"Krum's going to make mincemeat of the Irish," Ron said matter-of-factly. He seized a ratty rucksack from the small nightstand, peeking inside to ensure the corned beef sandwiches were still fully intact. "Just you watch, they might get a lot of points, but the Snitch is his and then it's over with."
"Krum'll get the Snitch, but the Irish'll win," Fred said, stretching. He lay both his arms across the back of the sofa and crossed his ankles on the coffee table.
"Fred, feet off the table," Ron's father scolded, stepping into the large tent. He grinned and looked around the interior, his hands on his hips. "Not too shabby, eh? Too bad old Perkins has lumbago. Said he barely ever used the thing!"
Perkins, one of Ron's father's coworkers, had come up several times that day. Ron had never met the man, but according to George, he walked with quite an unfortunate stoop.
"Hey Dad, since we can't take bets on the game, can we take bets on how many more times you mention Perkins today?" George said.
"Yeah," Fred quipped, "or what about how many more times you remind us not to ruin the tent?"
"I'll put a Sickle on six more times, Fred."
"Think you'll be losing then, mate. It's gonna be at least ten."
"You're both wrong," Ginny said airily, flipping through a magazine called Quidditch Queens . "It'll be twelve. Nine before the game ends and three more before we go to sleep."
Fred pointed at Ginny. "I'm out on that one. Gin's right."
"No gambling," Ron's father said, his tone stern. "I promised your mother I wouldn't allow it."
"What Mum doesn't know won't hurt her," Fred replied.
Based on the heavy sigh that followed, Ron had a feeling his father regretted bringing them.
Ron had never seen a Quidditch pitch so large. He watched the seats pass by as he traveled up the many flights of stairs, breathless and amazed at the sheer breadth of the place. In front of him, his father and his brothers led the way, jugs of water and butterbeer in their arms.
As they chattered on about the Irish Quidditch team, Ron suddenly felt out of place. For once, it was him wearing red while they sported green, but strangely, despite being adorned in Gryffindor's striking crimson, he was still different. Still the other in the family.
Yet again, he didn't fit in.
He shrugged off the feeling and kept hiking towards their seats, wheezing with each step. They were quite high up; all of Hogwarts didn't have so many stairs! Ron was sure of it.
Finally, his father came to a halt in front of him and his siblings.
"This is us!" Ron's father said, glancing at his tickets. "Not quite the Top Box, but old Ludo did as well as he could have. These seats had to cost a fortune, really."
"The seats are great, Dad," Ginny said, sliding past him. She settled into her spot at the far end of the aisle. "Couldn't ask for better."
"Yeah, who wants to be in the stuffy Top Box with Percy and the other Ministry gits, anyway?" Fred added, sitting down beside her. "If I wanted to go to the match with someone with a stick up their bum, we would've brought Mum."
"Fred, I'm warning you," Ron's father growled, jabbing a finger at Ron's prankster of a brother. "Your brother has been very successful at the Ministry and we're proud of him. And no more jokes about your mother and sticks."
"I find it very interesting that you seem angrier about him making fun of Percy than about the stick comment," George said casually. "What would Mum think, Dad? She's your wife!"
"George, you watch it too. Final warning. Ron, d'you mind handing me one of those sandwiches?" Ron's father nestled into his seat and held his hand out.
Ron, who was sitting beside him, passed him one of the corned beef-on-rye sandwiches. He peered back into the rucksack, counting how many were left. It was a habit he picked up from years of being in such a large family. Food was sometimes scarce.
"What a view!" Ron's father went on, unwrapping the plastic and stealing away Ron's focus. "We'll see all the high-flying action!"
"But we won't see when someone hits a goal," Ron muttered.
It was true. The goalposts on the Irish side were blocked by a large pole.
"What was that, son?" Ron's father asked.
Ron shook his head and sunk into his seat. He was excited to be at the game, but the view left something to be desired. Perhaps if he had taken Ginny's seat he could witness the "high-flying action", but from where he was, there was no way he would be able to see any of Bulgaria's scores.
Granted, Bulgaria was not known for getting the Quaffle in, but that wasn't the point.
"Game's set to start in about twenty minutes," Ron's father said, glancing at his watch. "Plenty of time for —"
"Weasley!"
Ron's eyes widened. A voice from above was calling to him — a familiar voice.
He looked up and beamed.
"Draco?"
Ron's very best friend was several rows above, his father, Lucius Malfoy, at his side. There was another man with them, but Ron could not quite see him — until he turned around.
It was the Minister for Magic.
"Yeah, we're in the Top Box," Draco said proudly. He murmured something to his father before looking back down at Ron. "Come up and join us? Plenty of room here and we have an extra ticket my mother ended up not using. Your brother is just behind us with Crouch."
"The Top Box! The view must be great up there!" Ron shouted.
"It is, incredibly expensive seats. The Minister invited us personally — for one of my father's donations."
"Don't boast, Draco," Lucius hissed, making a threatening gesture with his cane. He looked down, a tight smile on his face. "Apologies for my son's arrogance, Arthur. He sometimes forgets his privilege. That said, his invitation to your boy does stand."
Ron's father was wearing a sour look on his face.
"Can I, Dad?"
"I don't know, son . . . You have a perfectly good seat here . . ."
"C'mon, please ? Percy's up there."
"Well, I —" His father stopped and nodded. "Okay. But you behave yourself! And you're to come right back to the tent with us after the game!"
Ron beamed. The World Cup was one of the most impressive events in the Wizarding World, and he was about to view it all from the Minister's box. Befriending Draco Malfoy was the best thing he had ever done.
Eager, he sidled past the other spectators and sprinted up the stairs, despite his wheezing. There were two Aurors standing in front of the aisle leading to the box, but when Lucius Malfoy approached them and muttered something lowly, they quickly stepped aside. Ron grinned and moved past them. Immediately, the Aurors snapped back together, blocking the entrance.
Never in his life had Ron felt important, but in that moment, he felt like the most important boy in the world.
He took the spot next to Draco and waited, idly curious about the Ministry officials they shared the box with. Percy ignored him entirely, scribbling notes on a clipboard as a man with a bushy mustache dictated a rather long list of legal terms Ron didn't understand at all.
Ron assumed this to be Barty Crouch, the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Percy had been bragging about working for him all summer.
Beside Crouch was a tiny house-elf who kept pouring him glasses of scotch. Percy did not seem to care about the lack of professionalism — or if he did, he was keeping it to himself.
After a few minutes, a man interrupted Ron's gawking with a tap on the shoulder. Ron jumped a little, but found himself taken aback as the man reached out for a handshake. The man's mouth was pulled into a grin.
"Ludo Bagman," he introduced himself as Ron turned to shake his hand awkwardly. "Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
"Y-you were — you were on the Wimbourne Wasps," Ron pointed out, appalled. "One of the best Beaters ever in the league!"
Ludo chuckled. "Ah, yes, years ago, years ago. I'm just an old man now! Bad joints and all! But still have my energy!" He winked. "What's your name, son?"
"Ron Weasley," Ron said, his face going bright red as he realized he hadn't properly introduced himself.
He must have seemed like a bumbling idiot.
"Weasley! Related to Percy, then? Possibly Arthur?"
"Percy's my brother. Arthur's my dad."
"Amazing! Great lot, the Weasleys," Ludo said, clapping him on his shoulder and leaning back into his seat. "Well, enjoy the match, Ron. I suspect it'll be a very good one."
Ron nodded and turned back to Draco.
"Can't believe we're sitting with all these important people," Ron whispered. "That's Ludovic Bagman. Ludovic Bagman! Best Beater of his time!"
"Yes, and a bloody idiot. My father detests him." Draco caught Ludo out of the corner if his eye, falsified a smile, and waved at him. "The game should be starting soon. Then we can stop with all the stupid little niceties."
"I don't mind the niceties so much." Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. "You rooting for Bulgaria or Ireland?"
"Bulgaria, of course," Draco sneered. "Everyone knows Krum is the greatest Seeker of all time. Ireland can't compete."
"That's what I've been saying!" Ron exclaimed. "My whole family supports Ireland. Bonkers, the lot of them."
They continued chatting about Quidditch as though no time had passed at all, and Ron found his trust in Draco was starting to return. Whatever happened in their third year could be, perhaps, water under the bridge.
Yet, he still wondered what exactly Lucius Malfoy had done to his friend.
The man quietly muttered in the Minister's ear, and there was something chilling about it. Something Ron hadn't noticed before.
He decided to leave it alone — at least for the duration of the game.
After all, it was easy to get distracted when the Irish were river dancing in the air. The fireworks took the form of a leprechaun and Ron almost found himself impressed by them. Of course, it was just the show. They still stood no chance against Bulgaria.
"There're the Bulgarians!" Ron shouted, pointing at the incoming streaks of red.
The team flew through the leprechaun at full-speed.
They were unlike anything Ron had ever seen, performing acrobatics on their broomsticks, flying high and then diving as though it were nothing. They had so much control. So much precision.
Ireland didn't stand a chance.
Ireland won.
Krum caught the Snitch, just as expected, but in the end, the Irish had ten points more than Bulgaria when he did. Ron was not particularly angry at the loss, because both teams had performed incredibly, but he did wish he didn't have to go back to the tent with his family.
His brothers would surely be celebrating with bad river dancing and singing Irish folk songs. Ron was not in the mood.
"Did you hear Bagman talking about how he tried to invite Potter?" Draco complained lowly as soon as Bagman filed out of the Top Box. "Thank Merlin his stupid Muggle relatives wouldn't allow it. This loss would be ten times worse if I had to listen to Saint Potter the whole game."
"Would've been a nightmare," Ron agreed. "At least the point difference wasn't too bad. I mean, if Ireland had a Seeker that was even half as good as Krum —"
BOOM!
The sound came from far away — but it was still close enough to worry Ron.
He stopped talking and glanced at Draco, his red brows pulled together in confusion. Draco's expression was unreadable.
"What the devil was that!" Fudge exclaimed, whipping around. "Lucius, did you hear that?"
"I did . . ." Lucius drawled, looking rather annoyed. "The Irish seem to be quick to celebrate."
Fudge frowned and nodded. "Yes, that must be it . . . Just fireworks, undoubtedly . . ."
The Minister, Fudge, then turned back around to continue talking to Crouch. As soon as he did, Lucius swiveled towards Draco.
"Get back to the manor," he whispered hurriedly, pulling an old toy dragon from inside of his robes. Quickly, he pressed his wand to it. "This will take off in one minute and forty-five seconds. Blend in with the crowd as you hold this, but do not touch anyone or you may take them with you. Ronald, you're to go with him."
"But my dad —" Ron argued.
"Your father will thank me when he founds out you are in my home, in one piece." Lucius offered a pointed look. "I will speak with him and take any blame. But you must go with Draco. Do you understand?"
Eyes wide, Ron nodded. He was not sure what else he could do.
Draco brushed Ron's hand as he said, "Come on, let's go."
Ron had no business feeling the spark of electricity that he did, yet he couldn't help it.
Shaking off the strange thought, he followed Draco out of the Top Box and down the stairs until they adequately blended with the crowd. Careful not to touch anyone else, Draco held the toy dragon out for them both to touch.
Ron grabbed it by the tail, and as a throng of dejected Bulgaria fans funneled around them, they spun into the atmosphere.
Portkey travel always made Ron sick.
It was the need to vomit that deterred him from fully appreciating the grandness of Malfoy Manor. Then, as Draco led him through the courtyard, the realization hit him.
The Malfoys lived in a house nearly as large as Hogwarts.
House-elves flitted about, some with watering cans in their tiny hands and others beating gnomes with rocks. Amongst the gardenias were beautiful peacocks that clucked about, a song that nearly made Ron forget why they were there in the first place.
But he didn't.
"Why'd your father send us here?" Ron asked. "If it was just the Irish —"
Draco looked down at his shoes. "It wasn't the Irish. My father . . . Let's just say something was supposed to happen at the Cup tonight. He didn't tell me much, but we'll be safer here at the manor."
"Safer?" Ron asked, hurrying to catch up to his friend. He fell into step beside him and pressed, "What do you mean safer ? My family is there!"
Draco shook his head. "Look, I don't know the details. All I know is that they're looking for Mudbloods. Or something like that."
" Looking for — you can't be serious! D'you know how much trouble —"
Before he could finish his sentence, they had reached the grand double-doors of the house, which opened with a long creak. Standing before them was a house-elf, and a tall woman with fine blonde hair much like Draco's.
"My darling Draco," she cooed, reaching out to embrace him. As she let go, she smiled at Ron. "And you must be Ronald. Draco has told me so much about you."
"I —" Ron felt his cheeks heat up. "Yeah, I'm er — I'm him."
"I'm Draco's mother. You can call me Mrs. Malfoy." She beckoned them inside. "Moppy here will guide you to one of our sitting rooms. Moppy, please be sure to offer the boys tea and crumpets."
"Yes, Missus. Moppy shall."
Ron followed Draco and Moppy through the marble-floored hall. They passed sculptures, portraits, and artifacts — all the types of art Ron would expect to find at Hogwarts or a costly shop. The portraits, some of which looked like Draco himself, watched intently as their footsteps echoed in the wide hallway. Draco hardly seemed to notice.
"We is at the sitting room," Moppy said, gesturing a large archway leading into a room that had to be as big as the entire Burrow. "Tea and crumpets for Master Draco and Master Draco's friend?"
"Yes, please," Draco replied, taking a seat on a blue crushed velvet sofa. He patted the spot beside him. "C'mon Weasley. The couch won't bite."
Ron didn't think it would bite. He was afraid he would get it dirty .
Anxious, he sat down beside Draco anyway. It was the most comfortable sofa he'd ever sat on.
Across from them was a roaring fireplace, and surrounding them were even more portraits and artifacts. A man with a long, blond braid was nested above the mantelpiece, sneering at the both of them.
"Is that your grandfather?" Ron asked awkwardly.
Draco nodded. "My father's father. Abraxas Malfoy."
"He er — he doesn't look like he likes me much."
Draco waved him off. "He's a pure-blood, Grandfather. No need to look at him like that."
Abraxas Malfoy narrowed his eyes, but nodded and seemed to settle down a bit.
Ron gulped. "So erm — d'you — d'you reckon my family's safe? They're not Mudbloods, but you know that they're — they're erm . . . Well, you know. "
"Blood traitors?" Draco said, as though it were no big deal. He examined his nails and shrugged. "I doubt they'll be going after them for that. Unless your father is hiding Mudbloods in his tent or something."
"As much as I wouldn't put it past him, no, he wasn't." Ron tried to hide his relief. He cleared his throat. "So they — they're just trying to teach Mudbloods who's boss or something?"
"Something like that," Draco replied. "I don't know the details. As I said before, my father didn't exactly tell me much. Pretty sure they weren't supposed to let off that explosion so fast though. My father will definitely be having a conversation with them about their inability to follow directions."
"So he's like their leader?"
Draco raised an eyebrow. "If I tell you something, are you going to go blabbing to your father about all this or do you understand that this is Slytherin-only information? And by Slytherin-only I mean it's none of your Gryffindor family's business ."
Ron's stomach clenched, but he nodded anyway.
"Yeah, Slytherins only. No problem."
Draco nodded. "Good. Then I suppose I can tell you. My father — he is something like their leader. He's important. He wants me to be important too, you know."
"Like — like one of them ? The people attacking the Mudbloods?"
"Well, hopefully that'll all be over by the time I'm out of school. My father wants me to be Minister. That's why I need to pass Granger in marks. Can't be a very good Minister if a Mudblood keeps beating me." Draco suddenly looked glum. "At least, that's what my father keeps saying."
Ron decided not to respond to that. Something told him Draco wanted to be Minister about as much as Ron wanted to be Madam Rosmerta.
"So . . . your father will tell my father I'm here safe?" Ron inquired.
Draco gave him a firm nod. "Once it's safe to speak to him, yes."
"Should I owl my mum?" Ron asked, confusedly.
"I guess you could," Draco replied with a shrug. "D'you want to leave already, though? I imagine it's much nicer here with Moppy getting you tea and crumpets than it would be at that rundown chicken-house you call a home."
Despite his embarrassment, Ron had to admit it: Draco was right. Malfoy Manor was an entirely different world compared to what he was used to. He was worried about his father, but still, he couldn't help but be a little angry with him. For years, he could have been visiting the manor during summer break. He could've spent time with his friend. He could've been waited on hand and foot. Instead, he was stuck chucking gnomes out of the gardens with Ginny.
It wasn't fair.
"Yeah, you're right," Ron said, sinking into the crushed velvet cushion. "Is this how it is all the time?"
"In the manor?"
"Yeah. With the elves and your mum . . . not screaming."
Draco snorted. "Ladies don't scream , Weasley."
"Pansy does," Ron muttered under his breath.
"Pansy has a lot of growing up to do. She'll quickly learn if she's going to be married to me, there are certain expectations of a Malfoy woman."
"Expectations?" Ron repeated, feeling a bit uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken.
He never cared much for Pansy, but something felt wrong about the way Draco was talking about her. Annoying or not, she was a girl, not an animal.
"She's to be well-spoken and well-kept. Not screaming falls under that umbrella."
Silent, Ron offered only a nod of acknowledgment. In his daydreams of Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis (and a few rather fleeting ones involving Susan Bones), he never thought about making demands of them. Though, perhaps, there was a difference. Draco was rich, handsome, and if Pansy wasn't betrothed to him, every girl in Slytherin — and other houses — would be chomping at the bit to marry him.
Ron, on the other hand, was poor. He came from a family of blood traitors and he was certainly not destined to become Minister for Magic.
Before Ron could think any harder on the subject, he was interrupted by the tiny house-elf from before. She tottered into the room, a large tray of tea and crumpets held high above her head.
"Moppy brings tea and crumpets to Young Master Draco and his friend. Moppy has prepared Young Master's tea the way he likes it."
Draco greedily seized the full cup of tea. The other cup was empty, a piping teapot beside it. Ron reached to pour it himself, only for the elf to make a choking noise.
"Moppy can make it for Master Draco's friend!" she shrieked.
Ron stared at her in horror, his eyes bugging out of their sockets.
"I er — two sugars, please. And a bit of milk."
Moppy nodded and prepared the cup, almost as thought she had never yelled at all. For having a problem with screaming women, Draco certainly did not seem fazed by his family's house-elf.
Once she was finished preparing his tea, she left the tray afloat between the two of them.
"Speaking of screaming," Ron muttered, sipping the hot beverage.
"She's meant to help. She's punished otherwise." Draco grabbed another crumpet. "I always forget you don't have elves."
Ron felt uncomfortable again. Somehow, the topic always seemed to veer into the lack of his family's wealth. He thought about the explosions at the World Cup.
He hoped they were safe.
It was nearly midnight when Lucius Malfoy returned to Malfoy Manor. He was covered in ash, and as he stepped into the sitting room, there was something in his posture that made Ron's hair stand on end. Wordlessly, Lucius sunk into the high-backed chair beside the fire. He seemed tired — but hopeful.
"Good evening, boys," he drawled.
"Good evening, Father," Draco replied instantly. "Was your mission a success?"
Lucius craned his neck. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, son. My only mission was to ensure the safety of everyone at the World Cup."
Suddenly, Draco looked sheepish.
"And — and did you?" he asked.
Lucius gave a tight smile. "I did."
Ron chewed on his lip. "Did you see my family? Were they all right?"
"They were fine," Lucius said, his tone bored, "but they were indeed searching for you. I informed your father I sent you here as soon as I heard the explosion. He will be coming to fetch you shortly."
Stomach churning, Ron asked, "Did he seem mad at me? I — I think he wanted me to go back to the tent after the match but —"
"I explained very thoroughly it was for your safety," Lucius intervened. He then snapped his fingers. "Moppy!"
Moppy appeared in the room, a look of terror on her face. Ron had a feeling it was Lucius that did the "punishing" Draco had spoken of.
"You were meant to come back to the tent!" Ron's father exclaimed.
While he had been quietly polite in front of the Malfoys, he was ready to give Ron a right tongue-lashing as soon as they got back to the Burrow.
"I was getting ready to!" Ron said defensively. He was sitting on their lumpy sofa in the sitting room, his father pacing on the rug before him. "But then — then something blew up and Draco's dad was shouting at us to go back to their house! It all happened quite fast, I wasn't exactly sure what else to do!"
"I've told you not to go over to —" Ron's father sighed and ran his hand through his thinning hair. "I'm glad you're safe. But no more going to Malfoy Manor. Something wasn't right about Lucius Malfoy tonight. I suspect he's up to something and my son, Slytherin or not, will have no part in it."
Ron felt like he had been slapped in the face.
"So that's what this is about?" he breathed. "Me being a Slytherin?"
"Of course not," Ron's father scoffed. "That's ridiculous."
"It's not! You think something's wrong with me! Think I'm some kind of Dark wizard! Just because I'm a Slytherin and you're not!"
"Ronald, I don't care that you're in Slytherin House. What I do care about is —"
"You know, the Gryffindorks aren't all that perfect either!" Ron boomed, getting to his feet. "I get better marks than Fred and George combined! And they're the ones always tormenting Filch and pranking McGonagall! Meanwhile, I spend all day studying and you and everyone else in this stupid bloody family still think I'm a screw-up!"
"Son, of course we don't think you're a screw-up," Ron's dad said softly. "Your mother and I are terribly proud of you. Third in your class last year! Much better than the twins, you're right to say. We have every reason to be proud of you — and we always have been."
"Yeah, well, you have a funny way of showing it." Ron wiped his eyes, realizing that he had been crying. He wasn't sure when he started. "I went with Draco and his dad because I figured if something was going bollocks-up you'd want me safe."
"Of course I'd want you safe, but Ronald, what you don't understand is —"
"I know you hate him, Dad. But like I said, it all happened fast. I didn't know what else to do."
Ron's father set his jaw and nodded. "I understand, son. You did the right thing, or at least what must've seemed it at the time. I'm glad you're safe."
"Yeah . . ." Ron muttered. "I'm glad you're safe too."
A thin smile graced his father's lips. "Hopefully there won't be a next time, but if there is, you come find me, okay? I know Draco is your friend, but his father is dangerous."
He then pulled Ron in for a hug, clapping him on the back as he let go.
"Now, off to bed with you. It's late — or early, depending on how you look at it, I suppose . . ."
Without a second thought, Ron started towards the creaky stairs. He had only gotten to the third step when his father interrupted him.
"One second, actually," he said curiously. "You said Lucius Malfoy had a feeling you were in danger? And that was at the very first explosion?"
Ron gave a trepidatious nod.
"Interesting," his father murmured. " Very interesting . . ."
He seemed troubled by the news, and as much as Ron hated to admit it, it had been troubling him too.
Being back at Hogwarts was comforting. There, everything was the same, from Ron's friends to the Sorting Ceremony, though Marcus Flint had finally graduated. His replacement was a fifth-year named Barnabus McFinn.
Ron found he liked this development. He would no longer have to dodge invites to spy on the girls in Gryffindor Tower. Plus, that meant they would be getting a new Quidditch Captain — hopefully one who had better-smelling breath.
As always, Slytherin gained a handful of new first-years, all of which they halfheartedly cheered for. The older students were mostly disinterested in the children joining their house. They had one question, and it seemed to be the question every year.
"Who d'you think the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher'll be?" Ron asked, cutting into his roast ham. "Dumbledore didn't say — unless the bloke's name is ' Tuck In .'"
"No idea," Blaise replied. "There's nobody new at the faculty table."
"Draco might know," Pansy said, smirking. "His father is on the Board of Governors, you know."
Ron did know. Both Draco and Pansy reminded him of this fact quite often.
"I already said I don't know who it is," Draco ground out.
Pansy shrugged at Ron. "If anyone was going to know, it was going to be Draco, so looks like we won't find out til —"
"So!" Dumbledore suddenly boomed, taking his spot at the lectern once more. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices."
The elderly headmaster rattled off several objects that the caretaker, Filch, had banned from the school, along with a reminder to stay out of the Forbidden Forest. Ron lost interest quickly and continued eating his food.
". . . duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."
Ron choked on his pumpkin juice. "What?"
"He can't do that!" Draco hissed. "I was going to go out for captain!"
". . . due to an event that will be starting in October and continuing throughout the school year . . ."
"Draco, you must report this to your father," Pansy whispered. "He'll be livid ."
"Trust me, he's certainly going to be hearing about this," Draco growled.
"I just don't get why ," Ron lamented. "What event could be so important —"
Before he could finish his sentence, thunder roared and someone bust open the Great Hall doors. The man that walked inside was one that Ron recognized. In fact, just that morning, his father had said he wouldn't be accompanying Ron to the train station due to something the man needed help with.
"That's Mad-Eye Moody," Ron breathed.
A deep scar cut across the hulking man's cheek, forking at a swiveling eye that Ron was quite certain had to be fake. He wore a black cloak, and when the doors closed loudly behind him, he did not flinch. Instead, he waddled between the tables, ignoring the students as they all spun round to watch him in awe.
With each step, his wooden leg clunked against the stone floor.
He was headed straight towards Dumbledore.
"There's no way," Ron whispered. "He can't be the —"
". . . our new Defense Againt the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore. "Professor Moody."
Nobody clapped.
"He works for the Ministry," Draco pointed out. "My father knows him."
"My father works with him," Ron added. "No idea what a bloke like him's doing teaching a Defense Against the Dark Arts class to kids . Rumor's that he's bloody mad nowadays."
"Is it even safe to let him, then?" Pansy asked, whipping around to look at Draco. "He looks scary, Draco. I think you need to tell your father about this."
Blaise shook his head. "That class is cursed already. Dumbledore is just taking the piss now, I suspect. Not much to be done about it."
The chatter surrounding the new professor had become a downright din, a din that Dumbledore rudely interrupted.
"As I was saying," he said loudly, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months . . ."
"Better be exciting," Ron muttered. "If it's enough to cancel Quidditch . . ."
". . . my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
Everyone exchanged astonished glances, even Draco, who always tried to play it cool.
"You're JOKING!" Fred shouted from the Gryffindor table.
Dumbledore smiled. "I am not joking, Mr. Weasley, though . . . I did hear an excellent one over summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun . . ."
"We have to enter," Draco said, ignoring the elderly headmaster as he began rambling on about death tolls from tournaments past.
Ron nodded. "Most definitely."
"If we win —"
"Eager though I know all of you will be . . ." Dumbledore said, raising his voice over the new pandemonium. "The Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction . . ."
Draco and Ron exchanged nervous glances. Ron had never heard of the Triwizard Tournament having an age limit, and he suspected Draco hadn't either.
"Seventeen?" Ron complained, punching his pillow. They were finally in the fourth-year boys' dormitory, and he could speak without Pansy or the loud Gryffindors interrupting. "We're plenty old to enter! And what about the other schools? Do we have to share the castle with a bunch of people that don't even stand a chance winning? He said their entire schools were coming. That must mean the younger ones too, then? Where are they going to put them?"
"It's a load of dragon-shit," Crabbe growled.
Draco did not seem as bothered as Ron or Crabbe. In fact, he seemed deep in thought.
"You both know how the Goblet of Fire works, right?" he asked, lacing his hands lazily behind his head.
"Well yeah," Ron replied. "Whoever's names are drawn are the three Triwizard Champions."
"And the schools have to abide by it — no matter what they decided with the Ministry. It's tradition. There's some kind of magic involved," Draco went on.
"Yeah, and?" Ron asked, still confused. He turned to Nott and Blaise. "Am I missing something here?"
Blaise looked annoyed, but Nott appeared to be mulling something over. Whatever Draco was thinking, Nott knew. Ron found they were often in tune like that, and sometimes, it made him feel a little jealous.
Draco was his best friend, after all. Theodore Nott may have known him since childhood, but it was Ron that Draco chose to spend the most time with.
"Don't you see?" Draco pressed. "All we have to do is get our names in the Goblet. We don't have to be seventeen at all."
He was right.
They just had to get their names in the Goblet, but for some reason, that seemed more difficult than it sounded.
Ron was not excited for Care of Magical Creatures. He hated the professor, Hagrid, and it was his first class with the Gryffindorks. All in all, he suspected it was going to be the start of a terrible year in a terrible class with terrible Potter and the terrible swot.
"It's going to be terrible ," he lamented, voicing his concerns to Draco as they stormed down the hill towards Hagrid's hut. "Remember the bloody hippogriffs last year? How's he going to outdo those ?"
"Well, if something happens to me because he made us mess with something as stupid as he brought in last year, my father will have his job," Draco declared. "Maybe I should take a scratch on purpose just to see the giant freak dragged from the grounds."
Suddenly, someone bumped into Ron's shoulder — hard.
"Quit talking about him like that," Potter growled, the swot behind him with her arms folded.
"Ah right, I always forget Potter's in love with the dirty oaf," Draco said, throwing Ron a smirk. "You have a date with him that I ought to keep in mind? Don't worry, Potter, I can put off screwing with him so you can get the goodnight kiss you've been dreaming of."
Potter rolled his eyes. "All I'm saying is you two better watch it. If you don't, you'll have to answer to me ."
Draco snorted. "Yeah, we're real scared. What're you going to do? Send the freak after me? Suppose that would be pretty terrifying. The stench alone might kill us."
"Stop talking about him!" Potter shouted, suddenly pulling his wand out.
"Harry, no!" the swot scolded, snatching his wand from his hand. "They're not worth it." She shot Draco and Ron a glare. "Not even close to worth it."
With a scoff, Draco seized Ron by the arm. "C'mon, Weasley. Here's to hoping it's just another year of Flobberworms. Lucky for us, if last year's anything to go by, it'll probably be Potter that dies in this bloody class."
They walked slowly, allowing the Golden Gryffindorks to scurry down the hill and join their favorite professor.
"Potter's gonna find himself on the end of the wrong wand if he keeps lashing out like that," Draco muttered, dragging his feet.
Ron nodded and followed Draco down the hill. In the echo of the valley, they heard the giant's booming voice.
". . . yeh'll be able ter raise 'em yerselves! Thought we'd make a bit of a project of it."
As they joined the rest of the class, Ron saw what exactly Hagrid had in store for them that day. In several crates, there were ugly, ashen grey creatures scuttling about, using their strangely-protruding legs to thrash about in the crates.
Ron made a face. They were quite grotesque.
"And why would we want to raise them?" Draco drawled, Crabbe and Goyle wheezing as they caught up behind him. "I mean, what do they do ?"
Hagrid did not seem to have an answer for that. Instead, he simply instructed the class to feed them. Nobody was quite sure how, as they had no discernible heads.
"And I thought the hippogriffs were bad," Ron muttered, trying to figure out how on earth to feed one of the, what he learned to be called, Blast-Ended Skrewts.
Ron was not sure what he expected from having class with Mad-Eye Moody, but he certainly did not think he would see all three Unforgivable Curses performed by the deranged professor. By the silence in the corridor, he suspected he was not the only one.
Finally, Crabbe said, "Longbottom looked like he was gonna piss himself."
Draco snorted, yet said nothing else.
Ron could not be bothered to reply either. He was still thinking about what he had seen in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Room.
Mind control. Torture. Death.
The curses were used on spiders, which Ron hated, but still, it felt wrong .
Clenching his jaw, he followed his friends to the Great Hall, quite certain he would not be eating any lunch.
The next time Ron came into contact with an Unforgivable Curse, it was cast upon him. He was unprepared when he and Draco were the first ones to that awful class, completely unaware that Mad-Eye Moody was allowed to cast such terrible spells on students.
Whether he was allowed to or not didn't matter, because he did it without pause.
"Imperio!"
Ron wasn't warned. Immediately, a thought came into his head, and he knew it was not a thought of his own, yet he couldn't fight it.
Hop.
Ron hopped. Draco laughed at him, and Ron wanted to give him a glare of contempt, but he couldn't. There was another action he had to perform.
Hop on one foot.
So he did.
It was short-lived, the curse. Mad-Eye Moody moved onto Draco next, forcing him to untie his shoes and clap his hands. Suddenly, Draco did not think Ron's experience was so funny.
They made their way to their seats and witnessed the rest of the class fall under the spell.
Only Potter managed to resist it.
The incident left Ron feeling cold and violated. He was quiet during meals and the rest of his classes for the following days, even idly agreeing to come see the Blast-Ended Skrewts outside of class hours. He wasn't going to show up, of course, but at the time, it was easier than arguing with the giant oaf.
Then, something finally brought him some sense of feeling.
Posted by the entry hall, there was a sign. Students were crowding there, and even in his joyless daze, Ron found himself curious. He followed Crabbe and Goyle there, his brow furrowed.
"They're coming on Friday!" Ernie Macmillan exclaimed.
"Who?" Ron asked, pushing through the crowd.
"Durmstrang," Millicent Bulstrode answered. "My cousin goes there."
"And Beauxbatons!" added Pansy Parkinson, shoving her way past the swot and a Gryffindor girl named Lavender Brown. "That's in France ."
Everyone already knew the two schools would be joining them eventually, but the exact date had been a mystery since Dumbledore announced it at the beginning of the term. Ron had not been excited about them coming to Hogwarts before, but now, he wasn't sure what he felt. It certainly wasn't anger.
"Durmstrang's wicked," Goyle said, smirking. "Total Dark Arts school."
"Yeah, but they can't do the Dark Arts here," Ron pointed out quickly, thinking back to Moody's class.
He wanted nothing to do with the Unforgivable Curses, and it made him queasy to think that an entire school worth of kids could be shooting them around the corridors.
"No, of course not!" the swot cut in. "Nobody's allowed to do . . . that. It's clearly stated against school rules."
"Yeah, well, it didn't stop Moody," Ron muttered.
He expected her to argue with him, as she always did, yet all she did was nod.
"You're right. It didn't."
The students eagerly filed their way out of the entry hall to the front of the school, where they were meant to meet the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Ron had heard many excellent things about Durmstrang, mostly from Draco, but still, he could not shake the fear of the Unforgivable Curses.
Draco, however, did not seem worried.
"Wish my father would've sent me there," Draco said, his pace fast as they joined the throng of other students. "They teach the things you actually need to know. Nothing pointless like Magical Creatures or Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"They teach Dark Magic there, don't they?" Crabbe asked, echoing the rumor Ron had heard from Goyle before.
Draco shot him a glare. "Not so loud, Crabbe. If McGonagall learns that, she might kick the whole lot of them out."
Crabbe sheepishly glanced at McGonagall and gulped before following the rest of the crowd outside. There, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were forming a line, excitedly shouting back and forth about what was apparently a flying house.
"A flying house?" Ron asked, trying to push his way to the front of the crowd.
That he wanted to see.
Unfortunately, he did not get the opportunity, because a group of Ravenclaws lined up and blocked his view, one of them going so far as to look behind her and smirk at him. He grumbled under his breath. Being a Slytherin always seemed to have its drawbacks. Hatred from other houses was just one of them.
"Whoa! Look at the Black Lake!" a young Hufflepuff girl exclaimed.
The crowd turned to watch the water ripple and grumble, and there were some murmurs of it just being the giant squid.
Then the sails raised from the deep.
The entire student body was abuzz, pointing and whispering and shouting. It wasn't every day that a ship emerged from beneath the lake.
"That's Durmstrang's ship," said Barnabus McFinn. "See the flag there? That's their school crest."
The chatter continued, until finally, it was replaced by gasps.
Ron did not know what caused their reaction until she started towards the castle.
The woman was impossibly tall, much taller than the giant, but prettier, despite her clearly being a giant herself. Her mouth was pressed in a thin, mauve line and her robes were obviously expensive, likely made of velvet and silk.
Ron had never seen anyone like her before.
"My dear Madame Maxime," Dumbledore said, raising her gargantuan hand to his lips. "Welcome to Hogwarts. It's truly a pleasure to have you and your students."
"Dumblydorr. I 'ope you are well," she purred, her French accent thick. "We are pleased to be 'ere, zough I fear zee pupils may not be dressed for zis cold wezzer."
"Ah, of course. It is quite a lot colder here than in France."
"Yes . . . is Karkaroff 'ere yet?" she asked, seeming a bit uneasy.
"He should be here any minute," Dumbledore replied. "You and your students may get warm in the Great Hall, if you'd like?"
"I zink we would, yes . . . but zee 'orses —"
"Not to worry. Our Care of Magical Creatures professor will be pleased to care for them once he — completes his other tasks." Dumbledore forced a smile. "Please, do go in and make yourself at home."
She said something that sounded like "single-malt whiskey" but Ron was certain he hadn't heard her right. The students then made room for her to glide towards the castle.
That is when the carriage doors opened again.
Several students stepped out, all rubbing their arms, cold from the Highlands air and their thin silk robes. As they scurried past, Ron watched the way they walked, rather intrigued by several of the girls' backsides.
But it was the girl at the end of the line that drew the most attention.
She had high cheekbones and plump lips, with flaxen hair and arched eyebrows. Ron found himself enamored by her, and he did not seem to be the only one. Potter was watching her too, and Granger was looking pretty put out by it.
The girl passed by and smiled at Ron. His heart fluttered. If girls could make boys melt into puddles, Ron was as close to a puddle as he could get. He couldn't be rid of the feeling, though he found he didn't much like it.
In fact, he was so stuck in that feeling that he barely noticed the ship reach the dock.
The students and staff of Durmstrang deboarded the ship and marched towards the castle, dressed in thick furs. They were all stocky in build, including the man that led them. He had a crooked nose and thick black hair that framed the sneer he wore proudly.
The students seemed afraid of him. They held their heads down, watching the ground with each high step that they took.
"Look at their manners," Draco whispered. "The old codger never bothered teaching us that. My father's always said manners are more valuable than anything."
Ron wasn't sure he thought staring at the ground to be manners, but he just nodded in agreement.
The man at the front had a walking stick, and his sneer turned upwards into a grin when he exclaimed, "Dumbledore!"
Dumbledore did not seem as happy to see him.
"Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore said, his tone strained. He shook the man's hand and clapped him on the shoulder.
"It is great to be here, old friend," Karkaroff said, chuckling and looking at the school. "My students and myself much look forward to our time here."
"And I look forward to being your gracious host," Dumbledore replied. His blue eyes scanned the horizon of red wool and tanned hides. "Your students are well-dressed for the weather here."
"We are used to the cold, but I do think it would be best we get in to the warmth. If you do not mind, of course."
"Yes, please, please," Dumbledore said, gesturing the great double doors to the castle. "We'll gladly have you in the Great Hall for a feast. I suspect it will be a cultural delight for many of your students, as the elves have opted for an exclusively British menu."
"That sounds splendid," Karkaroff said in a way that made Ron think it didn't sound splendid to him at all. "Viktor, come."
That was when the person standing behind the Durmstrang headmaster looked up. Ron gasped.
It was Krum .
Many rushed to get Viktor Krum's autograph — mostly girls. Alas, Ron found himself joining them, entranced by his sheer presence.
On the field, he was an artist. In person, he was art.
He was brawny with a strong jaw and dark eyes, only highlighted by his great height. Ron was lanky for his age, but as he looked up at Viktor Krum, waiting at the back of the line of screaming girls, he felt small.
He wanted nothing more than to be his friend.
Apparently, the guest list was not limited to those from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. From his place in line to meet Krum, Ron noticed Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch were seated at the faculty table, murmuring amongst themselves the same as the house tables were beginning to do.
Ron then turned around to see the Beauxbatons students had mostly chosen to sit with Ravenclaw. His eyes found the girl he had seen earlier and frowned. He wished she had chosen to sit at the Slytherin table.
"And you? You are here to have something signed?"
Ron whipped back around, his face bright red. What if Krum saw him staring at that girl?
He cleared his throat. "Erm — erm, yeah. If you . . ." He reached inside of his robes and pulled out his collection of Chocolate Frog cards.
Even at fourteen, he still carried it close.
"You're erm — you're in here somewhere," Ron said awkwardly, shuffling through the cards.
Krum waited, looking quite patient but Ron feared that he was growing irate. Finally, Ron sheepishly handed him one of his Armando Dippet cards instead. Krum accepted it and frowned.
"This is not me," he pointed out.
"Sorry," Ron apologized, rifling through the cards again. "I er — I'm not sure — oh, here you are."
He handed Krum the card, excited to have the Seeker's autograph.
But before Krum could sign it, Dumbledore made his way to the podium. Beside it, there was a grand, glittering casket.
"Ve should sit," Krum said.
To Ron's amazement, Krum sat right beside him, fixated on Dumbledore as the old man smiled halfheartedly at the entire room. His smile was never full, and Ron was annoyed with him for it. Did he not know he was in the presence of the greatest Seeker of all time?
"The moment has come . . . for the Triwizard Tournament."
Then Dumbledore opened the casket and revealed it. A goblet full of green, mesmerizing fire.
They had barely stepped foot inside of their dormitory when Draco sat on his bed and raised his brows at everyone.
"So who's putting their name in the Goblet?" Draco asked. "Obviously, I'll be entering mine."
Nott did not seem surprised, but Ron found himself perplexed. Fortunately, Blaise spoke for him.
"Did you not hear the part about the Age Line? There's no getting past it. It's the same magic they used to use at those galas we were never allowed in as kids."
"We couldn't perform magic as kids, Blaise," Draco spat. "Now, we have the entire Hogwarts library available to us. There's a way past that line, and we're getting past it."
Ron shot Blaise a concerned look. He did not want to test out any kind of magical line that Dumbledore made. As far as he knew, the old fart used some sort of spell that would make all Slytherins swell up like they took a bath in hot Bubotuber pus.
"Why oh why do you idiots want to put your names in that blasted goblet?" Nott finally cut in. "Expose yourself to danger like that? For what? A little bit of attention from a couple of slags? Seems an awful waste. Dumbledore may be a bumbling moron, but he wasn't wrong when he spoke of death tolls. I've done a fair share of reading about this tournament and it's a Gryffindor's wet dream. Fire. Curses. Dangerous potions. Those are some of the mild tasks they've had in past years. I expect better from Slytherins . . . Besides Draco, you know you have future — " He offered a thin smile. " — plans ."
Draco glared at him. Ron wondered what Nott was talking about.
"Winning the Triwizard Tournamnet would put me in a good position for those future plans ," Draco snarled.
"Mmm," Nott hummed. "Well, best of luck getting past that Age Line. Don't come crying to me when you lose a leg trying."
An Aging Potion — that was Draco's idea.
He had read about them and was certain he could brew one, but the more time Ron helped him rifle through Snape's storage cupboard, the less confident he was.
"You're sure this'll work?" Ron inquired, anxiously.
Draco smirked.
"I'm sure."
And with that, he swiped several ingredients.
"They're drawing names at the end of the week," Draco whispered at dinner a few days later. "The potion will be done just in time."
Barnabus covered his ears. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you talking about all this."
"Talking about all of vhat?" Viktor Krum asked, settling beside Ron with a frown.
Ron felt his cheeks flush.
"Nothing," Draco said, smiling tightly. "Just a little project." He cut into his ham. "I heard you plan on entering the tournament?"
Krum nodded. "Naturally. It is vhy I came here."
"Right. Of course."
Draco's knife squealed against the plate.
"They're doing it!" someone suddenly shouted.
"You two are idiots!" Ginny yelled.
Ron furrowed his brow and turned around.
His brothers, Fred and George, were headed towards the Age Line, two vials in their hands. He shot a glance at Draco.
"Did you — you didn't tell my brothers about — ?"
Draco was fuming, clutching onto his goblet so hard his hand was going white. Ron assumed he, in fact, had not told them about the Aging Potion.
"Bottoms up, Fred!"
"Bottoms up, George!"
And they downed the vials and hopped past the Age Line.
Excitedly, they began to celebrate, pumping their fists in victory.
Then they were blown back out onto the floor beyond the Age Line, growing grey beards and long, tangled eyebrow hairs.
Ron choked on his dinner.
"Age Potion's off the menu, then, eh?" he said, feeling kind of grateful his brothers tried it first.
Draco was still fuming — even more than before.
Draco was trying to devise plans to enter his name until the very last day. Alas, his smartest idea, Polyjuice Potion, would take far too long to brew.
He accepted that he would not be a Trizward Champion, and Ron accepted it too.
In fact, Ron was starting to think it might be for the better. The words "death toll" had been ringing in his mind for weeks now.
The day the names were to be pulled, Ron decided he would be rooting for Krum, if he was drawn, of course.
And he was.
So was Fleur Delacour, the beautiful girl from Beauxbatons that he had been watching before.
And Cedric Diggory. Draco scoffed but Ron didn't feel like he was the worst choice.
Then . . . as Dumbledore was wrapping up the ceremony . . . the Goblet whooshed to life once more. Dumbledore furrowed his brow.
Then the parchment flew in his hands, and he looked up at the crowd.
"Harry Potter," he said quietly. Then louder, "Harry Potter!"
The Great Hall came to a roar. It was not a happy one.
"How did he do it?" Ron asked, collapsing onto the common room couch. "He's terrible at Potions. There's no way he —"
"Wasn't a potion," Draco sniffed. "I'm sure of that."
"Then what could it've been? Unless he's been lying about his age since we started school, he couldn't have done it."
"He's Dumbledore's favorite," Draco said darkly. "Though, I wouldn't be surprised if the Ministry steps in at this point. That Goblet isn't supposed to give more than three names. There might be an investigation."
"I thought you couldn't change the Goblet's ruling," Ron said, confused.
"Not if it follows the tradition, but this doesn't," Draco replied. "This is worth investigating. It has to be. It's the Tri wizard Tournament, not the Quad wizard Tournament."
Blaise snorted. "And what d'you reckon is going to happen when the Ministry comes after Dumbledore , of all people? You really think something will come of it?"
Draco cracked a smirk.
"He's not as powerful as you think, Blaise. According to my father, the Minister hates him."
"Enough to send him to Azkaban? Doubt it," Blaise retorted.
"I guess we'll just have to see then, won't we?"
Ron cleared his throat. "At least Krum was one of the choices, though. No way Potter can beat him ."
The others mumbled in agreement.
