The Burrow was immaculate — not as immaculate as Malfoy Manor, but it was much cleaner than Ron had ever seen.

Bustling around the house was his mother, cursing under her breath and casting charms haphazardly in every direction. It had been that way for weeks; ever since his older brothers returned, she had been enchanting brooms and rags to scour every surface, every crevice, and every bump.

"I'm telling you, she's gonna kill them," Ron told the twins, shaking his head. "She's bloody furious."

"Don't think she'll kill Bill or Charlie — that girlfriend of Bill's, though . . ." Fred trailed off, brows raised.

Ron held in a groan. His brother, Bill, was officially attached to none other than Fleur Delacour — the girl Ron fancied when he was in his fourth year. She was still attractive, with a pointed nose and flaxen hair, but after a few weeks of living with both her and his mother, he couldn't say he was all that jealous of Bill. Their mother was always shouting at him over something Fleur did, no matter how miniscule.

As the weeks dragged on, Ron got used to her being there, and it became easier and easier to ignore her.

Besides, he had more important things to worry about. The whole family did.

Aside from his mother's dislike of Fleur, she had other reasons to be upset with his brothers. They were getting heavily involved with Potter, and they were starting to bring their associates in and out of the Burrow. Worse yet, whenever her back was turned, they would encourage Ginny to get involved too.

Ron did not know much about Potter's organization — and Bill and Charlie refused to tell him anything — but he did know they had something to do with Lucius Malfoy being sent to Azkaban and the attack on Dolores Umbridge. Apparently, Potter hadn't been lying about the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but that hardly excused everything else he'd done.

Rumors even suggested he went to the Department of Mysteries to bring back He-Who-Most-Not-Be-Named himself — just to rally support for his radical agenda.

Ron wasn't so sure about that claim — it seemed farfetched, especially considering what he knew of Lucius Malfoy — but he did know it was Potter's fault that Draco was suffering.

Worried for his friend, Ron had been exchanging letters with the other Slytherin all summer long. He naturally lamented his father's absence, and Ron took it upon himself to tell him about his family colluding with Potter's so-called army. It was risky to tell Draco such things, but Ron found he didn't care.

His brothers — and Ginny — had made their choices, and he didn't agree with them.


"Ronald, your friend's owl is back," Fleur purred, peeking into his bedroom.

Ron practically shoved her aside on his way down the stairs. He and Draco's eagle-owl had become particularly close over the summer due to its frequent visits; Ron even knew the creature preferred beetles over frogs.

"More mail from your boyfriend," said Fred — or it could have been George, Ron didn't pay enough attention in that moment to figure it out.

"He's not my boyfriend," Ron grumbled, meeting the owl by the front door. It cawed at him as he untied the letter from its foot. "Not my fault your friends don't ever owl you."

"No, but one Angelina Johnson owls me plenty."

He was talking to George, then. Fred didn't like Angelina much at all, though Ron suspected it was because he was jealous — not of George for having a girlfriend of sorts, but rather of Angelina herself. The tall Gryffindor girl was stealing away his twin's attention, and Fred had been annoyed about it since her very first letter arrived.

Ron tore into the envelope.

"Did he tell you he loves you yet?" George prodded.

"Oh, bugger off," Ron scowled, shouldering his brother as he rushed back to his room. There, he could read without being bothered.

When he got there, he shut the door behind him and pressed his back to it.

Ron,

Your house sounds like a nightmare. It isn't any better here, I suppose. My Aunt Bellatrix is always in and out of the manor, leaving me all kinds of books and notes without telling me why. Each time she shows up, my mother seems more worried by the time she's leaving again, which is saying something, honestly. The crying has only gotten worse with her.

Things are looking rather grim for my father too. He could be given the Dementor's Kiss any day now.

I could kill Potter for all this, really. Stupid Scarhead lost his family so now he's got to tear mine apart. He's been tearing yours apart too, I guess, what with them joining the wrong side and all. If they ever do come to their wits, they'll be safe, though. Bellatrix is mad as they come but she said there's plenty room for pure-bloods, even poor ones and blood traitors. She also claims Potter won't live another year. Hopefully she's right.

See you at school,
D.L.M.

At the end of their fifth year, there had been questions regarding Draco's continued attendance to Hogwarts, but now it was confirmed: He would, in fact, be back at school. With a smile, Ron folded the parchment.

Like the rest of Draco's letters, he stuffed it in the box under his bed as a keepsake of their friendship. When the world was back to normal, Ron and Draco would have all these folded-up reminders of how bad it had been and how far they had come.

Of course, his brothers would find it rather weird that he kept them all, so he was forced to hide them away for safekeeping.

With a deep sigh, he went back downstairs to join his family.

If he could call them that, anyway.


Pandemonium flooded the Burrow. Confused, Ron rolled out of bed and crept downstairs, wondering why his mother was screaming, who she was screaming at, and why Bill and Ginny were just as loud as she was.

By the time he reached the foot of the stairs, he still could not make sense of it.

His third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Lupin, was standing there with a blue-haired woman and a big, black dog. Lupin's hands were raised in surrender and Ron's mother had her wand pointed straight at his nose. The woman with the blue hair had her wand aimed back at Ron's mother, and the dog looked just as ready to attack. It bared its teeth and snarled.

"You're being absurd, Mum," said Bill. "They're your friends ."

"No friends of mine would put my children in danger," Ron's mother barked. "And bringing — bringing him into my home ? While the Ministry is looking for him? Remus, of all the stupid things —"

Ron could have sworn she gestured the dog, but he could not make any sense of it.

"Molly, we'll be quick. We're only here for Bill and Charlie," Lupin said carefully. "Ginevra is not old enough, I've told her as much myself."

"And I told you I am!" Ginny shouted.

"Ginny, let us handle this." Bill put an arm in front of her before taking a step forward, placing himself directly between Lupin and their mother. "Mum, you know I love you, but I have to be on the right side of this. History won't forgive me — I won't forgive myself — if I'm not."

"So that's how it will be then," Ron's mother said, her voice sinking an octave.

"I'm not doing it to hurt you. You have to know that. And neither is Charlie — or Ginny! We just can't sit around while You-Know-Who prepares to take over the world! I know you're scared for us, but I know you understand too . . . You wouldn't have fought before if you didn't."

"I didn't have seven children back then," she growled. "Seven pure-blooded children who will be safe so long as they don't go meddling!"

"So that's it, is it?" the woman with the blue hair cut in coolly. "The rest of the world can go down in flames so long as your pretty little family —"

"If you'll excuse me, Nymphadora , I'm trying to have a conversation with my son."

"Don't call me Nymphadora," the woman warned, jabbing her wand towards Ron's mother. "I've told you before, Molly."

"Darling, I think —" Lupin started.

"You're in my home. You're putting my family in danger. You'll excuse me for the slip of tongue, I'm sure," Ron's mother hissed. Her eyes darted back to Bill. "If you and your brother want to do this, I can't stop you. But I don't want you bringing it into my house — or involving your siblings."

"That's not fair!" Ginny shrieked, but Bill held her back and shook his head.

"Just give it a couple years, Gin," he whispered. With a sigh he looked at Lupin and added, "I'll round Charlie up and we'll get out of here."

Nymphadora reluctantly lowered her wand. The dog growled but Lupin nudged it with his leg.

"Yes, we will," he said. "We don't ever wish to overstay any welcome. Very sorry for intruding, Molly. It won't happen again."

Ron's mother glared back at him.

"It best not."


The rest of the summer was rather uneventful. Bill and Charlie would come and go, but they never made mention of Harry Potter in the house. Ginny was a different story, though Ron found her easy enough to ignore.

She repeated the same rhetoric over and over again, after all. You-Know-Who. Death Eaters. A prophecy claiming Potter was the Chosen One , whatever that meant. All of these things seemed to come up a lot, but she always failed to point out the pesky detail that left Ron unmoved. To him, Potter seemed just as power-hungry as the other side, and had gone so far as to attack a Ministry official and break into the Department of Mysteries. How was Lucius Malfoy to blame when Potter had done the same as he had?

Ron did not particularly like Draco's father, which he would never admit to Draco, of course, but whatever happened that day seemed like a struggle between two parties both desperate to overthrow the Ministry.

In the end, Potter got away with it. Lucius Malfoy did not.

Ruminating on these things never proved helpful, though. He never learned anything new, Ginny's ramblings never changed, and the Ministry had not released any new information since Fudge — who was sacked and replaced — warned of You-Know-Who's return. The Daily Prophet was full of speculation as usual, but Ron wasn't even sure if he could trust the publication anymore. The year before, they claimed Potter a murderer. Then, all of a sudden, he's the Wizarding World's only hope? Nothing seemed like reality.

So when Ron found his mind wandering towards the unanswerable, he would simply sit in his room and reread letters from Draco, counting down the days until he returned to Hogwarts.

Then, finally, there was only one day left.

Ron packed and unpacked his trunk three times over that day, just to make sure he was not missing a single thing. He paced his room; he pulled out Draco's letters to reread before packing them away again; he lay with the covers pulled to his chin and his gaze fixated on the ceiling. The prospect of returning to Hogwarts had been taunting him all summer long, and the next day, he finally would be back.

There, he would be met with understanding.

His sister's anger and Potter's intentions would simply fade into the backdrop, for no matter what they said, when he returned to his dormitory, he would be with his very best friend.

Hogwarts had its faults — Ron knew this more than anyone — but that night, as he lay there wide awake, he could not help but appreciate its magic.


Ron was not wholly sure what to expect on the Hogwarts Express. The previous year, Draco had to sit with the other prefects on the way to school, and Ron wondered if this would be the case again. He spent the morning worrying about being seated alone with Crabbe and Goyle — because though he could tolerate them, holding a conversation with them for the entire ride was not a fate he wanted to endure.

He boarded the train, nervous as Ginny glared at him before dipping into her cabin with several other Gryffindors and Loony Lovegood, a rather unusual blonde girl known for her absurd wardrobe. Ron might have rolled his eyes if he was not so fixated on the fact he may have to supervise his house's village idiots.

With each step towards his compartment, the sense of dread grew.

Topics darted around his mind — girls, alcohol, Quidditch. Listening to Crabbe and Goyle's approach to at least two of those subjects would give him a migraine before they even reached the halfway point. Of course, Theodore Nott could be there too, and while he had the occasional clever quip, Ron was not in the mood for his cheek either.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of the compartment.

The shade was closed, blinding him to the scene he was about to walk in on. Part of him worried Draco would be there — possibly with Pansy — doing something that made Ron feel dizzyingly sick.

He'd heard stories of Hufflepuff couples that closed the shades. Apparently, they would charm their compartments to lock so they could snog all the way to Scotland.

What was he to do if he couldn't get inside? Would some internal instinct tell him if it was Draco and Pansy, or would he be forced to wonder if it was Crabbe and Millicent instead? ( That picture made him feel sick too, but in a different way.) And where was he to go in such an instance? Would he have to sit with the first-years like some kind of house reject? He had already spent five years feeling like he didn't truly belong; he couldn't stand starting off the year that way.

Drawing up his courage, he turned the knob, in fear of the worst.

To his relief, it clicked open.

He pulled on the door and immediately let out a sigh of relief as he laid his eyes upon Draco. Crabbe and Goyle were also there, but Pansy Parkinson was nowhere to be found. Theodore Nott was missing too.

"Finally, you join us," Blaise Zabini said with a smirk.

"My mum and sister had a bit of a squabble this morning," Ron muttered. "Would've been here sooner if it weren't for that."

"Was it about Potter?" Draco asked, scooting so Ron could sit beside him.

"Always is anymore."

Goyle's face twisted in confusion. "Why would they argue about Potter? Your sister bedding him or something, Weasley?"

"No, she's not bedding him!" Ron scowled. "She just thinks he's some kind of . . . hero . It's pathetic really, but that's what you get for spending too much time with all the other Gryffindorks."

"How d'you know she's not beddin' him?" asked Crabbe.

"Because she's not!"

"Potter'd go for it. I mean, your sister's fit — especially compared to Granger," Goyle pointed out. "If he had the choice —"

"She wouldn't give him the choice! Now can we please stop talking about this?"

"Bit of a sore spot, Weasley?" Goyle asked. "Can't stand the thought of Potter bending your sister over —"

"Goyle, if you don't shut up I'll hex you back to fucking London," Draco growled.

"What d'you care? She's not your sister."

"It doesn't matter whose sister she is. Your family would be ashamed if they heard the way you talk about witches."

"Whatever. Some of us have working pricks."

Suddenly, Draco's wand was at Goyle's throat. It was a blur — something that happened so quickly Ron wasn't even sure he had really seen it. He blinked, half-expecting the scene to disappear like some sort of unexplainable hallucatination.

But it didn't.

"Watch your tongue," Draco warned icily.

"And why should I do that?"

"Because I suspect you'd like to keep it."

Grip still tight on his wand, he slowly sunk back into his seat beside Ron.

Goyle touched his Adam's apple.

His eyes were fixed on the other wizard and the weapon that threatened him, clearly afraid by his friend's sudden surge of violence. Blaise quirked a curious brow; Crabbe gulped. The air had shifted. Draco Malfoy was in charge, and they knew it.

"You really believe he'd do something, don't you?" Blaise asked Goyle after a moment.

"Excuse me?" Draco spat. "Are you saying you don't believe I'd do something?"

Goyle's black eyes danced between the two boys.

"Come on, Goyle, even you can't be that dense," Blaise said, fully ignoring Draco in that way he so loathed. "It was just an empty threat, just like it always is. The worst he's ever been able to do was complain to his father but since Lucius isn't around anymore, I'd say you have nothing to worry about."

"I dunno, mate," Goyle muttered uncertainly. His gaze landed on Draco again, and then to the floor. "I don't want any trouble."

"And I'm telling you there wouldn't be any. He's too much of a coward to go blasting curses on the train." With a sly smirk, Blaise finally settled his attention to the wizard in question. "Aren't you, Draco?"

Fuming, Draco stared Blaise down.

"You really don't know, do you?"

Blaise narrowed his eyes. No Slytherin liked to be left in the dark — not even him.

"Know what?" he asked carefully, almost as though he suspected Draco was trying to trick him.

To be fair, Draco was known to do such things.

Draco, just as careful as Blaise, hesitated for a moment. Then, he glanced from the other boy to his wand and sniffed.

"You'll find out eventually. Then you'll wish you showed me a little more respect."

Blaise stared at him for a moment before letting out a scoff and standing. He muttered something about needing the toilet and quickly made his way out of the compartment, leaving the door open behind him.

Draco glared at the ajar door. Sensing his annoyance, Ron cleared his throat and closed it for him.

"Zabini's a git," he supplied.

"He's clueless is what he is. If he knew what I've been trusted with, what I'm going to do — well, let's just say he wouldn't be so reckless with his attitude."

"What're you going to do?" asked Goyle.

"Something important. More than you'll be trusted with."

"Did you take the — " Crabbe started, but Goyle elbowed him.

"Obviously not," Goyle hissed. "He's just sixteen. You have to be of age to do that."

A small smirk grew upon Draco's lips. He said nothing, yet that look he wore — it was enough to make Goyle and Crabbe raise their eyebrows and stay quiet for the rest of the trip. Perhaps Zabini was more scared than he had let on too, for he only returned when they were nearly to Hogsmeade Station.

Wordlessly, he struggled to open the door, which Ron suspected might have been a rather brilliant jinx put on by Draco rather than a jam of sorts. He was all too focused on the other boy, after all, his wand gripped tightly between pale fingers.

Zabini slammed the door behind him, jumping a bit when it closed with ease.

"You took a while," said Ron coolly.

"Yeah, where were you this whole time?" Draco asked.

"Someone caught me in the aisle to deliver a note. Our new Potions professor wanted me to join him and some others for lunch." Blaise smirked. "Everyone that was well-connected was there, so obviously it was small. Quite exclusive."

"Wait, we have a new Potions professor? What happened to Snape?" Ron inquired.

"I asked him that. Snape's going to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"Who is he? The new professor. And who else was at this little lunch party?" Draco asked. "You said it was everyone that was well-connected."

Ron suspected Draco was confused why he hadn't received an invitation. He was used to the life of wealth and prestige, after all, yet now that his father was a criminal, it was unlikely anyone would want to be associated with the Malfoys for quite some time.

It wasn't Ron's place to explain this, though. Besides, he didn't have the heart to.

"His name's Slughorn," Blaise replied. "And it was the usual — mostly. Some of the guests were obvious choices, some less so. McLaggen from Gryffindor was there. That surprised me a bit."

"Slughorn . . . My father's mentioned him before. And McLaggen's no shock, his uncle's big with the Ministry," Draco said, nodding. "Who else?"

"Someone called Belby — Ravenclaw, I think. Longbottom, Potter, Weasley's feisty sister . . ."

Ron scowled at that. "Don't call my sister feisty."

"He invited Longbottom?" Draco exclaimed. "Seriously?"

"He was there so I assume so," Blaise said, examining his fingernails in that annoying way Pansy usually did.

"Potter's no surprise . . . the precious Chosen One ," muttered Draco.

"Why Weasley's sister?" Goyle asked. "What's so special about her? I mean, besides her arse."

"Do — not — talk — about — my — sister's — arse," Ron warned through gritted teeth.

Blaise shrugged. "Something about Quidditch, I don't know."

"Well, I pity his taste," Draco said decidedly. "Shameful, really. My father used to say he was a good wizard. Either he's gone senile or he thought I'd be in the prefect carriage —"

"Don't bank on any future invitations, Malfoy. He asked me about Nott's father."

"And?"

" And he brought up what happened at the Ministry . . . They used to be good friends, apparently, he and Nott Sr. But he's keeping his distance now . . . I don't think he wants to be associated with Death Eaters."

Draco barked a laugh. Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering in the background too.

"Fine, hardly my problem," said Draco. "I probably won't even be at Hogwarts next year, so no need to make friends with fat, useless professors."

"What d'you mean you won't be at Hogwarts?" Ron asked, frowning.

"Let's just say I'll have moved onto bigger things — if all goes according to plan."

" Bigger things? What d'you mean — "

The train screeched to a halt, cutting Ron off. Still, his mind was abuzz, wondering what exactly Draco had been talking about.

He supposed he would just have to ask him another time — when they were rid of the others. Anxious, he tailed Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini out of the compartment, until he realized Draco was not in tow.

"Are you coming?" Ron wheeled around to ask.

"Go on without me. I want to check something."

"Oh, I can help," Ron replied. He was eager to seize the opportunity to interrogate his friend further, especially since they would be stuck with the others for the rest of the night.

"No, I need to check it alone," Draco rasped. "I'll catch up with you shortly, okay?"

Ron wanted to protest, but he knew it would not get him anywhere. Still without answers, he left the cabin, and caught up with the other three boys.


The Great Hall was as loud as ever, with buzzwords like "You-Know-Who" and "the Chosen One" being thrown around all too often, much like they were back at the Burrow. The Slytherin table was, as usual, the least obnoxious of the four, even when Draco showed up late.

"Everything okay?" asked Ron.

"Just grand now that I've busted Potter's nose and he's headed back to King's Cross," Draco said simply, placing his napkin on his lap.

"You busted his nose?"

"Shattered it completely. Deserved it, the wanker. He was spying on us."

"Spying on us? You mean he —"

"Yes, and seemed right bloody surprised when I taught him that little lesson. What did he think was going to happen, eavesdropping like that?"

"It's Potter. I don't think he does much thinking," Ron pointed out.

"That's because he can't think," Goyle quipped.

"Because he's an idiot," added Crabbe.

A few more jokes at the Scarhead's expense were exchanged between the boys, Ron and Draco quick with their jabs and Crabbe and Goyle supplying their own when they could find gaps in the conversation. The two boys were not nearly as witty as Ron and Draco were — Ron could see the way Draco stopped, irate with them for cutting in, and frankly, Ron couldn't blame him. They never could keep up, and after six years of being schooled with them, it was getting a bit old.

"Are you going to get rid of Granger too, Malfoy?" asked Goyle eventually.

"No plans to yet. She's slightly more tolerable without Potter around," Draco said nonchalantly. "Still a Mudblood but —"

"Whoa, you really did break his nose," breathed Crabbe, eyes lit up in wonder as he turned in the direction of the great oak doors.

Draco swiveled around; Ron followed suit.

By the entryway was Potter, garnet trails of blood running from his nose.


The start-of-term feast only earned Potter even more attention. Showing up late had given him the spotlight, and the select few that did not seem to be talking about him suddenly were. Ron knew Draco blamed himself for this, so he decided not to say anything about it. Instead, they ate, listened to Dumbledore's boring announcements, and shot pointed glares at Pansy and Nott, who were looking strangely cozy.

Once the feast was over, they headed straight for the dungeons.

It was the only place where they would be safe from Potter's fan club, as there was an unspoken rule in Slytherin: Gryffindors were the enemy, and especially Gryffindors by the name of Harry Potter.

"Pure-blood," Draco uttered, granting them access to the common room.

Ron was the first to step in behind him, then Zabini, Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, and lastly Crabbe. Younger students held their heads lowly as they too entered the room, quickly finding spots on the floor and in the corners, well aware of their lack of seniority.

Ron sat down on the sofa beside Draco across from a handful of murmuring seventh-years. The place was just as he remembered it, dark and elegant, with soft emerald light pouring in from the lake in a beacon of the house colors. The perfect ambience to catch up with his best friend.

"I can't believe we have nearly every class together," he said nearly twenty minutes later, comparing he and Draco's schedules for the third time. "Except Arithmancy . . . How is that one, anyway?"

"Better than Trelawney's class."

"That's not saying much though, is it?" Ron laughed and looked at Crabbe and Goyle, who were standing by the fireplace, chattering on to Millicent and Daphne Greengrass. "Oi, Crabbe, Goyle, what about you two? Still in second-year Charms?"

"No," Goyle said defensively.

"But you were held back," Draco pointed out. "So you're in fifth -year Charms."

"Didn't you fail Care of Magical Creatures too?" Ron added.

Goyle went pink in the face. "It's none of your business, Weasley."

"Damn, so that's a yes then. Bit bollocks, that. Draco and I opted out of taking the N.E.W.T. for it. Joke of a subject, really . . ."

"And it's taught by the half-breed," Draco sneered.

"Yeah, he's even worse than Trelawney," Ron replied. "Sad you're stuck another year there, mate. Make sure you pass this time."

"At least he'll have Crabbe with him. He failed too," Draco said. "Speaking of which, it's poor Crabbe we have to worry about, isn't it? All alone in fifth-year Astronomy with Sinistra and the O.W.L. students."

"Sinistra's not all bad, at least. Could've been worse," said Ron. " Three classes, though? We told you two to study harder —"

"Malfoy, we need to talk."

Ron frowned as the familiar voice interrupted him. At the entrance of the common room was Theodore Nott.

"It's important?" Draco asked.

Theo nodded, expression unreadable.

"All right, then." Draco gestured Goyle, Crabbe, and then settled his gaze on Ron. "Don't have too much fun without me."

Those were his last words before he left the common room. He did not return by curfew.


Entering the Potions Room felt strange without Snape there to greet them. Instead, Professor Slughorn, a fat, walrus-mustached man, was lingering by the chalkboard, carefully watching a golden cauldron that bubbled on Snape's old desk. Ron followed Draco to their usual spot, tailed by Nott and Blaise. The latter earned quite the warm welcome.

"Zabini!" exclaimed Slughorn, glancing up from the mystery potion. "Oho, how good to see you here! I expect great things from you, you know, considering your mother's aptitude for potion-work!"

Blaise smirked, not at Slughorn, but at Draco, who had scoffed.

"I think you will find I take after her quite a bit, Professor. As we discussed before, she is very dear to me."

"What a prat," Ron muttered.

Though Draco said nothing, Ron could see the shift in his expression. The tension between his eyebrows had lifted, and somehow, he seemed at ease.

After a few minutes, the bell finally sounded.

Ron looked around the room to see who would be taking N.E.W.T.-level Potions alongside them. There were several cauldrons bubbling around the few aisles, all close to the handful of students there. Snape had set the bar reasonably high, so he wasn't surprised to see that the class was small, and there were only a few students from each house. Most notably, Granger was sitting alone, and Potter was nowhere to be found.

"Oi, Draco," Ron whispered, nudging his friend. "Potter couldn't cut it in Potions."

Immediately, Draco's gaze shot towards Granger, who was neatly placing her textbook on the table in front of her. A smile suddenly graced his lips, and Ron felt his stomach whirl. Something about pleasing Draco made Ron happier than anything else; perhaps it was simply because he knew how hard it was to accomplish anymore.

Draco had gone through hell over the last year. Every bit of joy Ron could give him, he deserved.

"Now then, scales out, everyone! And potion kits —"

Before Slughorn could finish his sentence, the doors to the classroom swung open and in marched Potter, panting and emptyhanded. Draco swore under his breath.

"Harry! How lovely to see you, m'boy! I was afraid you wouldn't be joining us!" Slughorn clapped his hands together. "I was just having everyone get out their scales, potion kits, and textbooks, so if you'd please join the rest of the class in doing so . . ."

"Er — I haven't got a book or scales or anything," Potter said, rubbing the back of his neck. Draco snorted at that. "I didn't realize I'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see —"

"Ah yes, Professor McGonagall did mention your concern . . . Not to worry, Harry, not to worry. We can lend you some scales without a problem . . ." Slughorn waddled towards a cupboard in the corner and began to rifle through it. "There's also a couple of old books here . . . Ah, here's the nicer of the two . . . It'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts."

"What a tosser," Ron muttered to Draco. "Showing up late and getting treated like a king for it."

"Even Granger thinks so," Draco pointed out, nodding in her direction.

Ron glanced at her to see she was indeed looking quite irate with the Scarhead, her face bright red as he shuffled towards her, new, shining book in hand. As soon as Slughorn addressed the class, her attention snapped towards him, almost as though she were trying to make up for Potter's absence by paying even better attention than usual.

"I've prepared a few potions for you all to have a look at," Slughorn went on. "Just out of interest! These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s." He gestured a cauldron fairly close to Draco and Ron. "Can anyone tell me what this one is?"

Ron examined it without getting too close. It looked like simple boiling water, but it smelled of nothing. His hand shot into the air at the same time as Granger's.

"Yes . . . the redhead there," Slughorn said.

"Veritaserum," Ron replied, quite confident in his answer. "Sometimes called Truth Serum."

"Very good, very good!" Slughorn said excitedly. He then gestured one nearest to the Ravenclaw table. "And this one?"

Granger's hand flew up again, a second before Blaise's.

Slughorn called on her, and she quickly answered, "Polyjuice Potion."

" Polyjuice Potion?" Draco hissed. "How did she —"

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here . . . yes, my dear?" Slughorn asked, grinning at Granger who had raised her hand yet again.

"It's Amortentia, sir!"

"Indeed, it is . . . And it may seem foolish to ask, but do you know what it does?"

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world," she said quickly. Her cheeks tinged pink as Potter immediately turned away from her. "The steam rises in spirals, and it always looks like liquid mother-of-pearl. It also smells different to everyone. Me, for example. I smell broom polish and —" Her cheeks reddened even more and she stopped speaking.

"May I ask your name, my dear?" Slughorn asked, seemingly bewildered by her.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Granger, you say? Hmm . . ." Slughorn tapped his chin. "Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger? The founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born."

Draco leaned towards Nott and whispered something to which both of them sniggered. Frowning, Ron whispered, "What'd you say to Nott?"

"Just a little inside joke," Draco uttered.

Ron felt a slight surge of something in his chest. He couldn't quite place what it was — and then Nott leaned in and whispered something to Draco. As Draco laughed, Ron figured out what the feeling was.

It was jealousy.

". . . and it's time for us to start work! So if everyone —"

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," Ernie Macmillan said, pointing at a tiny phial filled with gold liquid.

"Oho! Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentleman, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it, Miss Granger, you can tell us what it does?"

"It's liquid luck!" Granger exclaimed. "It makes you lucky!"

Draco shot Nott a look, to which Nott nodded at once. Ron was feeling even more jealous now. In fact, he considered summoning that little phial, downing it whole, and if it really did make him lucky, maybe Nott would be expelled for being an annoying prat.

"Quite right! Ten points to Gryffindor! Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong . . . When taken in excess it is toxic, but in small doses, it's quite a special little potion . . ."

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" Michael Corner, a button-nosed Ravenclaw asked.

"Twice in my life. Once when I was twenty-four and again when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoons with breakfast. Two perfect days . . . Days so perfect I wish them for everyone, but I can only offer to one of you."

"Sir?" Potter asked, obviously confused.

"Ah, you see, it will be a bit of a prize today. If someone can make a perfect Draught of Living Death, I will gift them with this beautiful little potion. I do, however, ask, that whoever wins it uses it well."

"Draught of Living Death?" Granger questioned. "Isn't that potion quite difficult?"

"Yes, it is! Beings we are in a N.E.W.T. class, I trust you all to be safe!" Slughorn said. "You will find the directions on page ten. I wish you all luck — off you go!"

The entire class hurriedly began adding weights to their scales, yet otherwise, it was silent. Ron kept glancing past Draco at Nott.

The Liquid Luck was at stake, and if he won it, maybe the other boy would disappear after all.


"It was a scam!" Ron complained. He dodged the throng of second-years crowding the corridor. "Why say we'd win it if he didn't plan on giving it to anyone!"

"To be fair, he said we would win it if someone brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death," said Blaise. "Nobody's was perfect."

"He said Draco's was close," Ron countered. "It should've been good enough."

"He didn't say he'd give it to someone with a potion that was good enough ."

"I doubt he ever planned on giving it to us at all," Draco muttered. "But at least he saw how incompetent Potter is. Did you see the way his potion exploded in his face? What an absolute wanker."

"Granger wasn't helping him," Ron pointed out. "That's what happens when she's not babysitting him."

"I imagine she won't let it happen again, though. She was just mad he showed up late," Draco said matter-of-factly. "He's got her wrapped around his finger this year, even more than usual, I think."

"What makes you say that?" asked Ron.

"Did you see the way she went all googly-eyed when she was talking about the love potion? Broom polish. The prat smells like broom polish because he doesn't wash his bloody hands — and I imagine that's true no matter what he's polishing."

Ron made a face, rather preferring not to picture Potter doing that .

"Still fancy Granger then, do you?" Zabini asked coolly, apparently unbothered by Draco's unsettlingly vivid innuendo. "I figured you'd be over that."

"I don't fancy her! I don't even like g —" Draco stopped. He cleared his throat. "Gryffindors. Ahem. I have to use the restroom."

He strode past them quickly, leaving Ron to wonder if there was some truth in Zabini's accusation. What if Draco actually did fancy the swot?

Ron did not particularly want to think about that, but he couldn't help it either.


Inside jokes continued to be the usual for Nott and Draco. Usually, Nott was quiet, mostly offering small jabs at his leisure, but when he and Draco were alone, there was no denying that their mutterings to each other were in full swing — and Ron hated it.

Who seemed to hate it more was Pansy Parkinson.

Late one evening, Ron was leaving the dormitory for the library when he heard her voice; it was unmistakable. Hissing and furious, it was every bit the Pansy he knew since his first year at Hogwarts.

"I told you to stay away from him!"

Curious, Ron stopped in the nook that led out into the common room, peeking through the entryway just enough to see her — but ensuring she would not see him.

She stood beside the fireplace along with Nott. The embers flickered behind them, a contrast to their cross silhouettes.

"And I told you that I can't," Nott replied, his tone bored.

"But why ? Why must you be with him all the bloody time ?" Pansy lamented. "I can barely get five minutes with you anymore."

"I've already explained this to you."

"You've barely told me anything," Pansy complained. "If we're going to do this, we have to trust each other, Theo."

"So you don't trust me now?" Nott asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying you're making it pretty hard for me to. At least right now."

"You're being ridiculous —"

"Am I? You're picking him over me . If it were the other way around, how would you feel?"

"I'm not picking him over you . Merlin, Pansy. Obviously, that would be a terrible choice."

"Then what are you doing, exactly? With all the joking about and following him around like a lost fucking dog. What is that?"

"Oh, please —"

"No, Theo, explain it to me," Pansy demanded. "Explain to me exactly what it is you're doing with him all the time, and why you're spending more time with him than with me. I want to know."

Nott massaged his temples. "Look, I don't expect you to understand, but it's in our best interest to stay on his good side, all right? That's all I can say."

"His good side," Pansy repeated.

"Yes. I know it sounds a bit mental, but please , just trust me on this."

"I thought I was clear on the whole not trusting you right now thing," she growled.

"Fine, then I'm asking you — for your own safety — not to mess with him."

"For my own safety?" she laughed. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"No, it's not. He's in over his head, Pans. And the way he's been lately . . . he's dangerous. Really, really dangerous."

"Draco Malfoy? Dangerous?" Pansy snorted. "Oh please, he's not dangerous . He's a prat , and I forbid you from going anywhere near him."

"Pansy —"

"Do you know what his mother has been telling people?" Pansy asked lowly. "She's been claiming I'm barren , Theo. Like some kind of . . . like some kind of common Squib!"

"And she probably believes that."

"It's insulting," she whined. "And everyone thinks it's true, because of course, Narcissa Malfoy would know! Mrs. Greengrass has been sending my mother all kinds of letters, the Montagues' elf won't stop dropping off gift parcels, and the family healer keeps owling me treatments I can assure you I do not need. I can't — I just can't believe his family is treating me like this, after all I've done for them —"

"Malfoys will be Malfoys," Nott mused.

" — and I know the Seer didn't see an heir, but — I mean, it's just not fair . It's not my fault he's . . . you know."

"I know."

"I didn't turn him —"

"Of course not."

" — and if he just told her, none of this would be happening to me."

"You know how he is with her," Nott replied. "And you know she probably wouldn't even believe it."

Pansy barked a mirthless laugh. "Well, she will once he brings home some bloke, won't she?"

The words hit Ron like a Bludger.

Was Pansy really saying what he thought she was saying? And if she was, why wouldn't Draco have told him? Why wouldn't he trust his best friend with something like that?

Unless Nott was his best friend. Ron's heart sank at the very notion.

"I suppose so," said Nott.

"And with you hanging around him all the time," Pansy went on, "he's probably getting the wrong idea. Beings he's . . . you know."

Nott snorted. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not! Whether you know it or not, you're rather handsome, Theodore, and as much as I couldn't blame him for fancying you, you're all mine." She arched a brow. "I'd hate to have to hex him."

"If he tried anything like that , I'd have to hex him." Nott chuckled. "But seriously, don't worry about it, okay? And be nice to him. Like I said, we need to be on his good side — I really mean it."

Pansy eyed him. "Will you at least tell me why?"

Something changed in Nott's expression.

"It's best you don't know."


After that night, Ron couldn't help but feel the weight of Draco's apparent secret. It hung in the air as they ate meals together. It gave him gooseflesh when they walked to class. It danced in the cogs of his mind as he lay awake in their dormitory, waiting for sleep to take him. Sometimes during those evenings, his gaze would flick in the darkness between Draco and Nott. If Draco did fancy the other boy, Ron wasn't sure what that would mean. Of course, it shouldn't have meant anything, but it did .

Their friendship had shifted. Ron knew this even before he heard Pansy and Nott in the common room.

He saw it in the way Draco nudged Nott. He used to nudge Ron the same way, but lately, it had become less and less. Clearly, the other boy had no interest in Draco, but what would happen when someone else did? Would their companionship fade into the backdrop, only to be replaced by Draco's budding romance? Would Ron be forced out of his life, pushed to try and make new friends? Friends that could never measure up?

And with these questions stirring, there was another: How was Ron supposed to talk to him as though nothing had changed?

Ron wasn't sure, so after a few days of trying to dodge the topic, he settled for the least dangerous thing he could say to the boy he thought he knew. Hopefully, it would fill the air long enough to clear the tension — even if it was temporary.

"Quidditch tryouts on Tuesday," he announced, cutting into a kipper. "Excited?"

"I'm not going."

Shocked, Ron dropped his silverware.

"What? Why?"

"I have other things to see to," Draco said seriously.

"But — but you love Quidditch," Ron replied, still taken aback. "You're the best Seeker in Slytherin!"

"I don't have time for it this year."

Draco stabbed a grilled tomato and put it in his mouth, not making eye contact.

"But you have to play. It's our second to last year, mate, don't be such a swot you miss out," said Ron. As the words came out of his mouth, he had a realization. Perhaps, his friend did not want to play for other reasons. He lowered his voice. "Wait . . . is it because of the . . . well, you know ?"

Draco swallowed the tomato and looked up at last, staring at him. "No, I don't know. What are you trying to ask?"

Ron lowered his voice even further. "Well, I just thought it could be the — er — the changing rooms."

"The changing rooms ? What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"I mean — well, you know, because of the —" Ron stopped himself, deciding that it was probably not the best time to reveal what he heard Pansy and Nott discussing. Instead, he sighed. "Look, you just can't give up on Quidditch, mate. Whatever you're busy with, you'll find time. Practices are —"

"I'm not trying out, okay? You won't change my mind, Weasley."

Ron's face fell. If the changing rooms were not the problem, was it Nott? Was Draco so distracted by his new infatuation that he lost his interest in Quidditch? It seemed impossible, but to be fair, Ron couldn't make sense of much with him anymore.

Rather than argue, he simply said, "Yeah. All right."

Draco stood. "I have to go."

And he did.


Ron struggled to focus on his coursework — especially Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was strange with Snape. The class had always been a bit of a toss-up considering the never-ending stream of professors, but it was doubly bizarre being taught by the former Potions Master.

With Draco on his mind, Ron found himself drifting off, and Snape's low lilt and boring subject matter did not help.

Fortunately for him, Potter was being his usual disruptive self. Snape had never been fond of Potter — it was obvious since their first year — and Potter kept muttering to Longbottom every chance he got.

"Mr. Potter, I would be fascinated to know if you could tell me the counter-curse for a Blood Summoning Spell."

Potter glared at the professor.

"Pity," Snape drawled. "In the future, I recommend you spend more time paying attention and less time whispering about other students. Being the Chosen One may give you a pass in some classrooms, but it will not in mine. Five points from Gryffindor."

Ron frowned and leaned towards Draco.

"Who was he talking about?"

Draco's expression was unreadable.

"Me."


In the end, there was no keeping Draco off the pitch.

Whether it was Potter and Longbottom spreading rumors or his love for the game, Ron didn't know, but after that day in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ron caught him digging his broom out from his trunk.

"Still not trying out tomorrow?" Ron had asked slyly.

"I heard Harper was going out for Seeker," Draco had replied. "He's hopeless. It'll have to be me if we want the house to stand a chance."

So with an open pitch, Ron and Draco practiced together, in spite of the pounding autumn rain. They darted and dove and dodged and feinted for hours — just the two of them, not another witch or wizard in sight, leaving their muscles to ache into the next day.

But Ron didn't mind.

He gave Draco a strong pat on the shoulder and stomped through the wet grass back towards the pitch, ignoring the throb of his calves. If he wanted to make it through tryouts, he would have to work through the pain. They both would.

Then, as they neared center-field, Draco scoffed.

" He's Captain? Slughorn or Dumbledore had to have something to do with that ."

"Really? What makes you think so?"

"Half-blood. Parents are potioneers. Has some gold but his family's mostly neutral. He has those two bell-ends' names written all over him," Draco sneered. "He's a rubbish Chaser, Snape would've never picked him on his own."

"Can't escape the favoritism, then, can we? Dodgy enough when it's the rest of the school, but when it's your own house . . ." Ron shook his head as they drew closer to the field, not wanting to be heard.

"Suspect you'll be tryin' out for Chaser again, eh, Weasley?" Urquhart called. Before Ron could answer, the other boy jogged towards him, Quaffle beneath his arm. "Or Keeper maybe? Unless you want to try an' take a Beater position from Crabbe or Goyle, but I wouldn' be much of a friend if I told you I thought you stood a chance."

Crabbe and Goyle did have an undeniable talent for hitting Bludgers. Still, that didn't make the insult sting any less.

"No, I'm trying for Chaser," Ron muttered. "But I can do Keeper if you —"

"Don't bother," interrupted a girl with long, dark hair and a thin smirk. She too jogged towards them, and the closer she got, the younger she looked. Ron had no idea who she was, but she couldn't have been older than thirteen. "I assume you want to win, and if you do, you'll stick with Chaser and leave Keeper to me."

She leaned against her broom haughtily.

"Who's she?" Ron asked. "She's a kid!"

"She's a natural," Urquhart replied with a grin. "Runs in 'er blood. Dunnit, Boshley?"

"Sure does. My mother plays for the Tutshill Tornados." She raised a narrow eyebrow at Ron. "What is it your parents do again, Weasley? Your father's some kind of . . . Muggle babysitter or something, right? And your mother . . . Well, I suppose she probably can't work much, considering how many of you there are."

Ron's cheeks went hot. "You don't even know me!"

"I know enough," she said airily. "Anyway, if you want to be off the Quidditch team for good, go ahead and try for Keeper. If you'd like to stay on — and believe me, I'd like that you do — go for Chaser." She then turned to Urquhart. "I'm going to do my tryout now, if that's all right?"

Before the captain could respond, she lazily pushed off her broom in the upright position, gliding into the air with control that was quite uncommon for the technique. Only when she was soaring high did she fully mount it, pulling herself up by the hands, her legs nearly in a full split. It was a professional manuever, to say the least.

"Show-off," Ron muttered.

He glanced at Draco, who seemed to be paying more attention to Harper than the girl in the air. The Seeker hopeful was fumbling with his gloves, sweat beading at his brow; there was no way he would outdo Draco, and judging by his expression, he knew it.

"Don't go easy on me, Urquhart!" Boshley yelled from above.

Then, the captain zipped into the sky and pelted the Quaffle towards the goalposts without so much as a warning. Boshley spun towards it, hitting it with the twig-end of her broom before feinting deeply in yet another gymnastic feat.

Ron scowled. She was good.


In previous years, the Slytherin Quidditch team practiced at least twice a week, but it seemed like Urquhart could only get the pitch every Monday. Ron accused him of slacking with his captain duties, and Boshley accused him of the same.

"The Gryffindors 'ave it three days a week," Urquhart explained. "If you 'ave a problem, take it up with McGonagall. Merlin knows I already tried."

Ron was hardly willing to face McGonagall. Boshley, on the other hand, showed up to their next Monday practice looking rather frustrated. She kicked the Quaffle halfway across the field.

"McGonagall won't give us the pitch," she said. "Something about training their new Keeper."

"But we're training a new Keeper too!" Ron exclaimed.

"Yeah, but their Keeper is Neville Longbottom ," she muttered. "I told her to get Snape but he was in the middle of a class. So for now, it seems like we're stuck on one day a week — while they get three."

"That's rubbish!" Ron breathed.

Urquhart groaned. "Suppose all we can do is make the best of it. C'mon everyone, brooms in the sky. If we only get a third of the practice, we need to practice three times as 'ard."

In the air, Ron decided Boshley was not so bad. She was insufferable — and so was Urquhart — but they put their all into that practice, and every practice that followed. In fact, the whole team was flying their best — except for one.

Draco.

He was distracted. Not only was he slow, but there was more than once that Ron watched the Snitch dip in front of his face, only to flit away quickly. He never grabbed for it. Instead, he stayed in place, afloat, staring at what seemed like nothing.

It was in the changing rooms that Ron finally confronted him about it.

"Look mate, I know you're dealing with some stuff, but we have to win the Cup this year," Ron pressed. "Boshley's good but we need that hundred and fifty points and with Potter and the Ravenclaw Seeker —"

"There are things more important than the stupid Quidditch Cup," interrupted Draco. "I didn't even want to try out to begin with."

"But you said —"

"I only tried out because you wanted me to!" Something in his expression broke — but only momentarily. He then drew his brows together. "Forget it, Weasley. I'll make sure your precious Quidditch games are taken care of."

He then stormed out of the changing room, still fully dressed in his Seeker garb.


"Did you lot hear about Katie Bell?" Parvati Patil hissed, elbowing her way through the corridor towards a group of other girls. "She's in the hospital wing!"

"Oh no, what happened?" asked Lavender Brown, though Ron suspected she was hardly worried and was only interested because it was a new bit of gossip.

It was rather typical of her, to pretend to be concerned, if it meant she would leave with details she could spread around the school. Lavender was the type to mill rumors in a rather feeble attempt to seem important or interesting, when any sane person could see she was neither. Sometimes, he thought her to be rather like Pansy.

"Something about a curse?" Parvati replied. "I dunno, really. I've only just heard from Angelina."

"A curse?" Lavender repeated. "That's terrible!"

"It was terrible," said Leanne Fulling, her voice echoing between a throng of second-years. They all fell silent, and turned to watch her in wonder. "I — I was there."

"Who cursed her?" Lavender asked. Her gaze flicked towards Ron. "They were in Slytherin, weren't they? Who was it? Are they getting expelled?"

"No, I didn't see who it was," Leanne said, frowning. "She just — she had this — this necklace. And I told her not to touch it. But she did . . . and then she flew into the air and then —"

Leanne choked on a sob and Parvati, Lavender, and Susan Bones all surrounded her, arms outstretched as they cooed and soothed her. Other students that had been in the crowd drew towards the scene, like moths to flame, just as hungry for information as Lavender was.

Ron pushed his way through them all.

In the days that followed, the news spread like wildfire, and whispers of Draco's name came along with it. Amidst those whispers, Ron often heard one of two things:

"Harry Potter said . . . "

"Neville told Lavender . . . "

Draco, of course, was innocent.

According to the rumors, Katie told Leanne she found it in the girls' bathroom, after all, and Draco surely wouldn't go in there. Some of the older students that were on his side even claimed it was impossible, as there were enchantments to bar such things.

Those that suspected Draco quickly cited Potter entering a girls' bathroom in their first year, disproving the supposed enchantment theory.

Alas, none of the narratives mattered to Ron. He knew Draco was not guilty, for he had been with him in the library the day Katie was cursed. The other boy simply did not have the opportunity to plant a necklace in a lavatory, as they woke together that morning, ate breakfast, and then spent the entire day studying.

But that didn't stop the gossip.

They were headed to the dungeons when Susan Bones cut in front of them.

"Off to curse someone else then, are you?" she spat, looking Draco up and down. "Can't believe you've not been expelled for what you are."

"Can't believe you've not been expelled for being an insufferable cow!" Ron shouted.

Susan scoffed and stormed away. Draco remained silent.

"Just ignore it. She doesn't know what she's talking about," said Ron. "I've told people you were with me when it happened, but —"

"Stop."

Ron frowned. "What?"

"I said stop," Draco repeated.

"But you're innocent," Ron pointed out. "And Potter and Longbottom've got the whole school convinced you did it!"

" Potter and Longbottom are bloody idiots," Draco growled.

"Well, we know that, but what happens if Dumbledore decides they're right? You think he'll think twice about expelling you? Look, mate. We've got to stick together on this. If there's anything we can't let them pin on us, then —"

"Oh, so now it's 'us', then, is it?" Draco asked angrily. "Last I checked, it wasn't you they were blaming for this whole thing, and as far as the rest of the school is concerned, you're just the Weasley's poor black sheep that ended up in the wrong house. They don't call you a —" He stopped. "Never mind. Go to the common room without me. I have something I need to work on."

"I could help —"

"No," Draco said heavily. "You can't."


Uproar followed Katie's release from the hospital wing. Everyone crowded her, bombarding her with questions about the necklace, the curse, how she was feeling. The inquiries were never-ending, and Ron lingered just outside the mob, listening to every answer she gave.

"Who did it?" Hannah Abbott asked.

"I — I don't know," Katie said, trying to push through the crowd. "I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"What curse was it?" asked a seventh-year boy.

"Madam Pomfrey couldn't figure it out. I'm sorry — I really just want to get to my common room —"

"Where did you find it?" Lavender Brown inquired.

"The — the ladies' bathroom. In the Three Broomsticks."

Draco was never mentioned during Katie's interrogation, and Ron hoped that would be the end of the assumptions about him. Unfortunately, even Katie's testimony didn't stop the rumors. Still, whispers filled classrooms and corridors of Draco's supposed involvement — and Ron was sick of it.

One day, as he was going to Potions, he noticed Potter and Longbottom muttering lowly to each other in the alcove on the second floor. As Ron drew closer to them, Longbottom spotted him. The bucktoothed wonder's eyes widened and he nudged Potter.

"What?" Potter hissed.

Longbottom jerked his head in Ron's direction, and the Scarhead stopped to look up too. He clenched his jaw at the sight of the Slytherin — at the sight of Draco Malfoy's friend.

"You two deciding what other rot to spread?" Ron growled.

"We don't spread rot ," Potter shot back.

"Funny, last I heard you were telling everyone Draco cursed Katie." Ron stalked towards them, fist clenched at his side. "But the thing is . . . I was with Draco that day. Studying. He couldn't have done it."

"Katie found that necklace," Potter said darkly. "Someone left it for her. And whether you like it or not, your friend had something to do with it. He at least knows something." He puffed out his chest, though it was lost on Ron, as he was at least a full head shorter. "And I'm starting to think maybe you do too."

"Harry —" warned Longbottom.

"I know Draco is innocent," Ron said. "And if you had half a brain behind that marked-up forehead of yours, you'd know it too!"

Potter laughed. "Sometimes I really don't know if you're dumb or a Death Eater, Weasley . . . or maybe you're both."

"Rather a Death Eater than a useless, lying prat."

"Is that so?" Potter asked. "Maybe you ought to talk to your friend then, because I suspect he's a bit of both."

Ron couldn't stand it anymore. He shoved him — hard — sending Potter stumbling back into the wall. Longbottom let out a yelp and drew his wand, but Ron paid him no mind. He was too cowardly to do anything.

"You know, I'm starting to think maybe you cursed Katie," Ron breathed, taking a step towards Potter. "Is that it? Need someone to cover your tracks? What's your next move, then? Going to kill Filch's cat? Plan on pinning that on Draco too?"

"You really fancy him, don't you?" Potter asked, seemingly amused. He chuckled and shook his head. "Your sister told me you had this weird obsession with him but I didn't think she meant like this ."

"Ginny doesn't know what she's talking about. I barely talk to her. And stop changing the subject!"

"Ginny's told me a lot more than that," said Potter quietly. "About how he was always sending you letters. About how your brothers can't trust you. And according to her, your mother can be a bit of a —"

Ron pulled his wand out in a swift motion, pointing it at the bridge of Potter's nose. "Don't talk about my mother, Scarhead. Don't you speak a word about my mother!"

"Sore spot?" Potter asked coolly. "Guess it might be a sore spot for me too if my own family couldn't stand to look at me."

Ron couldn't take it anymore.

He raised his fist, wholly planning on clocking Potter full across the face, deaf to Longbottom's empty threats of "Leave him alone, Weasley, or else I'll — I'll jinx you!"

But just then, he heard the low rasp of Theodore Nott.

"He's not worth it."

Ron stopped. His eyes danced along Potter's features for a moment. The scowl. The piercing green gaze. The mussed black hair. He deserved to be punched, that was undeniable, but Nott was right.

He wasn't worth it.

Ron dropped his hand to his side.

"The Mudblood really needs to keep a tighter leash on you."

They were the last words he spoke to Potter before following Nott towards the common room. Potter nor Longbottom had time to retaliate by the time the two Slytherins left the alcove.

"You're welcome," Nott said as they walked down the upper dungeon steps.

"He would've deserved it," Ron muttered.

"But you would've caught hell from McGonagall. Decking the Chosen One? That would've been a month of detention — easily." Nott raised his chin as they reached the wall. "Pure-blood."

Ron tailed Nott into the room cast in emerald, hands shoved deep in his robe pockets as he reeled from his tiff with Potter.

That was when he saw Draco seated on the couch. Beside him was Harper.

Draco was muttering something to him, but quickly looked up when Nott and Ron came into the room. Nobody else was there — nobody at all.

"Are we interrupting something?" Nott asked, bemused.

Draco's cheeks tinged pink before he growled, "Of course not. We were just having a little chat."

Harper looked confused and then nodded. Ron noticed that his hand was wrapped around something so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. What it was, Ron could not see.

"A chat," Nott repeated. "Right."

"Do you still want me to —" Harper started, but Draco shot him a glare.

Harper shut his mouth.


Ron was pulling on his Quidditch robes, stomach in knots as it often was before a game. It didn't matter much, though. Nausea or not, he was ready to pummel Potter and his band of prats, even if one of those prats was his sister.

Fully dressed in his garb, he stepped out of the changing room to join the rest of the team.

"Scoring should be easy enough," said Vaisey. "I've seen Longbottom practice, he's not good. And I doubt they'll get any in on Boshley."

"I'll make sure they don't," Boshley drawled.

"Takin' Potter out will be the key to a win," Urquhart said. "We can't let 'im get the Snitch."

"I'll knock every Bludger right into his bloody skull," Goyle said.

It was the most likeable Ron ever found Goyle to be. As he and Crabbe started to ramble on about what Potter's brains would look like falling from the sky, Ron turned around to glance at the changing room.

"Where's Draco?"

"Ah yeah, forgot to tell you," Urquhart said. "Malfoy's out sick. Beetle fever. 'arper's goin' to be fillin' in for 'im."

"Harper?" Ron asked, incredulously. He turned back around to look at Urquhart, and that was when he saw him.

Harper was jogging down the hill from the broom shed, a school-loaned Cleansweep Two in hand.

"Sorry mates, I'm here," he breathed. He then raised his eyebrows. "Ready to kick some Gryffindor arse?"

They were definitely going to lose.


Potter took the Snitch, and the game was over.

The Slytherin team and those that cheered them on returned back to the common room, defeated, but unsurprised. Without Draco, they never stood a chance — no matter how many goals they got past Longbottom.

After plopping on a couch, Crabbe and Goyle uncorked a bottle of firewhisky. They passed the bottle back and forth, grousing on about the Seeker's absence with Boshley and Vaisey, and Ron couldn't blame them, but he couldn't blame Draco either. Beetle fever was a nasty thing; he remembered from when he was a boy.

So rather than complain, he went to the hospital wing to visit his friend.

Surely, Madam Pomfrey would be keeping him for at least a few days, and Ron figured Draco would like the company.

Still in his Quidditch gear, he stepped into the infirmary and took a look around. In a faraway bed was a small Hufflepuff girl, and in another was Eloise Midgen, who appeared to have eaten one of Fred and George's Nosebleed Nougats. Yet, there was no sign of Draco.

"Are you feeling ill, Mr. Weasley?" Madam Pomfrey hurried towards him, a murky brown potion in one hand and a rag in the other. She seemed frazzled. "Did something happen during the game? I'm afraid I missed it. I have a bad nosebleed case here that took all my attention . . . "

"No, I was — I was looking for Draco Malfoy."

Madam Pomfrey frowned. "Well, I'm afraid he's not here, dear."

"He's not? But he —" Ron stopped, realizing that Draco had been hiding from him, yet again. "All right. I'll erm — I suppose I must've been mixed up. Thanks anyway."

Ron wanted to be angry at Draco. He wanted to feel somber and betrayed and vengeful.

But he was just worried.


Ron did not see Draco until the next morning at breakfast.

When he rolled out of bed, Draco's duvet was pulled neatly to the headboard, almost as though he had not slept there at all. Ron's concern from the previous night only grew, but when he entered the Great Hall, he saw the other boy seated at the Slytherin table in his usual spot.

Ron had joined him then, and he filled his plate in silence. Draco's plate remained empty.

"You gonna eat, mate?" he asked after a long while.

Draco jerked up. "What?"

"I asked if you were gonna eat."

"Oh. No." Draco cleared his throat and stood. "Actually, I have some things to attend to."

As he began to walk away, Ron dropped his fork and chased after him. In the background, Nott rolled his eyes between dainty bites.

"What are you doing?" Ron demanded, finding himself having to jog just to keep up. "Where do you keep disappearing to? You missed the match —"

"I didn't even want to join the bloody team," Draco spat, long legs carrying him swiftly. "I only did because I didn't want to disappoint y — the house."

"Great bloody job you did with that," Ron muttered.

"I found someone to fill in."

"Yeah, but Harper? You couldn't come up with someone better?" Ron was practically running now. "He was dragon-shit! And you knew he was dragon-shit! You saw him at tryouts, you knew he couldn't beat Potter!"

"Someone played. That's all that should —" Draco came to a halt, and so did his words.

They had come to the same alcove where Ron had faced off with Potter only days before. There stood Longbottom and Lavender Brown, her arms coiled around his neck and his wrapped around her waist. Their lips were smacking together loudly, fingers threaded through one another's sandy hair.

Ron thought he was going to be sick.

"Merlin, Longbottom, are you trying to ingest her tongue? That's disgusting!" Draco then continued moving, and Ron followed, attempting to shake off what he had seen. "Go back and eat your breakfast, Ron. I'll see you later."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on with you!" Ron argued.

Draco rounded on him, eyes intense as they settled on his features. Somewhere in the background, Longbottom and Brown were snogging each other senseless, yet Draco's gaze was fixed on Ron, and Ron alone. Undistracted.

"And why do you care? It's not like anyone else does."

"Because we're friends. Always have been, always will be. Unless you keep acting like a git!"

Draco took a deep breath. "I wouldn't be a very good friend if I let you get involved in this."

"But —"

"I'll see you in Flitwick's."


The holidays approached with haste, and Draco only became increasingly elusive. He and Ron never studied together anymore, and whenever they were in class, he seemed like he was somewhere else, floating into a state of mind where Ron could not follow. Each day, the circles under his eyes were darker, and his robes hung a little looser on his frame.

Draco's distant demeanor had left Ron feeling lonelier than ever.

Regrettably, the result was spending more and more time with Pansy, Zabini, and Nott. Like most evenings, he was in the common room with them, listening to their banter.

"Slughorn has some Yule party coming up," Zabini said casually. "Excuse me — a Christmas party. Apparently , we can bring a date."

"Your left hand will make a lovely escort," Nott purred.

"Watch it, Nott."

Pansy snickered and settled into Nott's side. "Weasley, you ought to talk Granger into taking you."

"Sure, Pans. We'll double with you and Potter."

Pansy threw her shoe at Ron and Zabini howled with laughter, if only for a moment.

The doors to the common room then opened, and Zabini's face immediately fell. Frowning, Ron turned around to see Draco walking in, blond locks clinging to his forehead, stringy and sweat-soaked.

"You look a right mess," Pansy chirped.

Nott nudged her. She rolled her eyes.

"I'm only telling the truth. Nothing you didn't already know, right, Draco?"

"Don't talk to me," Draco muttered. He pointed at Zabini. "You. Tell me about this party with Slughorn."

"You mean the Christmas party?" Zabini asked.

"You're ten seconds too late. We were just talking about it," Pansy sang. "If you were here , you would've known that. Next topic!"

"I was busy," Draco said hurriedly. He sat across from Blaise. "I need to know everything you know."

"Well, it's only for the Slug Club —"

"When is it?" Draco was rubbing his face, as though he were trying to solve a very difficult problem.

"Don't tell me you're still upset Slughorn didn't invite you," Pansy poked. "Your father's in prison , Draco —"

"Pansy, please !" Draco barked. He snapped his fingers in Blaise's face. "Zabini, the party."

"Er — it's tomorrow. In Slughorn's office. Erm — dressy . . . Think there's supposed to be food . . ."

"Who'll all be there? Aside from Potter and Granger, I already heard them rattling on about it in the hall."

"Er — Slughorn, obviously . . . the LaRue twins . . . Weasley's sister — the usual, and whoever their dates are. Why?"

Draco turned to Nott. "I need to talk to you."

Nott shook his head, his gaze dark. "Malfoy, it's not a good idea."

"I need to talk to you now."

Without another word, Nott sighed and followed Draco to the dormitories. Ron knew better than to follow.