Ronald Weasley was having a particularly miserable day.
The rest of his schoolmates were in high spirits, feasting on turkey legs and treacle tart as they rattled on about their new classes and Quidditch and everything else there was to look forward to at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Of course, he understood why. Hours earlier, he had shared their sentiments, because he was finally going to the place he had been hearing about for years on end: The place where he would learn to hone his magic, where he would meet friends, where he could learn to defend himself from Fred and George and their cruel pranks. He had even been lucky enough to share a compartment with Harry Potter, who bought them a plethora of sweets — probably more sweets than Ron had eaten in his entire life.
Then, something dreadful happened.
Professor McGonagall, a rather stern woman with a tall hat, called his name.
Nervously, he had approached the stool where the Sorting Hat sneered at him, clearly judging him from afar. The professor picked the hat up, and as Ron fearfully sat down, she placed it on his head.
For years, he had both feared and awaited that moment. For years, he had been waiting to be placed in —
"Slytherin!"
He blanched.
Surely, the hat had not said what he thought he heard. Perhaps it was in his head. Perhaps the hat hadn't yet spoken at all and his fears were manifesting into some sort of vivid hallucination.
"Mr. Weasley, please join your house."
The woman said the words with contempt as she gestured the table with the emerald banner above it. His three brothers stared at him in awe, the crimson banner floating majestically above their matching heads.
"Mr. Weasley, please make your way to your table. We have other students waiting to be Sorted."
Hanging his head lowly, he dragged his feet all the way to the table, where students whooped and chanted shouts of "Slytherin!" as loudly as they could muster. They patted him on the back and welcomed him warmly, yet he did not feel welcome at all.
He felt sick. In fact, he felt so sick that he hadn't listened to a word of Dumbledore's speech.
The man was his favorite Chocolate Frog celebrity, yet somehow, his presence didn't matter anymore. Ron was stuck—stuck in the only house his parents said they disapproved of.
The rest of Slytherin House was gleefully breaking bread, but he couldn't bring himself to join in.
His stomach ached. His head pounded. His teeth hurt, though that may have been from all the candy.
He wanted to go back in time and tell his mother that he was never going to Hogwarts. She could school him at home like she always wanted to do, and then he would never be Sorted into Slytherin and his brothers wouldn't have the opportunity to make fun of him.
Even Hufflepuff would have been better, because if he were in Hufflepuff at least he wouldn't —
"Turns out I was wrong about you, Weasley. Good work getting into Slytherin."
Ron furrowed his brow. It was the awful boy he and Harry Potter had met on the train, the one that wanted to be Harry's friend but not his. Of course, Harry Potter had made it into Gryffindor House. The Boy Who Lived had shown insurmountable bravery as a mere infant. Ronald Weasley, on the other hand, had never done anything brave in his life.
Maybe he belonged in Slytherin after all.
"Did you hear me?"
Ron turned to look at the pale boy. Draco Malfoy, he had called himself. He was frowning, as though he did not know what to make of the fact that Ronald was sitting across from him, and frankly, Ron couldn't blame him, because he didn't know what to make of it either.
"Are you deaf and incapable of feeding yourself? Maybe we ought to see if the hat meant to put you in Hufflepuff instead."
"I'm not hungry," Ron finally replied.
Draco did not look pleased with this answer. "Too busy hogging it up on the train with Potter? I heard he bought the lot out."
"Yeah," Ron mumbled, glaring past Draco. "Sorry about that. Won't happen again, I reckon."
"Didn't bother me any. My mother packed me enough sugar quills to last the month. I wouldn't want anything that grimy trolley woman touched, anyway . . . What are you looking at?"
"Nothing."
In truth, he was glaring at Harry, who had seemed to befriend Ron's older brothers and the bushy-headed girl that had been looking for a toad. She was living proof that the Sorting Hat made mistakes: the second he met her, he knew she belonged in Ravenclaw.
That's where all the swots went, according to his brothers.
"Are you looking at Potter?" Draco asked, turning back around in an all-too-obvious manner. "Does he have something in his teeth?"
"No! No, I — erm — I mean . . . I was just — " Quickly, Ron's eyes darted around, searching for an excuse to be staring so intently. " — looking at the Gryffindor ghost! Yeah, it's just — er — it's a bit scary how his head just sort of . . . falls off like that."
"Our ghost is much better than theirs. My father told me all about him. They call him the Bloody Baron and rumor is he's a murderer."
Ron's eyes widened. "A murderer?"
"He wouldn't murder any kids, of course," Draco said, nonchalantly, "and even if he did, he wouldn't come after us Slytherins. House loyalty and all that."
"Yeah, sure. House loyalty."
"Speaking of which," Draco said, rerolling his fork in the cloth napkin it came in, "your family are all Gryffindors."
It wasn't a question.
As Ron's stomach sank with the anticipation of being rejected, the blond went on. "Honestly, I was under the impression poor people couldn't be Sorted into Slytherin at all, but I guess it's your lucky day, Weasley. You broke the family curse and somehow got into the best house."
"I'm not that poor."
Draco waved him off. "Oh, you are, but I suppose it's all right. Just don't expect me to pay for your butterbeer once we're allowed off at Hogsmeade. My father says boys can't pay for other boys' things. Something about implications."
"Implications?"
Ron was not entirely sure what the word meant.
"It means I'd look bad or something, I don't really know the details." He smirked. "Play any Quidditch?"
"Erm — with my brothers in the backyard. I'm not any good though."
"We'll have to practice then," Draco decided. "Anyone that's not on the Quidditch team is a joke."
Ron knew good and well he was not good enough to make the team, especially as a first-year.
"I thought you had to be at least a second-year to play."
Draco cocked an eyebrow. "You do, so we only have the term to get you ready. C'mon Weasley, keep up here."
"We're approaching curfew!" McGonagall, the stern professor, said, clapping her hands. "To your dormitories! Prefects, please show the first-years to their new rooms!"
The other houses didn't dawdle, but Slytherin seemed to act of its own accord. The large-toothed boy with a prefect's badge lazily seized a dinner roll and took a bite before getting to his feet and waving the first-years along behind him. This earned several snickers from the other students, and a smirk from a rather pretty brunette that slipped her hand into his.
Just ahead, he could see the Gryffindor prefects barking at their house, and it was in this moment that Ron realized maybe, just maybe, being a Slytherin wasn't so bad.
"All I'm saying is that it doesn't seem fair they get a whole tower and we're stuck in the dungeons," Ron groused, gesturing Potter and the bushy-haired girl. "Them and the Ravenclaws must have the best views. Meanwhile, we're stuck smelling Snape's botched potions . . ."
"First of all, never tell Snape he's botched a potion," Flint, the prefect, said. "Second of all, what're you worried about views for? Are you a girl?"
"No," Ron scowled, "but it just seems a bit dodgy, doesn't it? That they stick us in the dungeons when — "
"Weasley, the common room is nicer than your entire house," Blaise Zabini pointed out. "Maybe you shouldn't complain."
"I'm not complaining. I just think that if some of us are going to be stuck in the dungeons, we should all be stuck in the dungeons."
"And run into the Gryffindors more than we already have to? No thanks." Draco made a face. "I'm pretty sure our first class is with them already."
Ron groaned. "You've got to be kidding me. First, they get the views, then they — "
"Weasley, if you want to talk views," Flint said, lowly, "meet me and Gibbons by the broom shed tomorrow. We'll give you a view."
"What d'you mean?"
"That tower of theirs? One of the windows is to the seventh-year girls' dormitory." He smirked. "Let's just say I've had the best views since fourth year."
Ron's eyes widened. "The girls' dormitory! But that's — "
"Shhh!" Flint hissed, cupping his hand over Ron's mouth. "You fucking idiot!"
After a moment, Flint released him and walked away, shaking his head. Ron was quite sure he heard the words "stupid ginger git."
"You really were raised by animals, weren't you?" Draco muttered. "So loud."
"Well, you heard what he asked me to do! He wanted to — to — "
"Yeah, I don't get why you'd want to watch a bunch of girls sleep. Doesn't seem worth it with Filch skulking about . . . He is a Flint, though. My father's always said they were 'slow'. . ." Draco shrugged. "On the bright side, we start classes tomorrow. I, for one, can't wait to turn Potter's little girlfriend into a ferret."
Ron snickered. "I'll bet a Sickle that you can't."
"Really, Weasley, keep it. I'm sure your father wouldn't be happy with you giving away his life savings."
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper on death."
These were the words that caught Ron's attention, which was quite a feat considering Scabbers, his pet rat, was nibbling idly through his robes. Despite Snape's greasy appearance, Ron found he liked him quite a lot. He was snarky with the Gryffindors, but he made it a point to help Slytherin whenever he got the chance. Draco even earned five house points.
"Already in the lead for the House Cup," Draco whispered excitedly. "We're sure to win if we keep it up."
He was interrupted by the only thing that made Snape even better: his obvious hatred for Harry Potter.
"Harry Potter. Our new celebrity," the professor sneered, before snarling a question that Ron didn't pay any attention to. He was too busy exchanging smirks with Draco and a girl named Pansy.
By the end of class, they burst out into laughter.
"Did you see his face?" Ron wheezed. "You'd swear he thought Snape was gonna kill him!"
"Yeah and did you see Granger? Pick me, Professor! Pick me! Pathetic."
"Her hair is disgusting," Pansy spat. "I didn't realize Muggles were so uncivilized that they never heard of combs ."
"Muggles?" Draco asked, arching a brow.
"Yeah, she's Muggle-born."
Draco looked mortified. "You're kidding. Hair like that, a complete swot, and a Muggle-born? Could she get any worse?"
Ron chewed on his lip. He had never minded Muggles. In fact, he had been taught Muggles were fascinating, and he never had any reason to believe otherwise.
"Doubt it," Pansy muttered. She glanced at Ron. "Doesn't your dad work for the Muggle Artifacts Office?"
"His family are a bunch of Gryffindors," Draco, to Ron's relief, cut in. "He's different. He's one of us."
Ron immediately felt better. For once in his life, he fit in.
Draco was an excellent flyer. In truth, Draco was excellent at most things that he did. While Ron struggled with simple spells like Wingardium Leviosa and turning Scabbers yellow, Draco was already experimenting with potions outside of class and charming his quill to chase girls around the common room.
He never got ink on them. That sort of thing was more Crabbe and Goyle's speed.
But the fact of the matter was: Draco was a superb student, second only to Potter's Girlfriend the Swot, and Ron . . . well, he was going to be lucky to pass.
"Youngest Seeker in a century . . ." spat Draco, angrily punctuating his Transfiguration essay. "That should've been me!"
"It's because he's Potter," Ron said. "Special treatment for the Gryffindorks like usual."
"Hmph. Oh, well. We'll see who's laughing when he fails Potions. Did you see the look Snape gave him today in class? 'Bubotubers?' Bubotubers! He's an imbecile!"
Ron felt his cheeks redden. He was quite certain he wasn't much smarter than Potter.
The Halloween feast was scrumptious. Ron had been lucky enough to have Draco's attention all to himself, as Crabbe and Goyle were trying to garner the interest of Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass. From afar, it didn't seem to be working.
"Idiots, the both of them," Draco said, shaking his head.
"Yeah, as if they'd have a chance with Tracey or Daphne."
"I mean, Goyle had one with Tracey but he blew it. Years ago, anyway."
"Years ago?" Ron asked, appalled. "How old were they?"
"I don't know. Five? Six?"
"Five or six?" he shouted. Realizing that he had brought some attention to himself, he lowered his voice. "He must've dated Tracey before he could read."
"To be fair, he still can't read. Not much, anyway." Draco elegantly cut into a turkey leg. "But no, he didn't date her. His father tried to arrange him to accept her dowry. It's a rather hefty one, or so she claims."
Ron stared at him. "What's a dowry?"
"Oh, right. I forget you're poor." Draco set down his silverware and dabbed his lips. "So a dowry is what you get when you marry a girl."
"Wait . . . so Goyle's dad was going to make him marry her?"
Draco nodded. "Same as I'm meant to marry Pansy."
"You're meant to marry Pansy?" Ron choked. "You can't be serious!"
"Of course I am. I can't marry just anyone, can I?" He raised his eyebrows. "Speaking of, you're a pure-blood . . . You should start considering who you're going to take as a wife. With your whole . . . financial situation , it may not be very easy, so you best start acting on your best behavior now."
"My parents are pure-bloods," Ron said, suddenly realizing he was stating the obvious. "I don't—I don't think they met like that."
"And d'you want to end up like them?"
Ron thought very hard about that. His house was a mess. His mother was constantly fussing. His father hated his job.
"No," he decided. "I don't."
"Right. Well, you might be able to land Bulstrode. Her mother's so ugly nobody thought the dowry was worth the bother. Want to know what they'll look like in twenty years? Look at their mother. That's what my father always says."
Ron paled, but to his glee, Professor Quirrell raced in just then, saving him from the crippling embarrassment of the conversation.
"TROLL IN THE DUNGEON!"
And as quickly as it came, Ron's relief was gone.
The troll nearly maimed Potter and his little girlfriend. Ron almost felt bad, but when he heard that McGonagall gave him ten points for it, he decided Potter's blacked eye and busted arm were actually quite hilarious.
Best of all, he wouldn't be allowed to play Quidditch.
"Nice eyeshadow, Potter!" Draco cackled at the moping Seeker. "Looks like Granger's got herself a girlfriend!"
Ron grinned at that. Draco was always so witty.
The holidays were lonely. Everyone spent Christmas with their families, except Vincent Crabbe and Theodore Nott, but neither were the best company. Crabbe passed the time by charming a wooden pipe to look like he was smoking from it, and when he wasn't doing that, he was rambling on about Tracey. Nott buried himself in books and rarely came out of the dormitory.
"Fancy a go at some wizard's chess?" Ron asked Crabbe one morning at breakfast.
"Nah, mate. Never figured out how to play."
"I can teach you."
"No you can't," Nott cut in. It was the first time he'd spoken since the start of the holiday. "You'd be better off trying to teach table manners to a gargoyle."
Ron accepted that neither of the boys were going to make the holiday any better. By the third day of winter break, he very much wished that his only friend was there with him.
The second half of the year was going by much faster than the first.
Homework was piling on and Ron was so embroiled in his studies that he had barely realized how many months had passed.
That was until Draco lost fifty points.
It was nearly the end of the year, and they were no longer in the lead. Ravenclaw was six points ahead of them, and at that rate, the other house was sure to win. That wasn't what Ron was displeased about, though.
It was the fact that Draco had gone off in the middle of the night—and he hadn't so much as mentioned the adventure.
They did everything together. Why wouldn't he include him?
Naturally, Ron had asked that question several times over, stopping only to sulk when Draco did not give him a good answer.
"You should be thanking me for going alone," Draco said. "Landed myself in detention over those two."
"Serves you right," Ron replied sourly. "Next time, maybe you'll invite your best friend."
Draco flared his nostrils. "Then we would have lost a hundred points."
Ron hadn't thought of that.
After a long moment, he asked, "The giant idiot actually had a dragon?"
Draco laughed. "Yes. Dumbledore really is an old kook for hiring him."
Once upon a time, Ron might have taken offense to that, yet now, he couldn't help but agree. In fact, it seemed like most Gryffindors were a bit on the strange side.
Being a Slytherin was something to be proud of. Finally, he had come to terms with that.
Ron couldn't believe that the giant was allowed to take Draco into the Forbidden Forest. It was one of the most dangerous places in the country, according to his parents, and somehow, the school had approved of students being sent there for detention.
He wasn't surprised that they would send a Slytherin, but the fact they risked Harry Potter's life meant someone simply wasn't thinking clearly.
Of course, Draco's father wrote an angry letter and Dumbledore guaranteed it would never happen again.
"If I was injured, there's no way I would've been able to make up my end-of-year exams," Draco fussed, poring over his Herbology book. "If I got a T over their mistake, this school wouldn't make it to next year." He looked up at Ron. "You are going to study, aren't you?"
The Standard Book of Spells was open in Ron's lap, but he hadn't even started to take notes.
"Yes, yes of course."
Hoping to impress his friend, he hurriedly began to read the first chapter.
Slytherin had won.
The entire house had been watching the numbers, crossing their fingers that Ravenclaw wouldn't surpass them in the last days of the year. Pansy Parkinson had even been keeping track on a piece of parchment, shrieking at anyone that failed to tell her when they earned points.
It all paid off in the end. It was the final feast, and Slytherin's punctuation to a successful year.
"They'll decorate it in green and silver," Terrence Higgs had explained before the feast. "The whole Great Hall—all in Slytherin colors."
When Ron entered the room, he found the colors rather suited it, and he could confidently say that they had earned it fair and square. For months, he watched the Gryffindors favored over and over again, but the emeralds had been steadily rising in the Slytherin cylinder.
Snape had issued at least half of them.
McGonagall and Sprout rarely gave points to Slytherins. Flitwick had in the beginning, though he'd stopped towards the end when he realized his house might lose.
The favoritism was nauseating.
Ron glanced at the staff table, waggling his fingers at his Head of House, who he hoped was proud of their hard work—but he didn't wave back. Instead, he stared blankly at his laced hands.
Perhaps professors were expected not to celebrate.
"To Slytherin!" Marcus Flint boomed, raising his glass. "We should all thank this pretty girl here for earning us those last twenty points in Divination. Great work, gorgeous."
The blonde girl across from him flushed.
Several people patted her on the back, while others piled their plates high and chatted excitedly amongst themselves. Summer was coming, which meant there was no more homework to be done and many plans to be made.
"Can't believe we won," Goyle breathed. "I haven't earned a single point all year!"
"That's because you're an idiot," Pansy snarled.
Ron snorted. "Goyle's right, though. It's a miracle we won, really. The school's always Gryffindor-this, Ravenclaw-that. Only time you hear anything good about Slytherin is from Snape and he's not exactly very talkative."
"The odds were definitely against us," Blaise agreed. He cocked an eyebrow. "We're on for that end-of-year party, then, Draco?"
Draco nodded. "My father said we could have it if Slytherin won, and we won, didn't we?"
"Sure did," Blaise said with a smirk. "Going to be there, Weasley?"
"Obviously!"
In truth, Ron was not sure how to convince his parents to let him visit Draco, but he was determined to find a way. His father's letters to him had not been so nice when he mentioned he'd befriended a Malfoy.
Apparently, he didn't much care for Draco's father. Ron suspected it was jealousy.
"There's Dumbledore," Flint said, smirking. "Has to give us the House Cup even though he hates us. Serves him right, the old codger."
The Slytherin table erupted with laughter, quieting only when Dumbledore slipped behind his lectern and smiled serenely at them all. He almost seemed pleasant.
"Another year gone!" he began. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast . . ."
Ron, who had idly started to chew on a ham hock, went red in the face and dropped it. The rest of Dumbledore's speech went in one ear and out the other until he said those sweet words. The words his entire house had been eagerly awaiting.
"Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor—"
The Slytherin table filled with low snickers as the Gryffindors grumbled.
". . . in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six, and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two."
Dumbledore had confirmed it.
It was not all some elaborate prank against all of Slytherin House. It was real .
Draco bashed his goblet against the table in celebration. Girls shrieked with excitement. Crabbe and Goyle bellowed ecstatically. It was the most joyful Ron had seen his house all year, and that included the night that Flint took some of the fifth-year boys to spy on the girls in Gryffindor Tower.
The House Cup was theirs.
"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore, his tone bored. "However, recent events must be taken into account."
The roars stopped. The Slytherin table had never been more silent.
" Ahem , I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes . . ."
Draco looked at Ron, his pale eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"What's going on?" he mouthed.
"I have no idea," Ron mouthed back, shaking his head.
"First—to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House seventy points."
The excitement that had belonged to Slytherin had suddenly become that of Gryffindor. They all cheered and clapped for her, but Pansy was shaking her head. The additional points did not put them in the lead. Slytherin was still in first place.
Ron's heart was pounding as Dumbledore raised a finger.
"Second—to Mr. Harry Potter . . ."
Draco scoffed, and Ron would have too if he wasn't frozen in the moment. Whatever Harry Potter had done to earn points, he suspected it wasn't worthy of them.
". . . for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House ninety points."
The Great Hall was pure pandemonium.
As the Gryffindors cheered, Slytherin was shouting amongst themselves. Yells of "not fair!" and "it's rigged!" came from around the table, and it was only made worse by Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw clapping for the Gryffindors too.
"Ninety?" Draco hissed in disbelief. "What could he possibly have done to earn ninety points? I helped Snape organize his cupboards for four hours and I only got twenty !"
Pansy was pointing at her parchment with her quill. "They've matched us."
"What do they do if we tie?" Ron asked, nervously. "Does anyone know?"
"No idea," Flint muttered, tossing his napkin onto his plate. "Never seen it happen before."
Dumbledore raised his hand and the Great Hall was quiet again. The silence at the Slytherin table was world aparts from that of the other three houses.
Never had Ron hated Gryffindor—or Harry Potter—more than he did right then.
"There are all kinds of courage," Dumbledore went on. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award fifteen points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."
In an instant, the Gryffindors were hugging Longbottom. Dumbledore was announcing their win. The Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws whooped loudly as the banners turned gold and red, some of them going so far as to stick their tongues out at the Slytherins.
Time stood still. At least, for Ron it did.
Draco seemed stunned. Pansy was shouting. Blaise rolled his eyes. Crabbe was pulling his wand out and aiming it at Dumbledore, only to be stopped by Daphne Greengrass.
The House Cup had been stolen from them.
They had earned it. They had worked for it.
And as quickly as it was theirs, it wasn't.
Slytherin, as a whole, was solemn.
The common room was virtually silent as everyone packed and prepared to leave, sans the Bloody Baron, who was rather angry about the House Cup. He didn't seem to understand the concept much, but Ron did feel a bit better knowing his house ghost was furious on their behalf.
As the only Weasley in Slytherin, he thought he would be sad he was going home—and he was, because he would miss his friends—but he was also a little relieved. His family was sure to harass him for landing in Slytherin, yet it would be nothing compared to the unfairness he felt at Hogwarts.
He suspected his second year wouldn't be any better.
"No party, then," Pansy said dejectedly, dragging her luggage behind her.
"Apparently not," Draco ground out.
"Maybe we'll win next year," Crabbe suggested. "Potter can't get ninety points two years in a row, can he?"
Draco glared at him. "He can and he will. Potter's always going to be their golden boy and there's nothing we can do about it." He kicked a rock. "You should all be ready for them to bow at his feet next year and every year after that."
They reached the train. As they stepped onto it, Ron nearly scowled. It was abuzz with excitement from the other three houses, and he did not have the patience for it.
On that very train, Harry Potter had bought Ron more candy than he had ever seen in his life. Back then, Ron had been convinced they would be friends—best friends even.
How blind he had been.
