Knight's Tour

The knight (/naɪt/) is a piece in the game of chess that represents a knight or the armored cavalry. Unlike other chess pieces, it doesn't move in a straight line. Instead, it makes L—shaped moves, jumping over anything in its way to reach an empty square on a chessboard.

A knight's tour is a sequence of moves done by a knight on a chessboard such that the knight visits every square only once. Should the knight end on a square just one move away from the starting square, so that it could tour the board again following the same path, the tour is described as reentrant or closed.

Chapter One

Back Rank

(the row on which the pieces stand at the start of the game)

For the first time in a long while, Ron Weasley woke up normally. Peacefully. Harry wasn't mumbling or trashing in his sleep. Hermione wasn't shaking him awake to get an early start or do his homework or whatever barmy reason she used to wake up before noon. His mother wasn't making him do his chores, nor could he hear his siblings arguing loudly over breakfast, like they were wont to do wherever they went.

But most importantly, Ron wasn't being jolted awake by nightmares of Voldemort whispering in his ear. Or of the floating weightlessness of a love potion. Or of poison burning a trail of fire down his throat.

So it was peaceful. Quiet. Perfect.

Keeping his eyes closed, Ron remained in a relaxed sprawl under the blankets, nuzzling his pillow closer. Merlin, these sheets felt wonderful. Too wonderful. Was this . . . silk? Whatever it was, it was definitely not something his family could afford. He only ever slept in a bed this nice when he was at Hogwarts. . . .

Now that he thought about it, Ron could hear some murmuring. Indistinct voices that seemed too far away with the fog of lingering sleep. Slowly, though, words started to form, and the voices were unfamiliar enough that he cracked his eyes open without meaning to.

The canopy above him stared back. It was green, as were the undrawn curtains at the foot of his bed.

Green curtains in my room. . . .

Ron rubbed his eyes. Open them again. Blinked. Rubbed them some more.

But there the curtains remained — a stubborn, unchanging green.

It was Seamus' doing. It had to be. Some lame prank or, knowing the bloke, probably an accident while doing his homework. Could be worse. Last time he had set Neville's pillows on fire. . . .

Wait.

It couldn't have been Seamus. How could it, when it had been months since Ron had been at Hogwarts?

Ron sat up, suddenly more awake. Hazy, phantom images came back to him. The bed . . . the last time he had slept in a bed was at Shell Cottage, in Bill and Fleur's guest room. It hadn't been a poster bed, so unless Fleur had decided to redecorate without him knowing, there was no reason for it to transfigure overnight.

And that had been days ago . . . Ron had left to look for Harry and Hermione . . . had all but ran out on his brother midconversation when. . . .

His recall of last night meandered in. Ron had heard his voice — his own voice — come out of his pocket. From the Deluminator. There had been light . . . a bluish, pulsing ball of light . . . Ron had followed it, unheeding of Bill's bewildered questions, and then. . . .

And then nothing.

Try as he might, Ron couldn't remember what had happened next. The more he tried to hold on to the fleeting scraps of images and sounds, the more he became aware of a burning at the back of his head. Someone had been there with him, Ron was sure of that much . . . but whoever brought him here, didn't want him remembering the how's and why's.

Was it Harry? Hermione? Were they there, beyond the green curtains? Ron didn't think so, yet he had been sure, so sure, that the Deluminator had spoken his name to bring him back to his friends. He knew without knowing how, from the moment the light had floated toward him, that it would bring him where he needed to go. Back to Harry, back to —

The curtains — the still bafflingly green curtains — were pulled back without warning, yanking Ron from his muddled memories. An unpleasantly familiar face looked down at him imperiously.

"Good," said Malfoy pompously. "You're awake. I suspected as much, when your bloody snoring didn't wake me up as per usual."

Ron stared.

"What the fuck?" he said eloquently.

Malfoy snorted. "Well, good morning to you too, Ron."

Ron stared some more. Kept staring still even as Malfoy moved away and toward his own bed. His equally green poster bed that was right next to Ron's.

There were other beds here too. Curtains, rugs, eiderdowns, lanterns — everything was in green and silver, in all their pretentiously gaudy splendour. Ron was so focused on this that it took him a moment to realize that there were other people in the room as well.

One of them, that creep Ron had once punched for leering at his sister, was inspecting himself in the mirror, standing so close that his cheek nearly brushed the glass. "Oh, I don't know," he said, glancing at Malfoy. "I say I'd be swearing too, if I had to wake up to your face at the crack of dawn."

"Hardly the crack of dawn, Blaise," said Malfoy in a bored tone. "And you should only be so lucky, waking up to my face."

"Gross," said the other boy — Zabini, Ron remembered. "Think Weasley's about to puke too. Must be from all the shit you're spewing."

Malfoy wasn't paying attention to him though. He had turned to Ron with what looked like concern etched on his face. "All right there, Ron? You're looking a bit . . . clammy."

No. No, Ron wasn't all right at all. Because he was dreaming — obviously he was dreaming. How else could he explain why he was in the Slytherin dorms? Why the other boys looked straight at him as though this was normal? Why Malfoy was staring at Ron without his usual sneer? Why Malfoy had called him Ron?

A dozen explanations were swirling in Ron's head, but he couldn't hold on to one long enough to believe it. Polyjuice, kidnapping, impostors, Portkeys, a curse, the Deluminator —

Crap, where was that thing? It had been in his hand, and his wand had been — shit.

Ron's hands searched blindly for his wand. He didn't know how he got here, he could be in grave danger and cursed at any moment, and now he didn't have his wand. Damn it, he was getting sloppy. Weeks of moping and wallowing in self-pity had dulled his reflexes. If he were still with Harry and Hermione — he quickly stomped the ever-present guilt that accompanied the thought — he would surely have been taken down by Snatchers or Death Eaters or something. Though, with his present company and his lack of wand, it was still a possibility, except —

Except the other boys didn't care. As though Ron's presence here — he'd been kidnapped in his sleep, that had to be it! — wasn't unusual at all. Zabini was still in front of the mirror. Nott, the thin, weedy-looking boy that lurked at the back during Potions, had had his nose in a book since Ron spotted him. Crabbe or Goyle — Ron had never seen them apart enough to remember who was who — had already left the room, and the other was still stuffing books and parchment in his bag.

And Malfoy was still staring at him. With concern. Like they were friends or some such nonsense.

"What are you playing at?" demanded Ron, who had been peering under the bed on all fours, looking for his wand — damn, damn, damn where was it?

"Er — what?"

"Why am I here? What've you done with Harry? I swear to God, Malfoy, if you —"

"Who's Harry?" said Malfoy, at the same time Zabini said, "A bit early for philosophical questions, isn't it?"

"Come off it, Malfoy! Where are they?"

Blinking, Malfoy began, "Who are you —"

"Don't play dumb, you slimy ferret! Where's my wand? What've you done with it?"

Ron was vaguely aware of Nott looking up from his book. "Ferret?" he said to Zabini, who snickered.

Malfoy gaped at Ron. "I — it's there somewhere. You probably left it in your bag after yesterday when you — well. Here, let me —"

"Don't touch it!" Ron grabbed the bag atop his trunk before Malfoy could, hurriedly rummaging inside.

"All right, all right! Merlin, what's gotten into you?"

Malfoy was slowly approaching him, like Ron was some skittish stray ready to run, but before he could take another step closer, Ron had, at last, found his wand under balls of crumpled parchment. Immediately, Ron stood and pointed it at Malfoy.

"Where are they?" he hissed, trying and failing to keep his voice even.

Malfoy, whose expression had gotten increasingly worried and bemused, was now looking at him in alarm. Good, bloody git deserved to be scared.

"What the hell? Watch we're your pointing that thing!"

"I think he has it right where he wants it," said Zabini gleefully, but Nott had stood up and grabbed his elbow.

"Show's over. We're leaving," said Nott.

"But they're about to hash it out!"

"Burn down the room, is more like it. I still have scars from last time and — oi! Crabbe, you too. Out!"

Malfoy stared helplessly as they left, but Ron kept his wand steady, ignoring Crabbe's grunt, Zabini's delighted little wave, and Nott's eye roll. Spells were ready on his tongue, but Ron reminded himself that hexing Malfoy would get him nowhere and make things worse.

"Where are they? Where's Harry?" he gritted out.

Malfoy shook his head. "I don't know who you're talking about! Put your wand down!"

"What's the matter, Malfoy? Scared?"

"Scared?" Malfoy scoffed, and Ron's temper rose yet another pitch. "And we're on a last name basis now, are we? God, what did I do to get on your nerves this time?"

"Stop acting like you don't know! Your Death Eater friends — they've taken Harry and Hermione, haven't they? They brought me here, you son of a —"

"I don't know what you're on about," said Malfoy, his tone colder than before. "Taken one too many Crucio's, have you?" A shadow had settled on his face. This, at least, was more familiar ground.

"Oh, of course you'd be an expert, huh?" sneered Ron. "It's what your lot does, right? Torture us bloodtrai —"

"I don't know what's gotten into you," said Malfoy darkly, "but you know full well that I'm not part of their lot." At Ron's disbelieving snort, Malfoy's glare hardened. "If you're itching for a fight, Ron, then —"

"You're stalling for them, aren't you? Reckon you volunteered for the job too. You'd do anything to get back in You-Know-Who's good graces, wouldn't you, after that stunt you —"

Malfoy had brandished his wand faster than Ron had thought he was capable of. But Ron had been anticipating it, so Malfoy's hex bounced harmlessly off of Ron's shield.

"Expelliarmus!" cried Ron before Malfoy could find his bearings, and Malfoy's wand flew from his hand and into Ron's own.

"Show off," muttered Malfoy, sounding begrudgingly impressed. Jaw still clenched, he held out his hand expectantly, but Ron's grip on either wand didn't loosen.

"Where are they?" Ron said again.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Merlin's sake, Ron! I told you I — !"

"Don't call me that!"

"What —"

"We're not friends! Stop bloody acting like we are!"

Hurt flickered on Malfoy's face before he walled it away. "Weasley, then," he sneered. "You're not making any sense, Weasley. How many times do I have to say it? I don't know a Harry —"

"POTTER! HIS NAME'S HARRY POTTER, YOU RUDDY BASTARD!"

Malfoy stepped back. "Ron, calm down —"

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! WHERE ARE THEY?"

"I don't —"

Impatience overtook common sense. Throwing both wands to the ground, Ron stalked towards Malfoy and grabbed the front of his robes.

"Harry Potter! Hermione Granger! Where are they? Where are they?"

"Granger?" Malfoy said softly. Recognition finally flashed in Malfoy's eyes, and Ron was so relieved to see it that he let his hold be shaken off. "Ro — Weasley, I don't know anymore about where they are than you do."

He's lying! Ron's mind screamed. But Ron had grown up with the likes of Fred and George, and he could sense a lie as well as he could plan chess strategies — a necessity for survival, in a house like theirs. Loathe as Ron was to admit it, Malfoy was telling the truth.

Shame. Ron could have used an excuse for a proper duel.

Reluctantly, Ron stepped back, still eyeing Malfoy warily. Malfoy was just as cautious as he bent to grab his wand.

"Have you heard from them?" he said, straightening his robes. "Is that why you've gone all — well, insane's probably the only word for it, frankly, but — look, are they all right? Did something happen?"

For some reason, Malfoy looked queasy. Grim, even. Like Ron's parents got when they knew they were about to hear bad news from the Order.

Confused, Ron didn't answer, and Malfoy went on, "I know you're not supposed to tell me anything — before you ask, yes, I'm still mad about that, you prat — but you could at least tell me if they're okay."

"Why do you care?" said Ron.

"What kind of question is that?" Malfoy scowled, which Ron ignored as he picked up his wand. "Just because Granger and I don't get along . . . fine, keep me in the dark, for all I care. But if you hear anything, just let me know if Ginny's safe or —"

Ron, who had been marvelling at how Malfoy spoke as if the words were from a well-trodden argument, felt his temper flare again.

"What have you done to my sister?"

Malfoy's hands rose in the universal please-don't-kill-me gesture, appropriate expression included. "Nothing! I haven't done anything! You think I'll still be here if I did? Merlin. . . ."

Ron wanted to scream at Malfoy some more, maybe hex him or something, but he was too torn between rage and the sick, guilty feeling in his gut to do much of anything. He felt the fight draining out of him, and Malfoy, who could clearly see Ron deflating before his eyes, was strangely silent.

Something must be wrong with Malfoy, if he wasn't taking the opportunity to taunt Ron. Then again, hadn't Ron already known that when Malfoy started speaking as though they were good mates? And Malfoy thought Ron was the one acting weird. Seriously. If it had been the other way around, if it had been Malfoy in the Gryffindor dorms, Ron would have undoubtedly, unashamedly made a fuss. Would have sworn quite a bit, until Hermione kicked his shin and chastised him for setting a bad example to the kids. . . .

Suddenly, the reality of where he was, where he had been, sank in. The full situation hitting him all at once, Ron really was tempted to start swearing again, but something had caught his eye and held his tongue.

A knitted jumper was carelessly draped over the trunk at the foot of Ron's bed. He hadn't noticed it when he had grabbed his bag, but there it was. It was the kind of jumper — no, not kind. It was the jumper mum made for the family every Christmas. Ron would recognize the emblazoned R anywhere.

Only this jumper wasn't maroon. It was green. The same dark green that matched the rest of the room.

Now that Ron was standing by the trunk, he could see the dorm room in its entirety. The layout wasn't so different from the Gryffindor dorms, except for the colours, obviously. There was something gloomy about the place too, something it lacked that the Gryffindor rooms didn't. Sunshine, maybe. Windows. Morals.

An experimental stomp revealed that the floor, like the walls, was made of stone. In Gryffindor Tower, the floor was wooden, and Ron idly took note of the difference until his eyes landed on the Chudley Cannons posters that lined the walls surrounding his bed.

Ron frowned. That wasn't right. Those posters were supposed to be back at the Burrow. He remembered taking them down from the Gryffindor dorm room last July.

Stepping closer, Ron could see that there were more than just burnt orange banners and Cannons memorabilia. There were also photos, many of which contained familiar, brightly smiling redheads, and at least one of Hermione smiling shyly over a book. The others, though, were of people Ron only vaguely recognized: there was one with Zabini, one with Crabbe and Goyle, and yet another with Pansy Parkinson making bunny ears at the back of Ron's head. At least half a dozen showed a stunningly pretty girl with rivulets of blonde curls — Daphne Greengrass, Ron's puzzled mind supplied — waving and smiling adoringly at him.

But the truly baffling thing? The thing that was making his stomach heavy with foreboding, more than these photos of Slytherins being, honest to God, friendly with him?

Almost every photo that didn't show his family — scratch that, there were at least two with Ginny, Ron noted with growing panic — showed Draco fucking Malfoy. With him, Ron. Like they were best mates — like he was Harry. In the Slytherin common room, in the Quidditch field, in the Great Hall, and — holy shit, was that the Burrow?

This didn't make sense. Nothing made sense at all. . . .

And just like that, the Sickle dropped.

Something clicked in his mind, an idea so ludicrous that Ron found himself using words like ludicrous, of all things. It didn't remove the smog of confusion in his mind, nor did it answer any of the questions making his head swim . . . and yet it made sense, somehow. It made sense the same way hearing his own voice from the Deluminator made sense. The same way following a ball of light made sense. The same way Disapparating without a destination in mind, with only said blue light guiding his way by going inside his heart — honestly, Dumbledore, what the hell — made sense.

Reasonable, really. Perfectly reasonable.

"Malfoy," Ron said at last, slowly mulling over the words. "What do you know about Harry Potter?"

Malfoy had been giving him that damned concerned look again since Ron saw the jumper. Now he was back to curling his lip scornfully. "For the last time, I don't —"

"I'm not asking if you know him. I'm asking what you know about him."

"About him?" Malfoy echoed blankly.

"Him. Potter. Harry Potter. His family. James and —"

"And Lily Potter?" said Malfoy. At Ron's mute nod, Malfoy rolled his eyes. "God, why didn't you just say so? Well, what do you want to know then?"

Malfoy's apparent knowledge, far from reassuring Ron, sent a tingle of unease down Ron's spine. More than a tingle, actually. More like a flood, flowing down an endless cesspit of dread.

"Everything you know about them," said Ron. His voice sounded strangely hollow.

A frown creased the space between Malfoy's eyebrows. "Not much to tell, really. All anyone knows about them is that they died. Killed by You-Know-Who. They've been dead for years."

Years.

Harry's been dead for years. . . .

Malfoy was still talking, going on about how every wizarding family in Europe knows this, how it's all over textbooks written in the past decade, and how it's modern history, Ron, where have you been? Don't tell me your family's been living under a rock because, Merlin's beard, I could have sworn you knew this —

Ron wasn't listening anymore. Hearing Malfoy's words — they've been dead for years — had left him feeling cold and empty, like a large stone had been dropped in his stomach, slowly sinking to the bottom.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of water lapping against stone. Was it the lake outside the dungeon's walls? Or was it the veritable tsunami inside Ron, making his heart beat hard enough he could feel it in his thumbs? Who knows? Who the hell even knows anymore?

Because what the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

Elsewhere, there was no faint sound of water against stone, no green silk hangings or silver pillows or low, muffled murmurings of prying roommates. There was only a boy with a Deluminator in one hand, a willow wand in the other, and a gleaming shard of glass hidden in the depths of his bottomless pockets.

An entire world away, Ron Weasley woke with a start.