bolt to his chest.

It was gone.

His heart leaped into his throat. He had tucked it away, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? 

His fingers scrambled at the flap of his school bag, shuffling through his quills, parchment, and textbook. Nothing.

Panic surged in his stomach. If someone found it—if Snape found it—Wait. 

The points from earlier.  

Why did Snape give Draco points for supporting a classmate, if he hadn’t already figured out that Draco helped Harry? 

Without thinking, Harry slowed his steps, letting Neville and the others drift ahead as he turned sharply, bolting back toward the classroom as fast as his feet could take him with all the supplies weighing him down. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, each footfall echoing loudly in the deserted dungeon corridor, guilt already weighing heavily upon his shoulders. As he approached the familiar heavy doors, he slowed instinctively, hearing the sound of quiet conversation emanating from the space beyond. 

“Despite my best efforts, I find I am beyond confounded. Why did you do it, Draco?”

“I’ve the faintest idea what you’re talking about Professor.”

“Do not play smart with me child. We all know - given context, there was only one way Potter could have gleaned any modicum amount of accuracy for those questions levied at the start of class. You helped him, informed him ahead of time - with this exact note - written in your handwriting left beneath Potter and Longbottom’s cauldron.”

A pause, and then almost an explosive sort of sigh, tired and long suffering. “Bloody Potter… Couldn’t even do the one thing ruddy asked of him…”

“So you admit it then?”

“Tragically.”

Another pause. “So why? Why would you go so far for this boy, to the point it nearly undermined my lesson?”

“It hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal, actually. Explain yourself, Draco.” The sound of shifting fabric. Of steps, heavy approaching those lighter. “You are smarter than this. You are not one for meaningless gestures, particularly after your ill-timed and unexpected inheritance. If you respect me at all, you will give me honesty. Why did you do it?”

“...Fine … I did it, because I suppose I’d prefer the adults in my life not act like children.”

"...And just what do you mean by that perchance?"

"Exactly what it implies. It's rather difficult seeing someone I look up to stoop so low as to bully children."

And the other voice seemed to just grow softer and softer as they responded. To the point it was almost a whisper. “How dare you speak to me in such a way, impudent child. You dare attempt to pass judgement on me? About the way I acted? The insolence. You know nothing of me and-.”

”But I know enough, Uncle. Enough to know that humiliating a child just because you hate their Father, would not only be unfairly cruel but also should be beneath your character.”

“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME AS IF YOU KNOW ME. You know nothing of what is and is not BENEATH MY CHARACTER. Simply because you’ve accrued some modicum amount of unfairly gifted insight does not mean you could ever grasp the depths of my personage.”

“I don’t need to grasp anything about you Uncle. Because this wasn’t about you. No child should be subject to humiliation or punishment they did nothing to deserve. Especially one who’s suffered so much already.”

“Suffer? I beg your pardon - Suffer? That boy is HARRY POTTER. The Grandest Celebrity in all of wizarding Britain, child of Head Auror James Potter and practically swimming in so much money and privilege it’d make even Lucius’ head spin.”

“Then you haven’t been really looking, Uncle Severus. He shies away when people yell. He’s small enough to hide in spaces other children couldn’t even think to fit in. If you can’t see the signs, then you're choosing not to see. You’re choosing to see the second coming of James Potter, while entirely ignoring the fact that he’s literally just as much - Lily Evans.”

A gasp. A quiet and strangled intake of air, as if a breath had been cut short and left to die. “…How do you…”

“Besides, if you think you hate James Potter, Uncle Severus - Then let me be very clear, there is no other person in this world who has the bloody magic-given right to loathe James Potter more than his own abandoned son. 

Perhaps that can be something the both of you can bond over.”

Chapter Text

Weaselby Confident

According to Professor Snape, to start and register a club at Hogwarts one would require a minimum of seven people to agree to join before the club could be officially ratified. So with Draco and then Ron himself, that was - two…

And though his first couple days in the house of green and silver had been mostly incident free, Ron wouldn’t exactly go so far as to say he was particularly popular.

Ron had never experienced this much silence in his entire life. 

Back home at The Burrow, every day had been a riot of clanging pans, screaming siblings, Fred and George’s explosive experiments, or Bill and Charlie swinging by with stories of dragons and breaking curses. Noise was the default mode of life. Even in Ron’s quietest moments, growing up there was always some sort of hustle and bustle just around the corner.

But here in Slytherin House—deep in the dungeon corridors under Hogwarts—he often found himself surrounded by a tense hush, heavy as if the stone walls themselves were watching, which - if they had paintings - they technically were, but that was beside the point. Some older students read in corners, gazes shifting up whenever he passed. Others grouped together at tables, heads bent in hushed conversation, evaluating him with quick, sidelong looks. 

Ronald Weasley: The Weasley in Green - The Rat in Silver.

Syltherin House’s current oddity. To some, an intruder. To others, in hushed and cutting tones, a blood traitor . But thankfully to most, just currently far too much trouble to involve themselves with. He tried to keep his spine straight, his expression unruffled. To show that the subtle, but clear enough rejection didn’t phase him at all. 

Because if there was one thing the Sorting Hat had hammered home on that fateful night, on that rather uncomfortable stool, it was that this was his best chance to stand on his own two feet and be someone. He was tired of always being overshadowed: Bill, the brilliant curse-breaker; Charlie, the dragon tamer; Percy, the prefect; Fred and George, the unstoppable pranksters who always stole the show. Ron wanted to be seen—and the Hat, sure in a way even he himself had never ever been sure before, had said this was the best house for him to do that in. Irrespective of the hurdles, it and he both knew he would likely face.

And Ron - to the absolute mind-boggling shock of even himself - had listened. I chose Slytherin. He had told himself on countless numerous occasion now. I have to make it work.  

Most of the people here might never like him, he knew coming in, but he would not let them see him falter. In just a handful of days, he’d learned how to forge for himself a mask of confidence, a kind of stage presence to obfuscate his discomfort and hurt. Straight shoulders, a sardonic grin if needed, a little huff of “I’m all right” or a dismissive roll of his eyes whenever he was confronted with an insult. He walked the winding stone corridors with as much calm as he could muster, but in reality, the tension was already starting to wear him down more than he liked to admit. 

It certainly wasn’t as if he could just fight everyone, no matter how angry or how frustrated he got. There were just too many of them, and Snape, his Head of House had explicitly stated in their orientation that any and all overt hostility, violence and or bullying of fellow Slytherins was essentially anathema. Which, while yes, did save him from likely getting hexed and cursed every other day, didn’t really do anything for the ever present and constant rejection he encountered at basically every turn.

So it was honestly, astoundingly appreciated that he somehow had managed to wrangle Draco Malfoy, of all people, as his literal saving grace. 

They had met on the Hogwarts Express, and Draco had proven… not what Ron expected. At once imperious and surprisingly witty, even kind at times—particularly when Ron least expected it. Draco had offered him sweets on the train, delighted him with a half-dozen rounds of wizard’s chess and was probably the first person in Ron’s entire life - who wasn’t his parents - that looked at him and said, I see you. Not exactly in those words, but the feeling was the same. 

Draco’s quick witted sense of humor and brilliant style of play had confused Ron in the best possible way during their time together on the train, and by the end, he’d felt they’d established an almost strange sense of kinship. Or at least, mutual fascination. 

And now, sharing the first-year Slytherin dorm with Draco only confirmed that sense. Draco exuded an easy, aristocratic confidence that seemed almost unshakeable. With Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him like broad-shouldered shadows, Draco navigated House politics with a polish Ron had only seen Percy try and mimic back home—though Draco managed it with much more humor than Percy ever had. Best of all, he actually treated Ron like a person. And that honestly was all Ron could ask for right now.

At present, Ron was currently fidgeting in his seat in the Slytherin common room, halfheartedly flipping through Magical Drafts and Potions for tomorrow’s lesson. He could practically hear his mother’s voice urging him to keep up with homework, but the greenish glow of the dungeon lamps left him feeling restless. The shifting flicker of their emerald fire casting dancing shadows across Draco’s pale features as he scribbled an essay on a separate scroll atop the table they were currently sharing.

“Careful, Weaselby,” Draco spoke up then, setting his quill aside. “You’ll hurt yourself thinking so hard.”

Ron rolled his eyes, fighting an involuntary smirk. “You wish, Malfoy. Some of us actually have to work for our marks, you know—not all of us can coast by on nepotism.”

“Ooh that’s a big word. Someone's been spending some time with a dictionary.”

“Sod off, prat.”

And Draco placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Why Ronald, I’ll have you know I’m every bit as hardworking as you my good Weasley—just not as sweaty and with better hair.” He tapped the parchment in front of him, which contained neat lines of text. “But, if you want to keep faffing about with that Potions book when I know you’ve actually just been staring at the lamp across the way, who am I to stop you?”

Ron made a face and slapped Magical Drafts and Potions shut. “Ugh. You’re the worst Malfoy.” He groaned dramatically, sinking further into the posh green velvet of his chair. “A person can only handle so many footnotes on Shrivelfigs.” He felt the tension in his shoulders ease, grateful for the distraction. He glanced at the battered wizard’s chess set peeking out of his school bag. “I’d rather do something fun. But you’re busy doing—” he waved a hand vaguely at Draco’s essay “—whatever that is.”

Draco’s lips curled upward. “A very astute observation. Done is what that is, I’ll have you know. So I suppose I’m free to do something now. Unless, of course, you’d like to drool through your Potions text a bit more?”

Ron let out an exaggerated sigh, pushing the textbook away. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll doze off and ruin all the pages, and that’ll be the end of Ron Weasley as we know it. You’ll have to drag my poisoned corpse from the bowels of Snape's deepest cauldron.”

“Sounds positively riveting,” Draco drawled, then drummed his fingers on the table, but there was a dancing in his eyes. “But speaking of something fun—didn’t we talk on the train about starting a chess club?”

Ron’s ears perked up. He’d nearly forgotten they’d ever tossed that idea around, buried as it was beneath the chaos of Sorting and settling in. “Oh. Right, we did talk about that, didn't we?” He shrugged.

Draco smirked, leaning forward with a conspiratorial lilt to his voice. “We certainly did. And clearly, a certain someone must have been very interested in starting one, because I recently heard a certain Red-Headed Weasley currently has an appointment with Professor Snape to talk about it.”

Ron blinked. “Wait. Wait - what? What? ” His mind raced. 

Since when?????

“Talk to Snape?! I can’t even look him in the eye! How could I have an appointment with him??? ”

“Since I forged your signature and booked one on your behalf.” Draco responded evenly, inspecting his nails. “Left him a note that said you wanted a meeting to discuss ‘a brand-new extracurricular focusing on advanced strategic prowess and the fostering of cross-house relations.’” His mouth twitched. “You’re very concerned about cross-house relations, aren’t you, Weaselby?”

A rush panic seized Ron. “You did what? Malfoy, you absolute git!” He flung a balled-up scrap of parchment at Draco’s shoulder, which the other boy simply allowed to strike with grace. Entirely unphased.

“Come on now, please keep up Weaselby,” Draco drawled, voice lazy but his eyes were sharp and bright. “I was just being a very good friend I’ll have you know. Since you mentioned you were far too busy trying not to throttle or end up throttled by half the House. I figured you’d never make the time to actually do the grown-up bit of scheduling a meeting to make this club actually happen, so I did it for you. You’re very welcome.” The blond gestured grandly. “Now all you have to do is smooth-talk Snape into a brand-new club and we’re off to the races.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Me? Me??? You’ve seen how Snape looks at me in class, right? Like I’m a defective newt in his potion.”

Draco waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You just have to be your usual charming self. Toss in some lines about how chess fosters cunning and ambition, slip in some mild flattery about Slytherin’s legacy of brilliance and how it's just another opportunity to outshine the other houses, and you’re golden.”

Ron gave him a flat stare. “And that’s going to be so easy, right?”

“Absolutely,” Draco insisted. “And if not, at least he’ll direct most of that simmering scorn at me —given how cross he’s been with me recently. Still hasn’t gotten over that tiff we had after the first class of potions.”

The mental image of Snape’s dark stare drilling holes into Draco was equal parts satisfying and terrifying. Ron snorted, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible. I can’t believe you did all that without telling me.”

Draco shrugged, lips curving into a sly grin. “If I’d told you, you’d have panicked, or found some excuse to wait and never actually get around to it. This way, you don’t have time to overthink—and we get the jump on everyone else.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Look, do you still want this Chess Club or not? Because if you do, we need to act before the year picks up pace.”

Ron slumped back, exhaling. “I do want it,” he admitted. “I just…didn’t plan on being thrown to the proverbial Snape-lions so soon.”

And as soon as the words spilled from his mouth, Ron watched as Draco shifted his gaze away, very intentionally not meeting Ron’s eyes and a sudden sinking feeling began to settle itself at the bottom of his stomach. Ever so quietly, he heard the blond mumble something beneath their breath. 

“What was that Malfoy?”

“Oh nothing. It’s just that we better hurry along now, I suppose. The appointment is just in half an hour after all-.”

“-Half an hour!?” Ron’s shriek echoed through the common room, earning more than a few glares from the older students scattered around. Draco merely tilted his head, feigning innocence.

“Sorry—did I forget to mention that part?”

“You—!” Ron shot to his feet, face burning. “I can’t believe you’ve done this! You forge my name, schedule a meeting with our bloody Head of House, and then just—spring it on me with half an hour’s notice?!”

Draco stood as well, smoothing his immaculate robes. “Well, it’s more like twenty-five minutes now, give or take. Time’s ticking, Weaselby. We should get a move on, unless you’d like to keep Snape waiting.”

“ ‘Keep Snape waiting ,’” Ron repeated in a mock-lilt, shoving Magical Drafts and Potions into his bag. “Yes, that sounds like a brilliant plan—guaranteed to actually land me in a bloody cauldron by day’s end.” He slung the strap across his shoulder. “Unbelievable. You—”

“Very helpful and considerate friend, yes, you’ve mentioned,” Draco cut in smoothly, grin flashing. “Now come along then, Ronald. We don’t want to be late for your grand debut.”

Ron felt like his stomach was attempting the world’s fastest broom race—except the broom was inside his gut, taking frantic turns left and right and every which way. He and Draco were currently standing at the foot of a short flight of stone steps that led up to Professor Snape’s office door, the thick oak barrier looming just a few meters away. A single lone torch flickering in its sconce against the wall, elongating their shadows across the damp dungeon floor.

“I still can’t believe you forged my signature,” he hissed, though he kept his voice down. The corridor’s acoustics threatened to echo anything louder. “Do you know how mental that is? To lie like that to a teacher?”

Draco rolled his eyes, tilting his head so his pale hair gleamed faintly in the torchlight. “Don’t be so dramatic. Now that you’re here, it’s basically like we never even lied to him.” He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his immaculate sleeve. “And forging your signature was more a matter of convenience. You’d never have scheduled this yourself.”

Ron opened his mouth for a retort but only managed a choked sound. It was true that if Draco hadn’t taken matters into his own hands, Ron would probably still be “thinking about it.” But acknowledging that didn’t make the situation any less nerve-racking at all. “I just… I’m not ready,” Ron mumbled. “It’s only been—what—a week since classes began?”

“Time waits for no wizard,” Draco drawled. “Besides, this is the best way. Less chance for you to talk yourself out of it.”

Ron scowled, glancing at the heavy door. The handle looked old, possibly older than either of them by centuries. “Snape might not even approve. He hates me. And we’re first years—who’s going to take us seriously?”

“Uncle hates everyone, and no one already takes you seriously, Weaselby. This is all about trying to change that.” Draco’s expression shifted, his words sounding almost gentle. “ I know your potential. It's time to show everyone else. Maybe even yourself. If it helps, try viewing talking to Snape like a chess match. You’ve got your opening moves, you anticipate counters, then plan a strategy that lets you maneuver around what he’s thinking. Trust your instincts the way you do on the board.”

The statement made Ron’s pulse flutter and his ears heat up. Ugh. He hated to admit it, but the compliments were working and Draco was right. If there was ever a chance to draw at least some hopefully positive attention to himself for once, a brand-new club might be it. The seeing things like a game of chess was also pretty decent advice too, though he didn’t necessarily know how applicable that could be when he would be too scared to even look at his opponent let alone be comfortable enough to try and read them. He took a breath, squaring his shoulders. 

“I know.” he said, voice rough. “I just wish I’d had some time to prepare an actual script or something. I can’t just barge in and say, ‘Oi, Snape, let me start a chess club!’”

Draco pressed his lips together, half-grinning. “Sure you can. Certainly better than if I were to try. We’ll say it’s good for the House’s reputation, that it fosters competition and skill. If we spin it right, Snape might even be pleased. With you, at least.”

Ron gave a snort. “Pleased. Right. I’ll believe that when I see it.” Then he sighed, glancing around to ensure no other students lurked in the corridor. The last thing he wanted was an audience. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

They ascended the steps and Draco rapped lightly on the door, the sound echoing across the empty space.

A low voice, immediately recognizable as Snape’s, slid out from behind the oaken threshold: “Enter.”

Ron swallowed hard, pushing the door open. He felt a chill as they stepped inside, as though they’d walked from a corridor into a crypt. Shelves of jars loomed along the walls, each displaying countless varieties of preserved creatures or suspicious liquids. A single lantern shone on Professor Snape’s large crooked desk, the light s omehow emphasizing the dark of his robes and the stern lines of his face.

“About time, Mr. Weasley…” Snape’s tone was clipped. Then his gaze landed on Draco, and immediately, his mouth curled in disapproval. “Mr. Malfoy, I was under the impression I’d only be meeting with your Housemate here. Why are you present?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Snape’s scowl only deepened. “I have little patience for your antics lately,” The Potions master snapped. “If this is more nonsense, save it. I’ve enough on my plate.” 

He pivoted to Ron, dismissing Draco with a single frigid glance without even an opportunity for the other boy to speak. “Speak Mr. Weasley. You sent word you had a proposal so let’s hear it and then you can leave.”

At that last word, Ron’s nerves basically screamed at him to bolt, but a subtle shove from Draco forced him forward. He gulped once, twice. Then as best as he could, cursing himself for how his voice seemed to shake, he started. “Uh Professor,” He began smoothly, “thank you for seeing us. We’re here to discuss the possibility of creating a formal Hogwarts Chess Club—an extracurricular we believe would be beneficial to-to the school and especially to Slytherin House.”

Ron inhaled, trying to stave off the trembling in his legs. He could practically feel Draco’s annoyance emanating from behind him, the blond boy all but bristling with tension under Snape’s curt dismissal. But Ron clung to what they had discussed in the hallway moments before: treat it like a chess match—anticipate, adapt, counter.

Snape’s stare shifted between them.  “And the two of you believe you’re capable of meeting basic club standards?” he said softly. “Seven members. A thorough petition with aims and a schedule. A readiness to show you won’t neglect your academic obligations. A staff sponsor—myself, if you manage to convince me. After which, the petition goes to Professor McGonagall for registration, and only then, if you survive her scrutiny, does it reach the Headmaster for final ratification.”

Though Ron’s pulse was racing so loudly he could barely hear himself think, he was starting to get the sense that Snape’s prickly skepticism was more a measured test, probing to see if they had the mettle to see their plan through. Taking heart, Ron gave a small dip of the head. “We’re ready to work for it, sir,” he said. “We believe wizard’s chess can reflect Slytherin’s strengths—ambition, strategy, and discipline. If we fail, then… you’ll have every right to revoke your support.”

“Surprisingly well spoken,” Snape responded evenly, his gaze turning momentarily to Draco. His clipped tone could have cut glass. “I shall not reject the notion outright.”

Draco kept his features carefully neutral. He spoke only when Ron glanced at him expectantly. “We’ve done some planning already,” he said, voice placating. “If you allow it, we’ll continue gathering interested students—mostly from Slytherin to start—and outline times, meeting places, and any other specifics you require.”

Snape steepled his fingers and watched them both for several beats, his expression a mask of deep thought. At last, he emitted a quiet, sardonic hum. “Very well, Mr. Weasley,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Assuming you prove yourselves organized enough, I will ‘consider’ the sponsorship. There is currently no official chess club at Hogwarts, though I recall one existed in decades past.” He paused. “You are first years, so I suspect you know few older students who might assist. The question is: can you gather enough interest?”

Draco arched a cool eyebrow. “We can, sir. We’re quite confident actually. And we won’t trouble you unless we’ve secured the required members.”

Ron took a breath, pressing his advantage. “We’d likely open membership beyond Slytherin eventually, but we’d want to establish it here first. Maybe if we present it as a matter of House pride… it could encourage others to join. Or even lead to inter-House tournaments that Slytherin might dominate.”

Snape’s lips twitched, though whether it was a smirk or scowl Ron couldn’t tell. “You assume Slytherin would dominate. Arrogant. Yet such ambition is not entirely out of place in our House.” He let his gaze shift between the two first-years before him, “If you manage to gather at least seven names, I will consider sponsoring your club. But do not waste my time if you cannot. Understood?”

Ron felt a swell of relief. 

It was a conditional yes. 

“Yes, Professor. We understand.”

Draco inclined his head and Snape’s eyes bored into Draco’s again. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them. After a moment, Snape turned his attention back to Ron. “Mr. Weasley, you realize that once you are recognized as a founder of such a club, you must balance it with your studies? I have no desire to see your potions performance—surprisingly decent as it is—end up a casualty of conflicting priorities.”

Ron, puzzled by the unexpected acknowledgement, forced a polite nod. “I—understand, sir. I’ll keep up.”

Snape made a small, dismissive gesture with his hand. “Then gather your membership. Present me your petition as soon as it is done. If it meets Hogwarts’ regulations, and if I deem your plan worthy of my endorsement, I will sign off. Now… is that all?”

Ron, heart still pounding, simply answered, “Yes, sir. That’s all. Thank you.”

Snape lifted his quill again, eyes returning to the parchment on his desk as though they no longer existed. “Then kindly let me return to my work.”

Ron exhaled a shaky breath, stepping back. He and Draco moved toward the door, heads inclined in silent thanks. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the hall from the tension inside. Out in the corridor, the torchlight felt brighter, lighter. Ron found that he could suddenly breathe again. 

“Well,” Draco said, after a beat, lips curving. “That wasn’t so terrible.”

Ron’s heart hammered against his chest. “He didn’t say no,” he managed, a note of awe creeping into his voice. “I was so sure he’d say no. But we—we actually got a chance.” His mind raced with possibilities.

Seven members. I can do that. That's totally doable. The twisting of knots in his gut seemed to shift into an odd excitement.

Draco smirked, crossing his arms. “Indeed. Now we just need to rally enough people who want to play wizard’s chess. Should be fun.”

That evening, after classes, Ron stepped into the Slytherin common room and spotted Draco standing by the fireplace with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. All three looked up as he approached, the low, greenish glow from the lanterns adjacent giving the entire scene an ethereal sort of cast. Crabbe and Goyle each wore faintly triumphant smiles, as if they’d just received good news—or perhaps had been persuaded into something they were oddly excited about?

Draco raised a hand in greeting. “There you are, Weaselby. Took you long enough.”

Ron quickened his pace. “What’d I miss?” he asked, aiming for an easy, confident air about himself.

“Oh, nothing important,” Draco drawled, feigning disinterest, then let a smug smile creep in. “I may have just already convinced Vinny and Greg to sign on for the Chess Club. Now that you’re here, I can fill you in.”

Crabbe grunted an enthusiastic sort of agreement. “Yeah, Draco’s been explaining how it’ll work. Figured we’d give it a go—beats sitting around doing nothing.”

Goyle nodded, arms crossed. “’sides, might be fun. We can thrash other Houses if we get good enough, yeah?”

Ron felt a surge of giddy excitement. Four of us already, he thought—counting himself, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle. “That’s…great,” he managed, only just keeping the grin from showing on his face. He turned to Draco. “You move fast.”

“What can I say? I prefer to be efficient.” Draco gestured grandly to himself. “So that’s four, Weaselby. We need a minimum of seven. I say we go after Pansy next—she’s so bored she might join anything at the moment, provided it amuses her.”

Ron raised a brow. “You’re sure she’ll bite?”

A wry smile curled Draco’s lips. “Pansy craves excitement, and she hates feeling irrelevant. If there’s even a whisper of attention in it for her, she’ll come around.” Then he shot Ron a sly sort of smile. “Bit like someone else I know, actually.”

Ron’s cheeks warmed, and he coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Like yourself right, Malfoy?”

Draco only laughed in response. “Let’s find Parkinson,” he seemed to giggle, “and see if my hunch is right.”

They made their way across the common room’s stone floor, toward one of the cushioned alcoves near the emerald-lit windows that peered into the lake above. Pansy was there, laying languid across one of the plush green couches, flipping through what looked like a tawdry gossip magazine, her expression oscillating between boredom and mild interest. She was petite and sharp-featured, with keen dark eyes that rarely missed a thing. Her dark hair was styled in a short, sleek bob that framed her pointed chin and inadvertently her rather distinctive pug nose. She glanced up at their approach, clearly noting the little group trailing behind Draco’s shoulder.

“This better be good,” she said with a sigh. “I’m at a particularly juicy bit of rumor, I’ll have you know.”

“Now, now, why read about drama when you can be part of it?” Draco smiled. “You’re always on the lookout for something new, Pans. Let us help. We’re starting a Hogwarts Chess Club. And we’d love to have your autograph.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Chess?” Her tone made it sound like Draco was hawking used broomsticks.

Ron cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s more than just a game—it’s strategy, competition, a chance to show off. And, well…” He forced a casual shrug. “You’ve said how there’s nothing entertaining around here lately. Might as well give it a go right?”

Pansy raised a manicured eyebrow. “I’ll have you know I’m not that bored Weasley. Besides, what exactly do I get out of it, aside from shoving wooden pieces around a board?”

Draco drew himself up, adopting a playful, aristocratic lilt. “Consider: a brand-new club led by us —the House’s youngest minds, drawing fascination and curiosity from the older students. We’ll hold matches, maybe tournaments, and eventually challenge other Houses. Imagine the attention that’ll bring - especially when you win.” He paused meaningfully. “And I know how much you love attention.”

Ron’s ears went hot at that pointed emphasis, but Pansy let out a tiny laugh, tossing her hair. “Well, I do indeed love attention.” She eyed Draco, then shifted to throw a glance at Ron. Pansy studied him for a moment, longer personally than Ron would have preferred, then exhaled with an affected air of fond resignation. “Fine. Only because you’re the one asking Draco. But if it turns out to be dull, I’m out.”

“That’s five,” Draco announced, throwing Ron an almost conspiratorial wink. 

See? Told you.

Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide a small smile. “I suppose you’ve done me a favor. Now, do be quick about it— and get the rest of your sign-ups. It won’t be any fun if the club doesn’t go anywhere. I suppose I should consider trying to get a headstart myself to heap on the advantages ahead of time.”

With that, Pansy returned to her magazine, though the slight upward tilt at the corner of her lips suggested she was pleased. They made their way back to the center of the common room, near a wide table carved with serpentine designs. A few older students glanced at them, some with mild amusement, most with disinterest.

“All right,” Ron murmured, counting in his head. “That’s five for the Chess club already. Now we just need two more.”

“Two more? So that’s what you four have been begging about for?” Theodore Nott sneered from across the table they were at, snapping a heavy book in front of him shut with a definitive thump. He was a tall, willowy thing with a narrow face and eyes that gleamed like a hawk’s whenever he sized someone up. Sparse freckles dusted his nose, lending him a misleadingly boyish look at odds with the sharpness of his tongue and heat of his glare. 

Ron bristled instinctively, fingers flexing anxiously at his sides as Nott’s voice cut through the open air. He'd learned quickly enough in Slytherin to pick his battles carefully, but in some circumstances, they seemed just intent on picking him instead. From the very first day, Theodore Nott had been determined to expose Ron as unworthy of the House they shared, challenging him constantly with thinly veiled, not really - they were actually rather overt - insults and goading him into breaking his composure. Draco’s presence beside him felt heavy, but appreciated - grounding. It was so bizarre, he thought absently, how he had always imagined himself hating Malfoy’s cold composure—but now here he was holding onto that calm like a lifeline for himself. 

“Scuttling around, asking anyone with a pulse to join some silly chess club? Let me guess Malfoy—it’s all for Weasley’s sake. You want to make him feel less like a lost little unwanted rat in Slytherin?”

Silence fell around the group. Pansy’s lip quirked upwards from behind her magazine as she watched from her little alcove. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged looks, while a couple of other Slytherin first-years seemed to pause and observe. Off near a bookshelf, Zabini shifted his gaze upward from whatever he was reading, drawn by the tension.

Ron forced himself to maintain a mask of even calm. Keep it together. He met Nott’s sneering gaze with a lifted chin. “You mind your own business, Nott,” he said coolly. “No one asked you to join.”

Nott gave a derisive laugh. “As if I’d ever stoop to it. I don’t waste time on worthless games.”

Draco clasped his hands behind his back, eyes narrowing as his features shifted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Worthless, is it? Chess teaches cunning, strategy—things you’d think a real Slytherin would value. Unless you’re worried you’d lose on those fronts to a lost little Weasley . You know how to play don’t you, Nott?”

Nott’s face hardened. “Don’t be absurd Malfoy. Him? Beat me? Does he even know how to play? I’m surprised his family could even afford a chess set at all considering all the poverty they seem to revel in.”

With the comment about his family, Ron’s pulse was in his ears - but he somehow managed to keep his voice measured. “Care to test that theory? Or are you too scared to back up your claims?”

The corner of Nott’s mouth twitched downwards. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Ron to challenge him so directly. He glanced around, noting how many sets of eyes were on him now. Nott visibly bristled with indignation. “Fine. If you want me to humiliate you in front of your new little fan club, let’s do it. Right here, right now.”

A ripple of anticipation spread through the watchers. Draco nudged Ron’s arm gently. “Well, shall we see how quickly you can win?” he murmured, just loud enough for Nott to overhear.

Ron bit back an angry grin. “Sure,” he said, digging out his battered wooden chessboard from his bag. He’d brought it almost by habit, never expecting to use it in such a public way. The mocking snort Nott let out at the sight of it, only fueling Ron’s desire for a match ever further.

They cleared a large round table near the middle of the common room, pushing aside scrolls. The Slytherins gathered in a ring around them—Pansy stepping in for a better view, Crabbe and Goyle flanking Draco. Even a few older students drifted closer, evidently intrigued. 

Ron set up the chessboard, scuffed edges and all, and began placing his worn white pieces in neat formation. Nott produced a sleek black marble set from his satchel, each piece polished to a mirror shine.

“An antique, isn’t it?” Pansy said, nodding at Ron’s tattered board.

Ron shrugged, refusing to show any embarrassment. “My grandfather’s. Still works fine.”

Nott exhaled loudly. “Just hurry. I’ve got better things to do than humor a Weasley.”

Ron swallowed. This is just like any other match—focus. “White moves first."

Ronald Weasley Vs. Theodore Nott

(Inspired by the 10th CC World Championship Final, 1978-84)

Ron began the game calmly by pushing his queen’s pawn forward, staking an early claim in the middle of the board. Theo, playing as Black, answered by moving out a knight, so both sides were fighting for control of the central squares from the very start.

Unruffled, Ron added another knight to help protect his advanced pawn—hinting he might soon push another pawn on the left side to gain even more space. Meanwhile, Theo maneuvered his bishop to a long diagonal (a move often called a “fianchetto”), aiming to exert pressure on Ron’s important center squares.

The early middlegame took shape once Ron developed his bishop and then castled (tucking his king safely behind a row of pawns). Theo chose a flexible approach, avoiding pawn heavy moves for the time being. Instead, he slowly reorganized his pieces toward the left side (the queenside). Ron quietly placed his queen on a central line (called a “file”), threatening to strike if Theo became careless.

Sensing the growing tension, Theo made a bold push with a pawn along one flank (the edge of the board). He hoped to undermine Ron’s strong center pawn on d4 and create openings for his own pieces. In response, Ron reinforced his foundation with a pawn move of his own, guarding against any breakthroughs and keeping Theo’s knights from finding comfortable squares. Theo eyed an opportunity on the queenside—he moved one of his rooks and repositioned his bishop, coordinating them to probe Ron for any potential weaknesses.

Ron advanced a knight to a good post, then backed it up with rooks stationed in the middle. Both players tested each other’s defenses in a cautious dance, swapping pieces here and there (for instance, a bishop for a knight and a central pawn or two). No one landed a finishing blow, but Ron gradually improved his grip on the center.

As the board cleared of several smaller pieces, there was just enough open space for Ron’s queen to become dangerous. He noticed Theo’s knight had wandered a bit too far from its king, leaving a gap in Black’s defenses. Ron seized that chance, maneuvering his rooks so they threatened checks if Theo made a wrong move. Under this growing pressure, Theo attempted a desperate push of his pawns on the right side (the kingside) to chase away Ron’s well-positioned bishop. Instead, he only created more weaknesses around his own king.

Spotting the decisive moment, Ron sacrificed (deliberately gave up) a pawn to lure Theo’s rook away from an important defensive post. Immediately afterward, Ron moved his queen with purpose, pinning Theo’s knight so it couldn’t safely move. Theo tried to prop up his defenses with his last bishop, but Ron calmly shifted one rook onto the seventh rank (a critical row near Black’s king), cutting off all escape routes.

Finally, the checkmate came in a swift, quiet move: Ron placed his queen in front of the trapped knight, delivering a final blow from which Theo had no escape.

Stunned silence. 

Nott’s mouth worked soundlessly as he stared at the board. The black king was pinned, no squares free. Ron sat back, half-relieved, half-thrilled. 

He’d done it.

For a moment, it seemed every single person in the common room held their breath. The hush pressed in on them, broken only by the crackle of torches along the walls and the faint hiss of the dungeon’s shifting air. The carved chess pieces stood like small, silent witnesses to the upset that had just occurred, their once-belligerent chattering dying in the aftermath of checkmate.

Someone in the crowd—an older student whom Ron didn’t know by name—murmured, “I can’t believe it… Weasley won?” Another whispered, “That was actually bloody intense.” 

Ron’s cheeks heated at the second remark. He forced himself not to show any smugness, despite the adrenaline humming beneath his skin. For days, he’d felt so small and uncertain here; now, in front of half the House, an exaggeration sure - but still! - he’d proven something about himself he hadn’t even realized he’d yearned to prove. That he could win.

The long ensuing pause stretched out as the gathered Slytherins digested what they had just witnessed. In the hush, Nott’s pale cheeks flared hot, an angry flush creeping from collar to brow. For one charged second, it looked like he might lunge across the table—or possibly overturn the board altogether.

But then, with shaking hands, Theodore snatched up Draco’s parchment sign-up sheet (the one with “Hogwarts Chess Club” scrawled in Draco’s elegant hand at the top). Without a single word to Ron, he scrawled his name across the dotted line with furious strokes, the quill nearly ripping the page. Then he slammed it back onto the table.

“We’re not done Weasley ,” he hissed, glaring daggers at Ron, before spinning on his heel. Quill still dripping ink, Nott stormed out of the common room, spitting venom beneath his breath.

Blaise Zabini, who had been quietly observing from the back, broke the tense atmosphere with a slow, sardonic clap. He stepped closer and let his gaze rove over Ron, then Draco, then the signed parchment that lay between them. Lean and dark-skinned, Zabini generally had a poised bearing and a perpetually uninterested demeanour that sometimes gave way to sly amusement when he found something particularly funny or fascinating. To have him actually come up to them and not the other way around told Ron at least something about the match must have been worth seeing. A faint smile, equal parts amused and impressed, ghosted over Zabini’s face.

“I suppose,” They spoke softly, “that would be my cue as well.” And Zabini picked up the quill and added his own signature to the sign up sheet with a smooth elegant flourish. “If the club is anything as entertaining as that right there was, count me in.”

And off to his side Draco let out a laugh. “And then there were seven.”

Gazing up at the sign hung on the outside of the classroom door, Harry was sure this was the place. He’d been trying to pin down Draco for legitimately days now to give him a proper ‘Thank you’ for his help in Potions last week and had been unable to find him anywhere save for their shared classes. Which didn’t work to thank the blond at all since Draco also clearly didn’t want any more unwarranted attention directed his way, much like Harry himself. Thus it was a most convenient windfall Harry had just so happened to hear through the Hogwarts rumour mill, that the ever elusive Malfoy heir should be just beyond these heavy wooden doors.

Hogwarts Chess Society

Sponsored by Professor Snape, organized by Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley.

First Meeting: This Friday at 7:00 PM in classroom 2C.

All skill levels welcome.

Chapter Text

The-Boy-that-shook-his-Hand

Harry finally gets the chance to thank Draco for his help in Potions. 

To say that Harry was clearly an unexpected arrival to the newly formed Chess Club, would have been quite the understatement. A bit like calling an entire lack of ceiling in a cottage as a little hole in the roof, or a broken leg as just a simple stuffed toe. As soon as Harry gathered enough courage to push past the heavy oaken doors of the empty classroom, bearing the denotation of the newly formed and currently Slytherin-only club - if rumours were to be believed, it was like all the air in th room seemed to just flow out of the space and out through the doors harry had just walked through. 

There were six people in total present, not including Harry himself. He recognized Draco immediately: pale-haired and pointy-faced, mouth slightly ajar at the sight of his arrival. Next to Draco, leaning across the large wooden table in the center of the space, fingers absently twisting at a length of dark hair, was a girl with an equally pale complexion and a flat sort of face, flanked by another figure of about roughly the same height, dark of skin and bored of countenance sporting a most disinterested expression. A short distance away, at a separate table, Harry spotted the larger figures of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, both of them stooped over a well-worn chess set, brows set and furrowed in a most uncomfortable look of concentration. And there, perched at the edge of their respective table, directly adjacent to the battered chess set strewn between them both, was a boy with flaming red hair.

At once, it again felt like the entire world had turned its collective eye upon him, and Harry fought hard not to squirm under the weight of all the combined gazes. He turned his attention instead to the room itself in an attempt to calm his nerves. The chamber was slightly bigger than your average classroom, rectangular in shape, and lined with dusty old shelves that probably used to hold textbooks and rolled parchments. A set of low-hanging lamps cast a circle of dim, flickering light in the center of the space, the smell of centuries-old chalk and a faint tang of lamp oil lingering in the air.

He felt so awkward. 

Finally, Draco broke the silence. The fastest to recover, clearly from Harry’s unexpected arrival. He set down a carved bishop piece, letting it click on the tabletop. His eyebrows arched, and his mouth drew up in a bemused sort of smirk. “Well…Potter,” he said, tone mild but laced with curiosity. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Pansy and Blaise were giving Harry matching looks of faint surprise and clear unbidden interest. Crabbe and Goyle had paused their game, looking from Ron to Draco and back at Harry. Ron himself brightened for a fleeting second, something like recognition washing over his features. But the moment was cut short by Draco’s abrupt acknowledgment of Harry. 

“Er…” Harry cleared his throat, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Hi. I, um…was looking for Draco.” He forced a small smile, though his nerves were making it difficult. “I heard you’d be here with the new Chess Club and…”

He trailed off, letting the rest of the sentence hang in the air. Across the room, Pansy perked up, the very concept of Chess clearly entirely forgotten. “You came to see Draco?” she asked lightly, exchanging a curious glance with Blaise. The two of them had apparently been receiving some sort of chess lesson from Draco when Harry barged in.

“A bit of history, perhaps?” Blaise added. “Since when did our dearest Malfoy make the esteemed acquaintance of the great Harry Potter?”

Harry flushed, bristling slightly at the drawl in the other’s tone. “I just—uh, wanted a quick word with Draco,” he managed, grateful he hadn’t stumbled on any of the words. “About Potions, from last week. If that’s all right.” 

The last line was directed towards Draco, whose eyes seemed to shift and peer over Harry’s face, searching, likely for any ulterior motive. No one spoke in the hush that followed, as Draco apparently mulled over Harry’s request.

“Very well. I suppose,” he finally drawled, setting down the bishop he’d been toying with in his hands. “I can manage a quick word, Potter. Pansy, Blaise—I do hope you can handle being without my brilliant personality for a couple moments.”

There was a tiny snort from the girl, Pansy - her name seemed to be. “Oh whatever shall we do,” she murmured with a roll of her eyes, but she moved her arm off the board to clear a path for Draco. Her dark eyes were bright with curiosity. Blaise, the other boy, for his part, simply arched a sleek eyebrow. His expression remained calm, but the corners of his lips had similarly shifted upwards. 

“Well go on then,” Blaise said with an airy gesture. “After all, who could turn down a tryst with the chosen one ?” He finished with a laugh, just as Draco’s own features pinched and pinched as the words spilled out and registered. 

“Ew. Zabini!” Pansy giggled, giving the darker boy a playful shove, just as Draco swept from the pair with an almost paler pallor to his cheeks. He threw an annoyed glance back at the two of them, then endeavoured to compose himself with a swift tilt of his chin. 

“Come on then, Potter,” Draco said curtly, motioning for Harry to follow. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harry nodded. He felt the prickle of a dozen curious stares lingering on his back but refused to let his discomfort show. Just because Draco seemed to be a decent Slytherin, didn’t necessarily mean that all of the other kids in here would be anywhere near as nice. As Draco led him around one of the long tables, Harry heard a quick set of footsteps move up from behind them. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Ron step up beside them, fighting his bright red hair that had fallen across his face. 

“Uh. Hi. Hi! Harry, right?” Ron spoke up then, combing a hand through his hair, voice caught between shyness and enthusiasm. “I’m, er…Ron Weasley. I suppose you probably don’t remember me from the train—my mum. She gave you a bit of advice getting through and, uh, and there were so many people—” He gave a quick, anxious laugh. “But, well, now that you’re here… Are you, by chance, interested in, y’know, joining—?”

He gestured vaguely to the boards spread across the tables, to the battered sign-up parchment pinned near the door. Harry recognized the genuine hope in Ron’s eyes, that flicker of excitement that maybe, just maybe, the Harry Potter had come to join their brand-new Chess Club. Harry saw the hope—and felt a pang of guilt that he wasn’t really there for Chess. 

“Oh,” he managed, shifting awkwardly. “Er, I’m…sorry, but I’m not actually here to join.” He gave Ron a polite, apologetic smile. “It sounds interesting, but I really just popped down to talk to Draco, honest.”

Ron flushed a little at that, the tips of his ears turning pink as he dropped his gaze. “Oh—right,” he said, giving a clumsy nod. “No worries. I—I mean, the club—would’ve been happy to have you. If you ever change your mind, you’re welcome to drop by. It’s, um, brand-new but shaping up to be something great. Fridays at seven,” he added, forcing a bright note into his voice.

“At least give it a think.” Draco interjected casually, his voice softening in a show of genuine support for Ron’s cause. “After all, it’s not every day that first-years manage to start a new club with inter-house potential. Weasley even managed to convince Snape to agree to be the sponsor. It was actually quite impressive, I’ll have you know.”

And Harry watched Ron’s cheeks and ears flush pink for a second time, as the redhead shot a loaded glance at the blond beside, eyes wide - and flustered. “That is pretty impressive,” Harry replied gently, acknowledging the feat for what it was. He couldn’t even begin to imagine talking back to Snape let alone, trying to convince the man of something. “I’ll keep that in mind. I - I just, y'know, don't know how to play and never really had much interest in it.”

“We - We can teach you!” Ron quickly interjected, the sudden energy causing Harry to step back. The redhead looked almost breathless with enthusiasm, as though desperate to prove the club’s worth before Harry could completely dismiss it. “We may not necessarily look like much right now, but I swear we’re really good.”

Harry offered a small, awkward smile in return. “That’s really generous. I, um…wouldn’t mind learning, maybe. Sometime,” he added, hoping to ease Ron’s disappointment. “I just…like I said, I only came down to talk to Draco right now. But I promise I’ll keep it in mind—I’m sure you’d be a great teacher.”

For a split second, Ron’s face brightened as though he might push further, but Draco cleared his throat. “Alright, Weaselby,” he spoke up then. “No need to reel Potter in by force. He knows where to find us.”

Ron’s face went a faint shade of pink, as though only now realizing how he’d practically leapt into their path. “Oh, right,” he said, ducking his head in embarrassment. “Sorry. Seriously though, we would love to have you.”

Harry nodded again. “I promise, I will think about it.” And he turned towards Draco. “Right,” He began, softly under his breath. “Shall we go?”

The blond inclined his head. “Right this way.”

Stepping back and pivoting on the base of his heels, Draco swept from the little circle they had formed towards the doors at Harry’s back, a single pale arm reaching out to pry the door open, just as another emerged to gesture grandly with a flaring of his robes. Off to the side, Harry just managed to catch sight of Pansy shaking her head. 

“And he calls us dramatic?”

Draco let out a chuckle “After you, Potter.” 

And Harry found himself scampering back across the threshold and out into the hall, with Draco quick to follow suit. The sound of the heavy oaken doors loosing a soft dull thud that seemed to echo throughout the empty corridor, setting Harry’s mind a buzz with a jolt as he quickly realized he hadn’t exactly thought this far ahead when it came to actually speaking with the Slytherin. Thankfully, there was no need to speak just yet, as the blond then strode off down along the hall with a beckoning nod, leading them towards what appeared to be a mostly unused spiral stairwell - likely leading up to one of the countless stone spires that dotted the Hogwarts horizon.

“This should be far enough for any would-be eavesdroppers.” Draco spoke then, coming to a stop and gingerly leaning himself back against the rounded stone walls. The airy, almost aloof candor he had been presenting in the club seemingly melting away as he crossed his arms across his chest and let out a sigh. “Alright Potter, you wanted to speak. Speak. I do have a club I need to help run after all.”

“Uh… Right!” Harry heard himself respond, already feeling heat rising across his cheeks over how dumb he must have currently sounded. He swallowed, forcing himself to take a breath and meet Draco’s expectant grey eyes. 

“First,” Harry began, gripping the strap of his satchel for courage, “I wanted to say thank you. What you did in Potions… Well, I’d have been right mortified if you hadn’t stepped in with that note. I don’t know how you got those answers, or why you helped, but I’m glad you did.”

A tiny flicker of something seemed to cross Draco’s face—an emotion Harry couldn’t quite name before it vanished. “I told you already - I did it as a courtesy,” Draco said airily, though his voice was softer than before. “There’s nothing more to it than that.”

Harry shook his head, gaze shifting to stare at his shoes as he focused all he could on getting the words out. “Maybe. But - it still matters to me that you did it though. And I’d like to think you did it, because you knew what was going to happen and didn’t want anyone getting bullied on their first day of class.” 

And if Harry had been able to, he would have witnessed an array of emotions sweep across the other boy’s suddenly so much paler face. Shock and alarm, perhaps even the slightest hint of terror, before everything immediately shifted back with a sag into a relaxed sort of stupor as the Gryffindor continued. Still, somehow, adamantly determined not to look the other in the eye.

“With, uh. With your Seer powers and all. Which, I think is really cool, by the way. I’ve only just found out about them from Neville and - well, it kind of left me feeling as though we’re a little bit the same? Y’know, like, where people see us and -.”

“You’re rambling now Potter.” Draco finally cut in, tone tired but also strangely light, and Harry finally managed to turn his gaze back upwards, to see just the faintest sort of smile on the other first-year's face. “But I understand what you're saying. Your thanks are accepted. You are very welcome. Will that be all?” He finished with a smirk, smug but fond. 

Harry took a moment to take a breath. Alright. This was it. Besides thanking the other boy, this was what Harry had been looking to do since he decided he needed to talk to the blond again. He had tried a couple times before, when he was younger, when he was still young and optimistic and naive enough to think that Dudley wouldn’t interfere or ruin things for him in some way. Either scaring them off, or even turning them against him for fear of his freakishness. 

But right now, Dudley wasn’t here, and he wasn’t a freak. He was a wizard. A celebrity, sure. But he was normal . Just like everyone else. Harry drew a steadying breath. Just say it, he told himself. 

“I, er—look.” He scrunched up his nose and forced himself to meet Draco’s curious grey stare head‑on. “I’ve only been at Hogwarts a week, and almost everything still feels… overwhelming. But when you helped me in Potions, you did it before we’d even spoken. You didn’t want anything back and I… I even heard you defending me when Snape called you back into class after. You, uh - You’re a good person Draco and I‑‑I’ve never really had mates who actually stuck up for me.” And he forced a small, nervous, terrified sort of grin. “So I thought maybe I shouldn’t let a good thing slip away without even trying.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the faint whistle of wind winding up the stairwell. Draco’s brows rose, the faintest touch of uncertainty pinching his mouth—exactly the expression of someone who had expected anything but this.

Harry cleared his throat and held out his hand. “Draco Malfoy,” he said, voice firm in spite of the tremble in his hand, “would you like to be friends?”

For a moment, it seemed as though the other boy had frozen in time, features unmoving as grey eyes bored into Harry and his outstretched hand. Then Draco blinked, and there was a tension then that seemed to have taken the other boy, a sudden guardedness that took Harry aback for just a moment before Draco himself spoke. 

“...This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?” The blond asked at last, voice gone thin with equal parts disbelief and something warrier. “You’re asking me— me —to be your friend?”

Harry nodded, adamantly keeping his hand outstretched, despite the heat in his cheeks and the growing sinking feeling in his stomach. This was already getting more complicated than he had hoped it would. “I am. I reckon the whole house‑rivalry thing’s a bit silly, really. You’ve been kind, and that matters more to me than the colours you wear.”

Draco’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. “But … I’m Slytherin and a Malfoy and you’re—” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Merlin, Potter, you don’t even know me. I helped you once, sure but…”

“I’d like to though,” Harry said simply. “Get to know you, I mean. If you would let me.”

And Draco seemed to just let out this strangled sort of sound in response, which would have concerned Harry immensely if not for the fact that the blond had simultaneously taken his hand and gave it a solid shake. Draco’s cheeks were pink as all sorts of emotions Harry couldn’t even begin to decipher seemed to just dance across his face, across his eyes. He was shaking his head, but he was smiling too, and he had yet even now let go of Harry’s hand. 

“Bloody hell. You really just have a talent for keeping me on my toes don’t you?” Draco laughed, and then lower, so softly even Harry himself couldn’t hear, he whispered. “ You have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

Not that Harry could have heard him even if wanted to, because as soon as Draco’s hand had slotted into his own, a deafening staccato roar had steadily begun to build up in his ears. The sight of the blond’s carefully crafted aloof facade just melting away into an expression of sheer delight causing a warmth to spread across his cheeks as he more watched rather than heard Draco speak. 

“Very well Potter. I accept your offer. Friends it is.”

Chapter Text

Weaselby Green

Despite his excitement at finally connecting with "The Harry Potter" - Ron suddenly finds himself in disappointingly familiar territory.

Ron barrelled down the slope beneath the North Tower feeling as if a whole summer’s worth of butterbeer had been poured into his veins. The first Friday of October shone bright, the lawn still mostly green though hints of gold crept onto the blades, and twenty battered school brooms lay on the pitch just waiting for eager hands to lift them skyward.

Today, finally, was flying day.

He adjusted the strap of the spiral-bound notebook tucked under his arm—sketches of diving arcs, scribbled tips from Charlie’s years as a chaser, half-baked stunts he wanted to test with Draco. Fred and George would howl at him bringing “revisions” to a flying class, but Ron found he’d started to like having something solid to hold on to.

Draco strode at the head of the Slytherin column, blond hair waffling in the wind, robes snapping like a small proud banner. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered behind. In only a fortnight Draco had inadvertently become the centre of Ron’s Hogwarts ecosystem. From his quicksilver jokes to his surprising wisdom and his clear unembarrassed willingness to be seen with a Weasley in the house of green. More than once, Ron had had to shake the disbelief from his system every time he woke up surrounded by emerald sheets and silver embroidery - every time he found himself wiping tears from his eyes at a joke spoken by what should have been a sworn enemy but had now become - and don’t tell anyone - A very dear friend. 

And things were actually starting to look even brighter than they had even just a few weeks ago. He had even managed to have an actual conversation with Parkinson and Zabini a while back, that wasn’t even the least bit sarcastic on their part. Crabbe and Goyle had shifted to Greg and Vinny and though some of the more dramatic members of their House still muttered blood-traitor whenever they thought the prefects weren’t listening, the sting had already begun to dull. 

Greg and Vinny now saved him seats at dinner when Draco was late, Pansy had actually asked his opinion on Transfiguration homework, and Blaise Zabini—aloof to the marrow—had even nodded at him once in the corridor. Ron felt—well, not at home , but no longer a tourist everyone expected to pack up and leave.

It was starting to feel a little nice.

“You know the brooms can’t actually go anywhere without riders right?” Draco dropped back a pace to match Ron’s stride.

“Oh sod off, can’t a bloke just be genuinely excited around these parts?”

“Of course not. Just what House do you think you’re in?” Draco responded, eyes bright. “Relax Weaselby - It’s going to be a good time.” He tapped Ron’s notebook. “Brought the playbook?”

“In case someone wants pointers,” Ron said, gaze sliding to the Gryffindor line—where a black-haired boy with a famous scar seemed to be examining one of the brooms as though it might bite.

Draco followed the glance and hummed. “Honestly, despite how they seem right now. I think Potter will likely end up giving us a couple pointers instead. Call it a hunch.” He nudged Ron’s elbow. “Introduce yourself during the practice. Should be the easiest moment.”

Ron rolled his eyes, but a warmth seemed to pool in the base of his stomach. He hadn’t ever mentioned it aloud, but Draco always just seemed to know almost exactly what he was thinking. Maybe it was because he was just easy to read, maybe it was because he was apparently gifted by the fates - either way, it was simultaneously so weird but Ron found he wasn’t entirely against it. Especially when he clearly seemed to be looking out for Ron. 

It was comforting. Most of the time. Now though, he was just making Ron even more nervous, given how the golden git was basically trying to shove him and Harry together. Which, yes, was what Ron personally wanted to happen - just not in the way the other was seemingly trying to just corner them together. Practically on the brink of shoving them in a closet! Ron wanted this to go perfectly. 

They reached the pitch - and Ron’s breath hitched.

From above, the Hogwarts lawn had always looked orderly, just a sweep of green below battlements, but down here at ground level the grass was dotted in low shallow ridges, as though some ancient giant had pressed curled fingers into the earth and left prints for first-years to trip over. Beyond the brooms, the groundskeeper’s hut squatted just over at the forest edge, and off to the side, the lake shimmered a silver-blue beneath a pale sun hiding shyly behind the cloud cover.

Draco slowed, surveying the field like a captain counting players already. Ron caught a sidewards-glance—sharp, conspiratorial. “Look at them,” Draco murmured, smirking softly. “Half can’t even decide which end of the broom’s the front. If you’re looking to show off, now’s definitely the time.”

Ahead, a cluster of Gryffindors milled on the left side of the pitch. Bushy-haired Granger was clutching a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages like it was a life-line; Finnigan spun his broom like a baton til it slipped clean from his fingers and gifted him a face full of straw; Dean Thomas seemingly was trying to talk a snow-face Longbottom out of sitting out the lesson before class had even begun. And there—centre of gravity for all the gathering first years spilling out onto the grass—stood Harry Potter. The boy’s hair looked even messier out here, restless in the breeze, his fringe jerking back long enough to provide just a peak of that famous lightning bolt scar. He kept turning one of the brooms around in his hands, brows furrowed in a look of deep concentration.

The rest of Slytherin spread out in a loose double file, opposite to their year-mates. Draco, of course, claimed the forward-most broom on their side. Ron drifted a few paces down the row, angling so the vacant slot opposite belonged to Harry. It did—Until Granger tugged Harry forward, insisting she stand closer to center so as to better receive instructions , and directed him further up their line until he was suddenly in front of Draco instead. Ron could practically feel his face fall.

Ruddy Granger.

For what seemed like ages they waited—Slytherin green and Gryffindor scarlet fluttering like rival armies. Then Madam Hooch strode out of the castle shadows, black boots biting the turf, silver hair snapping back against the wind as if it were personally alive and insulted. She scanned over all the students present, yellow eyes like a hawk’s, starting wide and then narrowing across their cohort. 

“Form up!” she barked. “Gryffindors to my left, Slytherins to my right. Stand beside a broom, not on it. If anyone mounts before I say go, they’ll be cleaning flagstones with a toothbrush till Christmas.”

Boots shuffled. Ron fixed his feet a broom-handle’s breadth apart, the way Charlie had taught him and then Ginny when they were younger. He risked one glance sideways—Harry doing the same, mirroring Draco’s posture. Oh how he wished, he was closer to them. 

Madam Hooch stalked the aisle, stopping by Ron, yellow eyes catching sight of the spiral notebook clutched under his arm. “Going to keep match statistics, Weasley? We’re certainly far from anything but floating at this point.”

“Er—tips, Professor,” Ron mumbled, gingerly setting the book down.

She grunted—neither approval nor disapproval—and moved on. Air returned to Ron’s lungs.

“All right,” she called once she’d reached the middle. “Left hand out over your broom—on my whistle— UP! ”

The handle sprang. Harry’s shot straight into his palm like a homing snitch; Draco’s practically floated into his waiting glove; Ron’s hovered an instant longer, then thudded obediently into his grasp. Good, but not perfect. 

She paced again, eyes sharp. “Now, mount—right leg over—hands firm but loose .” Her own demonstration was fluid as water. “On my count—three, two, one—kick off!”

Ron’s stomach dropped—then steadied as wind cradled him. Hovering two metres up felt like balancing on the world’s springiest mattress. He grinned involuntarily. There was Draco—perfect straight spine, broom utterly still. And there—just past—Harry, blinking behind round glasses, cheeks flushed with triumph and terror mixed together floating highest above them all.

When the whistle dropped them back to earth Ron’s heart thudded. Now—now—now’s your chance!
He stepped over the narrow tongue of grass, cleared his throat, and found himself looking straight into very round, very green eyes.

“Hullo, Harry!” The words came out almost steady. “Brilliant hovering I’ve got to say—like you’d done it for years.”

Harry’s answering smile was immediate, grateful. “Thanks Ron! First proper broom I’ve ever been on, truth be told.”

“Oh, you’re joking.” Relief loosened Ron’s shoulders; this was easy, talking about flying felt like breathing. “You were steadier than my brother Fred the first time he got his legs off the ground—and he flew straight into Dad’s tool shed.”

Harry laughed, real and bright. “Sounds painful.”

“Only for the shed.” Ron grinned. “Charlie—that’s my second oldest brother—kept telling him to lean with his knees, not his shoulders. Looks like you learned the trick quicker.”

Something in Harry’s expression flickered—pleasure, maybe pride—and Ron felt like he was flying all over again. He’d done it; he’d made Harry Potter laugh and it hadn’t been awkward at all. Things were already looking up for him.

Draco stepped in, eyes dancing. “Told you he’d be giving us pointers, Weaselby. Potter’s a natural.”

Harry flushed but looked pleased. “More luck than skill.”

“Stick with us,” Draco said with a theatrical flourish, “and we’ll have you diving like a pro before Christmas.”

Ron opened his mouth—but Madam Hooch’s shout cut across the field for the relay pairings. Draco and Harry were paired first—and Madam Hooch planted the heel of her boot on the grass between them.

“Relay drills,” she announced. “First flyer soars to and rounds that cone”—she jabbed toward a scarlet marker fifty yards off—“then returns just slow enough to slap palms with their partner. The second flyer repeats the process and lands on this chalk X. Clean lines, clean hand-off. Take your time. We are learning for now, not competing. If anyone bowls over a classmate, it will be 50 points per!”

A nervous ripple answered. Ron felt it vibrate straight up the broom bristles into his palms.

“Potter, Malfoy—front and centre.”

Draco grinned—half dare, half promise, not even the least bit nervous—as he threw a wink at Ron and shouldered forward. Harry followed, pushing unruly hair from his glasses. The contrast of emerald and red, gold and silver looked almost theatrical. Epic.

Hooch positioned them at the line, checked grips, tugged Harry’s elbow in a fraction. “Remember—knees steer. I want steering , no funny business.” 

Ron swallowed. Part of him bubbled with pride—Draco had earned that lead slot, what with all the knowledge he’d shown over the past couple weeks, and Harry clearly deserved it after that textbook hover. Another part whispered that the show-opening spotlight could have been Ron’s , if only—

The whistle dangled, poised. Hooch raised her voice for the rest of the class. “All other pairings will follow; watch how the hand-off is done. You will copy it.”

Draco leaned forward, muscles loose, every line of him angled for launch. Harry mirrored the posture almost instinctively, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ron’s chest tightened with something halfway between awe and envy. Whatever happened when that whistle blew, he knew he’d be comparing every future take-off to this one.

Madam Hooch lifted two fingers.

One.

Two.

The silver whistle flashed toward her lips—and the whistle ripped through the morning like a starting pistol.

Draco kicked off like a loosed arrow, broom angling into a shallow climb before levelling out a few metres above the grass. Wind snapped his robes as he tore down-pitch, then he banked so tightly round the scarlet cone that its tip looked to almost dig into the earth. On the return he bled just enough speed to slap Harry’s waiting palm—with a thundering crack —and peeled upward into a hover.

Harry launched the instant their hands met. He shot off lower than Draco, skimming the turf so close Ron swore he saw blades bend beneath the broom’s tail. One swift pivot about the cone—clean, no stutter—then a straight dash back. Harry pulled just at the last moment, toes brushing earth, and his broom practically kissed the chalk X with how delicate the stop was.

A collective breath released across the pitch. Madam Hooch blew a short reprise on the whistle—part warning, part grudging approval. “Impressive hand-off. Next pair to the line! Second team—Finnigan and Nott; third—Parkinson and Granger; fourth—Weasley and Zabini,” Hooch called.

Blaise Zabini raised an elegant eyebrow as he sauntered to Ron’s side. “Try not to take my head off,” he murmured, voice lazy but teasing.

Ron mustered a grin—Zabini had grown markedly less cold lately, almost friendly and Ron was starting to better parse out the humour often underlying the other boy’s generally flatter tone. He jogged to the far cone with him, grass dampening the sides of his boots. Ahead, Harry and Draco dismounted; Harry shot Ron a fleeting, uncertain smile.

“Right,” Zabini murmured, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll run the first leg—clean it up for Slytherin pride. You bring it home?”

“Deal,” Ron said, trying to ignore the drumroll in his chest.

They stepped to the chalk line. Draco caught Ron’s eye from off to the side—offered a tiny tilt of his head that meant you’ve got this. Heat crawled up Ron’s neck, equal parts excitement and pressure.

Hooch’s whistle screeched.

Zabini surged forward, robes snapping. He sprinted the broom into motion the way a Beater might charge a Bludger and arrowed down-pitch in a low, flawless line. The scarlet cone whipped past his knee; he let the broom rise just enough on the return to bleed speed, right hand outstretched.

Ron planted his feet. Steady, wrists loose, meet him halfway. Their palms cracked together—solid—and Ron was off.

Wind roared in his ears. For three glorious seconds he felt nothing but the rush: grass slicing beneath, the cone looming, a tight lean that had the bristles skimming earth without snagging. He straightened, pumping speed, the chalk X racing up. Knees down, elbows soft—he flared at precisely the mark, landing light enough that the broom barely bounced.

A softer whistle this time—approval. “Good control, Weasley! Text-book braking, Zabini!”

Class ended shortly from there.

Feet thudded on grass, students talking amongst themselves, the brooms, falling flat once again back onto the pitch. Ron’s grin re-emerged. He slung his notebook underarm and moved to close the distance to Draco and Harry.

Draco spotted him first. “Weaselby! That relay turn was clean enough to frame.” Pride rang clear in the words, and Ron’s chest warmed. Harry arrived a heartbeat later, quieter than his earlier whoop suggested he could be. Wind-tousled hair shadowed his forehead as he gave Ron a hesitant smile.

“Um—good flying,” he said, almost like a question. “I—I saw the way you shifted before the cone. It was really cool.”

The compliment startled Ron—pleasantly so. “Cheers, mate! It was decent, but not at all like someone else’s first time on a broom.” He chuckled and offered his fist. Harry glanced at it, then tapped knuckles with an awkward little bump that said he wasn’t quite sure of the custom yet.

“Potter’s a natural,” Draco declared. “He’s already asked me three questions in the last couple minutes that are only introduced ant the end of second year—and two of them were actually intelligent.” Draco nudged Harry’s shoulder, playfully. Harry went pink, muttering something that sounded like “just curious,” and looked down as if afraid to meet anyone’s gaze for too long.

Ron seized the lull, picking up his notebook from where he had set it down. “Well, if we’re on Quidditch questions, I’ve got diagrams.” He threw open the cover and thumbed to a page of looping arrows and stick figures. “My brother Charlie swears by this low-forward formation for relays.”

Harry leaned closer, cautious, as though worried he’d smudge the ink. “That’s… a lot faster and lower than what we did today.” His voice carried genuine wonder—soft, earnest, and unguarded. “I didn’t know there were plays for just two people.”

Draco slid in beside Harry, eyes narrowing at the scribbles—but in a good way. “Merlin, Weaselby, you actually managed to keep the margins neat for once. Where are all the little Wizards having duels in the corners?” He traced a finger along Ron’s tidy line work, smirking widely at the redhead’s steadily warming cheeks. 

“Sod off.” Ron replied with a shove, just as Draco shifted out of the way and pivoted on his toes, laughing all the while. And despite his minor embarrassment, Ron was grinning the whole time too. For a moment things were just right : Ron guiding the page, Draco riffing commentary, Harry asking small, thoughtful questions. But just right was always fleeting. 

Harry’s gaze drifted to the rest of the pitch, where hoops still glimmered in the sun. “Those rings,” he murmured as if half to himself, “they look smaller from the ground than in my head. Do Chasers have to shoot that far in a real match?”

“They do,” Draco answered before Ron could, voice low and instructional. “And professional hoops are higher. Come on—let’s show him field spacing.” He started toward the nearest goal, gesturing. “It’s easier to picture if you stand beneath one.”

Ron closed the notebook, trotting to match their pace, but Draco and Harry had already reached the pole. Draco stretched an arm up the painted wood, explaining the scoring area; Harry tilted his head back, lips parted in silent awe. Ron hovered nearby, suddenly feeling a little awkward about trying to butt in when Draco was already so deep into teaching.

Harry asked about Keeper zones. Draco answered. Harry wondered what the different purposes for all the different balls were. Draco expanded on the scoring system. Ron tried to add in a comment every now and again—but Harry, still processing the basics, seemed to miss the comments entirely. Ron’s genial smile tightened. He reminded himself that Harry was brand-new to all this, so of course he’d latch on to whichever explanation reached him first.

As Madam Hooch barked final cleanup orders, Draco escorted Harry toward the broom rack, continuing the impromptu lesson. Ron pulled up the rear. Twice Draco glanced back at him, intent to loop him in, but Harry’s next hesitant question—“Sorry, how many players again?”—drew the blond’s focus away each time. Harry’s quiet voice came with long pauses, but each pause only made Draco lean closer, eager to fill the silence. Ron trudged the last few steps slowly feeling more and more like a spectator at his own victory lap.

Brooms stowed, Harry exhaled with shy satisfaction. “Thanks for explaining. I hope I’m not being a bother.”

“Bother?” Draco scoffed, though gently. “Educating the chosen one is practically a public service.” He smirked. “Besides, everything I’ve vomited basically comes right out of Weaselby’s notes. He’s the tactical man.” Draco touched Ron’s shoulder in a theatrical half-bow, as if presenting him on a stage.

The gesture warmed Ron briefly—until Harry’s eyes dipped towards Draco again, a little sheepish. “Er—would you maybe like to grab lunch outside?” He glanced toward the courtyard visible through the stone arch. “It’s bright, and I—I sort of want to stay out in the air a bit longer.”

And for some reason, Ron felt his stomach drop. Ordinarily, he and Draco would have made a beeline for the Great Hall by now, arguing over who owed whom pumpkin juice or Treacle Tarts. He opened his mouth to remind Draco of their routine— our routine —that he had hoped Harry could maybe someday be a part of, but Draco’s face had already lit up at the prospect of Harry’s suggestion. “Courtyard picnic? Brilliant idea. We’ll nip inside, smuggle some food out, meet you under the sundial?”

Harry’s shoulders loosened, relief visible. “That sounds perfect.”

Draco swung back toward Ron, clearly wanting everyone aboard. “You coming, Ron? Fresh air, fresh pastries.”

Ron’s acceptance sat ready on his tongue—Just glad to be included—when Harry, fumbling for certainty, added in a soft rush, “Only if it’s not a bother. I just—I hate crowds.” The confession was so tentative it pulled Draco’s attention back at once, sympathy knitting his brow. “Crowds are overrated. We’ll raid the tables and escape right quick.”

And how did that muggle saying go? 

Three's a crowd.

Ron forced a cheerful shrug. “I’ll, uh, go stow these notes actually—keep them clean, yeah? Catch you in Herbology.”

Draco’s eyebrows pinched in mild dismay, then relaxed; the compromise seemingly lifting a weight off of him. “All right. Don’t be late; those Shrivelfigs bite and I need someone else’s fingers in the way rather than time. I’m delicate like that.”

And despite the laugh the joke elicited from his lips, Ron could feel that his heart wasn’t in it. Harry offered Ron a small wave and spoke. “See you, Ron. And thanks for all your help today. Really.”

Ron raised his notebook in salute, mustering the warmest smile he could. He watched them head toward the castle entrance—Draco glancing back equal parts curious and concerned, Harry trailing behind him, steadily growing more animated as they moved further away. 

They made an oddly balanced pair—two of the most important people in Hogwarts right at this moment. Ron’s shoes felt practically rooted to the turf until the two slipped beyond sight. He exhaled. The field felt suddenly too large, the breeze too cool. It was only lunch—nothing permanent. 

He began the long walk to the side arch, each pebble crunch loud in the hush. He thought of long evenings trading stories on Draco’s bed, curtains closed, toffee and biscuits shared while Crab— Greg —snored. Of how Draco had laughed at Ron’s impression of Percy dictating holiday itineraries. He imagined Harry sliding effortlessly into that space, turning private jokes into three-man shows where Ron’s quips would land only half as often.

The thought prickled at a heat welling inside him. Ron tried swatting it aside, ignoring it. But as the castle swallowed the sun behind him, a harder edge surfaced beneath the disappointment—something tight and possessive. He’d shared long evenings with Draco, swapped family embarrassments, and planned future escapades. And though likely unintentional, Harry had just swooped in and suddenly it felt like Ron was back at home - second fiddle, second place, competing for attention against someone so much more interesting, so much more talented . Famous. 

Heat slid beneath his freckles. He wasn’t angry, exactly—not yet. But there was a spark, small and sharp, that whispered: I was here first. If Harry wanted in, fine—but let him earn it, not stroll off with the best parts as he was just entitled to them.

Ron pressed the notebook to his chest. No conclusions now—his mind felt as tangled as the weeds in his mother’s gardn—but the familiar flutter of envy had acquired a faint metallic taste, almost like the start of a hex on the tongue. Harry Potter might become a friend, sure, but he’d better understand that some frontiers were already claimed.

With that unsettled thought—half promise, half warning—Ron turned into the green-lit passageway, footsteps echoing sharp against stone. The October air outside still smelled of sunlight, but down here the cool damp carried something else: the tang of determination, the first barest hint of fight. 

The match for attention had only just begun, and Ronald Weasley had no intention of ever sitting on the bench again .