Holiday break was days away, and celebrations were afoot.

As planned, Slughorn's party carried on in the upper dungeons, but the Slytherins that were left out had no intentions of letting his little club have all the fun. Instead, they put together a party of their own, courtesy of Tracey Davis and the Greengrass sisters. The three girls had taken it upon themselves to decorate the room in glittering fairy lights of green and silver, and had even Transfigured an old textbook into a Christmas tree.

They had successfully coaxed almost every Slytherin into the holiday spirit — and that was a notable feat.

Crabbe and Goyle were lounging across one of the leather sofas, half-deep into a bottle of gingerbread firewhisky. Pansy and Boshley sat opposite them, making passive-aggressive jabs at one another every few moments — a form of quarrel Ron only ever witnessed with wealthy pure-blood women. Several fifth-years were gambling. Even the younger students had crowded the room, excitedly pointing out Tracey and Astoria's stunning enchantments and whispering on about their visits home. It was a night to remember in the Slytherin common room — but Ron was not all that impressed.

Neither was Nott.

The shifty pure-blood was sitting close to Pansy as he often was nowadays, hunched over and hands laced tightly together. He seemed stressed, even as Daphne charmed more fairy lights around his head. Pansy's words appeared to pass him by.

". . . and really, Quidditch never much appealed to me anyway," she purred, examining her hands. "A witch's palms are meant to be soft for her husband, after all."

"Some witches choose not to marry — but if a husband will make you feel some sense of value , I suppose I see why you'd care so much about the state of your hands," Boshley replied coolly.

Pansy smirked. "The words of a witch with an unclaimed dowry."

"Dowry?" Boshley repeated. "You can't be serious. All modern pure-blood families have long done away with those."

"I'll have you know —"

"Just shut up already!" Ron lamented. "Nobody cares who you two are going to marry — or not marry or — Merlin."

"He's just mad nobody is going to marry him ," Pansy said, arching a brow. "Not much market for poor gingers who are the — what? Tenth in line for the inheritance?"

"Tenth?" Boshley asked. "There's no way he has nine brothers . . . Wait, do you ?"

"No —" Ron started, but Pansy continued on, cutting him off.

" Never mind how many of them there are . What's even there to be inherited? I've heard about that hovel you call a house, everyone has, but —"

"Pansy, stop," Nott said, and Pansy's mouth snapped shut, though she seemed rather put out by it.

Nott glanced at the doors, and while he clearly thought he was being subtle, Ron didn't miss it. He knew that look. He was waiting for Draco — Ron could tell.

Fortunately for him, he didn't have to wait very long.

After about twenty minutes, Draco stormed into the common room, robes torn and defeat in his expression. All eyes were drawn to him. All conversations ceased. Even Crabbe and Goyle had stopped passing their bottle, instead gluing their gaze to him as though he were a beacon in a dark room.

"Have something to say?" Draco sneered.

Nobody responded.

With a loud scoff, he then headed straight for the dormitory, lips pulled down into a scowl.

The party recommenced at once.

Both Nott and Ron, however, slipped away from the buzzing crowd to follow him. Something had gone awry, and though Ron didn't know what it was, he had a sneaking suspicion that Nott did. He always seemed to know Draco's secrets.

Ron tamped down a surge of jealousy.

"What happened?" Nott demanded.

"Yeah, why are your robes all ripped up?" asked Ron.

"It was nothing."

"Nothing," repeated Nott. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Draco glanced sideways at Ron. It was the same way he always looked at him when he didn't want him to hear something. When he was burying secrets only Theodore Nott could dig up. When he wanted Ron to step away and go back to the party and pretend everything seemed perfectly normal. Ron knew exactly what the other boy wanted, yet still, he stayed put.

Nott caught the hint too.

He gave Ron a meaningful stare, urging him to join the others for the holiday festivities. Determined not to succumb, Ron cemented himself to the floor, forcing Nott to finally supply, "Weasley, could you maybe give us a moment?"

"Why?"

"Draco here seems to think your ears are too sensitive for this conversation," Nott drawled.

"Well, they're not," Ron gritted out, irately. "Whatever he can say to you, he can say to me."

Annoyance radiated from Nott as he rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you don't belong in Gryffindor?"

"Yes, I'm bloody sure! Worrying about my best mate doesn't mean I'm any less Slytherin than you!"

"Actually, it does."

Ron opened his mouth to rebut, but before he could, Draco gave in with a resigned sigh.

"It's fine. He can stay," he muttered. "Nothing happened, anyway. I wasn't able to get there."

"What d'you mean you weren't able to get there?" Nott asked.

"Snape stopped me in the corridor."

Raking his fingers through his hair, Nott grumbled, "Of course he did."

"He's going to be a problem," Draco went on. "A big problem. I think he's trying to —" He glanced at Ron again. "Next time, I need you to keep him busy. The only way I'll be able to complete the task is if he's distracted."

"You want me to distract him?" Nott hissed. "He'll see right through me!"

"It's the only way!" Draco hissed back. "I won't be able to get there without something to keep him occupied."

"There's no way it will work, he'll know I'm trying to help you," Nott said, shaking his head. Then, he stopped and wagged a finger. It was as though he was having some great epiphany as he turned to Ron, his pupils glittering with wonder. He looked like a wolf closing in on its prey. "But if we used someone else . . ."

"No," Draco growled. "We're not — no, that's not an option."

Ron frowned. "What?"

"He'd be happy to help," Nott said, chipperly. "Wouldn't you, Weasley?"

"Well, sure . . ." Ron said, uncertain at first. Then he brightened, realizing he was finally going to be part of Draco's secret. More than that, he was going to help . "Yeah, I don't mind. It's just distracting Snape, how hard could that be?"

Nott smirked and clapped Draco on the back.

"See, you're all set. Thanks, Weasley."

Draco muttered something under his breath after that. Ron didn't quite catch it, but he thought it sounded an awful lot like, "Fucking bastard."

He must've misheard.


The moonlight cut through the Black Lake, gleaming emerald into the boys' dormitory. There, Ron tossed and turned, dreaming up every way he could distract Professor Snape.

Though, perhaps dreaming was not the word, because to dream, he would have to sleep.

It had been that way since the party. His mind spun with schemes and spells that would be sure to keep Snape occupied for a good long while, even if it landed him in detention. Polishing trophies would be a welcome change of pace for once, a symbol of the darkness that was finally starting to lift.

For so long, he had been trapped in the fog of Draco's endless secrets — those secrets that chased Ron away when he wanted nothing more than to be by the other boy's side.

Now, he was given permission to know something — no matter how small — and not only did he know that thing, but he was going to help with it. Operation Snape, as he had come to call it, had quickly become his number one priority — an obsession he could not shrug off.

Draco's task would be complete, and Ron would be the one to thank for it. Maybe then, the bags would diminish from his friend's steel-grey eyes.

Ron longed to see the day.

That night, he drifted off in the wee hours of the morning, wondering just how hard it would be to Transfigure Snape's shoes into tea kettles.


Twelve.

Ron had twelve ideas for Operation Snape — more than that, really, but those were the ones he found most viable. The tea kettle shoes were crossed out, among several other concepts he decided would be too difficult, post-research. And he had done the best research he could muster, if you asked him.

He visited the library every opportunity he had, studying meticulously to plan for every possible scenario. After thinking quite hard on Snape's usual activities, he zeroed in on the few places the professor visited most.

Three of Ron's plans involved finding him in the corridors, two placed him in the Great Hall, one would only work by the Quidditch pitch, two were exclusively loo-related, and the others could be used anywhere, though some required other students to be present. Ron was prouder of that list than anything else he had accomplished that year. By the time he was through with Snape, Draco would complete his task and be safely back in the common room. Ron was sure of it.

He grinned at the thought of Draco thanking him. Theodore Nott would be a Knut to Ron's Galleon by the end of the day he struck.

Yet, Ron still wasn't sure when he would be striking.

"How long d'you think til you need me to do the distraction?" he asked Draco as they strolled towards Transfiguration. His list was tight in his hand. "Because I have a list of plans. Like this one here . . . I have some Puking Pastilles I nicked from my brothers over summer. Don't worry, I'm not going to take them — I'm going to bump into Snape, then drop them and when he sees —"

"It won't be any time soon," Draco interrupted. "It's too close to the holidays."

"Well, we aren't leaving until Saturday —"

"I told you we aren't doing it any time soon!" Draco snarled. "Merlin, Weasley, take a hint."

He then picked up his pace and hurried into the Transfiguration Room, not sparing Ron a second glance.

Ron stood frozen in the corridor, list still tight in his grip.


Holiday cheer continued to spread throughout Hogwarts. It also continued to pass Ron by.

In the Great Hall stood the usual enormous spruce, and in the corridors hung the usual bow-wrapped mistletoe. Wreaths graced every professor's door, snow danced upon the ceilings, and colorful fairy lights littered the halls. Yet still, Ron was not feeling as gleeful as he might have in his younger years. Despite his impressive plans for Operation Snape, Draco was barely speaking to him — and the looming visit home felt like a rain cloud that followed him everywhere.

He had avoided Ginny most of the year. It was easy enough around the school, her being a year younger and in Gryffindor, but with only one day left until he returned home, he had to face it: There would be no escaping her presence back at the Burrow.

Sprawled across his bed, he stared at the ceiling and counted down the hours until his inevitable return to Ottery St. Catchpole. His roommates seemed to be counting the hours too.

"Can't wait for the Christmas feast at mine," Goyle said, pulling his covers up to his chin. "Our elf makes the best apple cakes."

"Wish our elf made apple cakes," Crabbe muttered. He tugged off his socks, balled them up, and tossed them on the floor. It was one of his least appealing habits, and Ron could not think of many habits Crabbe had that were appealing.

"Just got to ask her, mate," Goyle replied. "Mine didn't know how to make scones up til a few years ago. A swift kick in the arse set her right and now I don't go a morning without a dozen on the table . . . Back home, at least."

"My mum ordered her not to make me any sweets," grumbled Crabbe.

Draco snorted. "Because you're fat?"

Crabbe chucked a pillow at Draco, to which both he and Ron burst out into laughter. Sometimes, glimpses of Draco's old self would peek through, and Ron found those moments to be his happiest times at Hogwarts.

He peered down at his watch; the outline was difficult to make out in the dark.

In the morning, he would say goodbye to his friend once more. Hopefully, when he returned, there would be more moments where Draco was the boy Ron once knew — more moments of happiness.


The Burrow was as Ron expected.

Pandemonium hardly seemed a strong enough word for the place; everyone was scurrying about, running up and down stairs, opening doors and slamming them shut, fighting for the single bathroom. Chaos reigned supreme with every Weasley under the same roof, not to mention Fleur.

And as if the din weren't punishment enough, Ron's mother also expected the entire house to be decorated to the brim.

Every bedroom, every broom cupboard, and every bannister was to be holiday-ready. With Celestina Warbeck warbling on the gramophone, Ron's mother hummed loudly enough that he and his father could hear her from the third level. Of course, singing may have been a good sign to anyone that did not know Molly Weasley — but Ron knew better. When she was in the Christmas spirit, the rest of them suffered for it.

"Arthur, are you nearly done putting up the holly?" she shouted from a faraway room.

Ron glanced up at his father, who was only halfway through the task — one of the many assigned to each family member. Ron was sure he got the worst of it, though. She had given him the daunting chore of untangling all of the garland. His mother loved garland. There had to be miles of the stuff piled in front of him.

"Almost, dear!" Ron's father lied. "What d'you need me for?"

"There's a leak in the sitting room ceiling! I need it sorted so I can hang the stockings!"

Ron's father swore under his breath before brightly calling back, "Be there in a jiff, love!"

Ron looked down at the snakes of garland. They glittered red, gold, and silver, mocking him for his inability to simply zap them into submission. His birthday was barely over two months away, but his mother had been very stern about him not using his wand until he was of age.

Seeing an opportunity, he gestured to the mess in front of him.

"If you sort these, I'll finish the holly," he offered.

His father smiled and gave him a clap on the back. "Good shout, son."

With a quick flick of his father's wand, the long strands of garland were laid out in three perfectly straight lines, ready to be strung wherever Ron's mother wanted them. Ron scrambled to his feet and accepted the basket of holly his father had been cursed with.

"I dunno why she didn't have us doing it this way to start," Ron said. While his father had to use his wand to set the holly, Ron was tall enough to hang it without the help of magic. "Seems like this is more efficient."

Ron's father looked up at him and nodded slowly, a crease between his eyebrows. "You're right. I suppose she probably forgot how tall you've gotten. I know I do."

"But I was standing right in front of her!"

"Ah well," his father said, squeezing his arm. "One day you'll have children and you'll understand."

Ron's father slipped by him and made his way down the steps. It was a little strange to have outgrown his patriarch, but he had accomplished that the year before. He didn't seem to be stopping either. He had even surpassed Bill and the twins now, making him the tallest person in the Burrow. Somehow, he still felt a bit small.

After a few moments, he came to the somber realization that the hallway wasn't much quieter without his father there. Apparently, they hadn't been talking much.

There was only the faint echo of Celestina and his mother's caroling.

The more that Ron thought about it, the more he realized he had not spoken to anyone much since arriving home, perhaps except the twins. Most impressively, he had successfully said no more than five words to his sister since they left Hogwarts. She would glare at him whenever she passed him in the halls, of course, but that was the full extent of their interactions.

Their mother's endless chores had kept them busy enough to avoid one another otherwise, much to Ron's relief.

That did not mean, however, that he could avoid everyone.

Just as Ron stood on his tiptoes to hang the holly, Percy opened his bedroom door and slunk out. As he turned and saw Ron, he jumped and pressed a hand to his chest.

"Ronald! Sorry, you gave me a bit of a startle . . . I didn't see you there."

"How could you have?" Ron asked. "You were in your room."

" Ahem , right," Percy muttered, eyes darting around. "Well, Mum asked me to do the bannister. Good luck with the holly there."

With that, his older brother headed towards the stairs, not stopping at the bannister, but rather hurrying down to the first level.

Ron supposed they were no longer on good terms, now that he was friends with the son of a felon. With a light scoff, he hung another bough of holly.

He wanted to jinx it instead.


"Ronald! Ginny!" Ron's mother yelled.

Blanching, Ron stood up from his chair in the sitting room, leaving Bill and the twins to continue their banter without him. His stomach roiled as headed to the kitchen, and once he stepped inside, he felt no better. There was his mother, hand on her hip, and a bowl of sprouts on the counter behind her. Two paring knives were set beside it.

"Where's Ginny?" she asked.

"Dunno," Ron replied.

"GINNY!" she yelled again. "GINNY, ARE YOU —"

Suddenly, Ginny appeared in the entryway and Ron's mother pulled a wide smile. Ron could feel his sister's eyes boring a hole into him from afar.

"Oh, hello, dear. I didn't hear you coming."

"What d'you need?" Ginny asked, arms crossed.

"The sprouts need peeling," their mother explained. "There's quite a lot of them so I thought you two might do them together."

"Coudn't you just wave your wand and get them all done in a few seconds?" Ginny asked, arching a brow.

Their mother inhaled sharply. "If I wave my wand for every little thing around this house, none of you will learn a thing about the value of hard work. When I was a girl, I peeled sprouts. You'll peel sprouts too."

Ginny rolled her eyes, which, luckily for her, their mother said nothing about. Instead, she stepped away from the counter and gave a jerk of her head towards the big, green bowl.

"Go on, then."

A pointed look was shot at Ginny as their mother stepped through the entryway. Ginny, knowing good and well what that meant, walked to the bowl, grabbed a knife, and picked out a sprout. Ron picked one too.

"Can you hand me the other knife?" Ron asked her.

Ginny handed him her knife and picked up the other. Wordlessly, she cut the base of her sprout.

"So erm — how've you been?" Ron asked awkwardly.

"Just peel the bloody sprouts," she growled.

So he did.


"Dinner's absolutely superb, dear," Ron's father said before swallowing down another forkful of meat. "Did you do something different with the pork this year?"

Ron's mother went pink and said, "Oh, it was nothing too clever . . . A little clove added to the spice blend, I'm surprised you even noticed."

Ginny rolled her eyes and stabbed a roasted sprout.

Ron, however, thought his father to be right. The family's hard work had paid off, as they all were enjoying the best Christmas Eve feast Ron could recall them ever having. The pork was moist. The gravy was rich. Even the sprouts were tolerable.

"You know, back in France, we —" Fleur started. She then frowned. "What is zat?"

She pointed at the window, from which an overweight barred owl could be seen soaring towards the Burrow. It landed on a shutter and leaned down, pecking ferociously at the glass. Ron's father stood and let it inside.

"From Charlie," he announced, untying the envelope from the owl's foot. He flipped it over and broke the seal. "George, can you get a bit of pork for this chap here? Not that he looks to need it . . ."

"Sure thing, Dad," George replied, reaching towards the platter.

Ron's mother made a face as her son tossed a nibble of pork in the air for the owl to catch, but she didn't fuss over it. Instead, she regarded Ron's father.

"What's it say, then?" she asked.

Ron's father was frowning. Rather than answer her, he handed her the letter.

Her eyes moved from left to right and right to left, reading through every line that her second-eldest boy had penned. Ron watched her expression change to a look he, sadly, knew all too well. Whatever she was reading, it didn't just disappoint her. It hurt her.

"He won't be coming for Christmas, apparently," she said, her voice thick.

"What? Why not?" asked Ginny.

"Yeah, why not?" echoed George.

"He's had an emergency at work," Ron's mother explained, sniffling.

"What kind of emergency could he have on Christmas Eve?" Fred asked.

"Yeah, it's a bit late to be backing out now," Ginny said sourly. "He promised me we'd hit the Quaffle."

"Emergencies happen," Ron's father said, shoveling a pile of potatoes onto his spoon. "Your brother would give anything to be here, I can assure you."

"Dunno," Fred said doubtfully. "Seems a bit dodgy if you ask me."

"Yeah, who does that? Maybe a couple days ago, it would've been fine, but on Christmas Eve?" George asked. He pointed at their mother with his fork. " You ought to have a talk with him."

"And say what exactly?" she asked, stabbing a sprout. "Obviously, he's already made up his mind."

"In France, if you do not make a 'oliday, your family jinxes you next zey see you," Fleur said.

Bill reached over and patted her hand, shaking his head at her. Ron half-expected his mother to yell at her, but she didn't. In fact, she didn't bother scolding anyone for questioning Charlie's absence. She simply poked at her food, seeming broken and fatigued.

"Did he even say what the emergency was ?" Ginny asked.

"One of the dragons was sick," their father replied. "Had to get on his way to Wales."

"And no one else could do it?"

Their mother cut into her pork with unnecessary force, knife squealing against her plate. "He was rather insistent that it had to be him."

"Sounds like an excuse to me," Fred muttered, pushing a carrot out of his gravy.

"It is an excuse," George agreed. He waved a butter knife around in the air. "He just doesn't want to be here dealing with all of this."

Their mother glared at him. "All of what , exactly?"

George suddenly was very focused on buttering his dinner roll. "Nothing, never mind."

"If Charles had chosen a more suitable career, he wouldn't have to work on holidays at all," Percy drawled.

The table was silent after that.

At the end of the meal, their mother stood and said, "Children, if you wouldn't mind clearing the table, I think I'd like to go straighten up the enchantments in the sitting room."

Ron saw the tears welling in her eyes, and he knew she was not going to fix the enchantments at all.

Still, he said, " Ahem. Yeah, of course, Mum. It was delicious, by the way."

A ghost of a smile graced her lips. "Thank you, Ronald, that's very sweet of you."

Ron's father rushed after her as she fled the kitchen. Percy excused himself to "wash up", and Bill and Fleur muttered something lowly and then headed towards the stairwell. Before they knew it, the youngest four children were left to do the cleaning.

Fred smirked. "Phlegm and Bill seem to be doing their evening snogging before she rooms up with Gin."

"Lucky Gin," George said, giving a flick of his wand. All the plates stacked themselves and zipped into the kitchen. "Bet that was the gift you were looking for, getting stuck with Phlegm all night, freshly loved up by our dear brother."

Ginny snagged a goblet and jerked her head towards Ron. "Better than being stuck with him . I'd say I've won, ending up with Fleur."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron asked, annoyed. "You hate Fleur!"

"She's just joking," George said.

"Yeah, nobody could be worse than Phlegm," Fred added. "Even you."

Ginny glared at the twins. "I wasn't joking."

Ron believed her.


Once upon a time, Christmas Day was a joyous occasion at the Burrow, as it was supposed to be. Ron's mother would make a feast even more spectacular than the roast pig of Christmas Eve, and all the children would all suck on Peppermint Toads as they unwrapped their holiday jumpers and secondhand toys. Ron remembered the year he was gifted Charlie's old toy broom. Never had he been more excited.

Christmas was no longer the tradition he once loved.

Instead, the holiday consisted of nasty jabs, a clogged toilet, and the same Christmas jumper he'd been given for years, except he was growing quite fast and his mother had not adjusted the knitting pattern. Even when he tried pulling it all the way down, it didn't cover his bellybutton.

Naturally, he looked like an imbecile, and his siblings relished in it.

"You look like a Muggle girl ," Ginny giggled.

"You should rename him, Mum," Fred suggested. "Maybe Ronette."

"Or Ronda," George quipped.

"He is the same handsome boy he always is and has always been," Ron's mother hissed. She frowned and pulled at the hem of the jumper. "Perhaps just a few spells . . ."

"No, no, it's perfect as it is," Ginny said, still laughing. "Can't wait for him to wear it to school."

Ron groaned. It was the only present he received that year.

Worse yet, was dinner.

Without Charlie there to cut the tension with tales of Romania and dragon-taming, the mood felt far too heavy for Christmas. Everyone knew there were disagreements afoot — very serious disagreements — and nothing could be said at the table that would change them.

That did not stop the snarky comments, though.

"Can you pass the parsnips?" Ron asked, motioning at Percy.

Percy pushed the serving bowl across the table. His freckled nose was aimed upward, his gaze centered on Ron. "Did you know parsnips are often served in Azkaban Prison?"

Ron's mother glared at him; Percy simply dabbed his lips with his napkin.

"I had no idea," Ron's father said dimly. He pointed his fork at Percy and asked, "Did Crouch teach you that?"

"Actually, I learned it as I was reviewing Lucius Malfoy's paperwork," Percy replied airily.

George snorted. "Can't imagine that posh walnut eating parsnips."

"If he eats the way Malfoy does at school, he's going to starve," Ginny said. "They don't give out forks and knives in prison, do they?"

"Ginny —" Ron's mother warned.

"They do not," Percy quipped, ignoring her. "It's a hazard."

"Let's stop talking about this," Bill suggested, mouth quite full.

"Bill is right. I think that's quite enough about Azkaban," Ron's mother said.

"Yes, I do not theenk it is appropriate to discuss on zee 'oliday," Fleur agreed.

Ron noticed his mother shoot her a look, but she quickly wiped it away, likely realizing it was best to have others on her side. The Weasley matriarch busied herself with cutting the fruitcake.

"Fine, then let's talk about Malfoy's eating habits. They've nothing to do with Azkaban," Ginny pointed out, reaching for the gravy boat.

George frowned. "I've never watched him eat."

"It's weird, to say the least. He eats scones with a fork. Scones! " She raised her eyebrows at Ron as she poured the gravy over her potatoes. "I mean, you know, of course. You think he'd be able to manage it without silverware?"

Ron did not humor her with a reply.

"I'm not sure he could manage if the silverware wasn't made of solid gold," Fred noted. "Spoiled prat."

"He's not," Ron said defensively.

Ginny snorted. "Right, the git who got onto the Quidditch team by buying them all Nimbus 2001s isn't spoiled."

"I think you ought to be fair, Ginevra," Percy said. "His father is no longer able to provide access to their funds as he once did. Draco very well may be struggling more than he's used to."

"Ah yes, poor Malfoy having to fly on his old Nimbus 2001 instead of a Firebolt," Ginny said sarcastically.

"That's enough!" Ron's mother hissed. "It's Christmas and all you've done is bicker! Is it too much to ask that my children get along for one day a year? Just one day!"

Ginny rolled her eyes and prodded at her chestnut stuffing.


Hogwarts welcomed Ron like a warm hug.

The endless chatter of the first day back was just what he needed after the awkward weeks at the Burrow, and as he sat down at the Slytherin table, he let out a relieved sigh, basking beneath the enchanted ceiling once again.

Home.

Someone sat beside him.

Ron turned towards the warmth, only to be greeted by deep rings below silver irises, framed by sunken cheeks and loose robes. His heart leapt at the sight, yet somehow, he felt like he was drowning too.

Draco Malfoy was falling apart right before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to change it. Helpless, he painted on a false smile.

"Hey, mate. Good to be back, yeah?"

"Preferrable to the alternative, I suppose."

Ron nodded, though he was not quite sure what the other boy meant by that. "Right . . . how was your holiday?"

"It was fine," Draco answered gruffly.

"That's good. Mine was bollocks," Ron replied, eager to lighten the mood. He laughed a bit, albeit forced. "Expected with a house full of Gryffindors, I suppose."

"At least your house was full."

Ron had wondered before if it was lonely in Malfoy Manor, even before Lucius's sentencing. The truth had been revealed to him now, though it was not the truth he hoped for.

He only wished the best for Draco — always.

Suddenly, his time at the Burrow didn't seem so bad.

". . . and a fur coat from America," Ron heard the haughty voice of Pansy Parkinson say in the distance. "It's chinchilla. Worth thousands ."

She was quickly approaching the table, Theodore Nott at her side and the Greengrass sisters in tow. Even if he was annoyed by her, Ron was at least a little thankful for the interruption.

"Seems a bit cruel, don't you think?" Astoria Greengrass asked. She sat down at the table and tucked a dark curl behind her ear. Pansy and Nott sat beside her, Pansy appearing as though she had just sucked on something sour. "Killing all those innocent animals just for you to wear it around?"

"You're just jealous your father didn't buy you fur."

"I assure you I'm not," Astoria argued. "I'd be too sickened to touch such a coat, let alone put it on." She leveled her gaze on Ron and Draco. "What do you two think? A coat made from dozens of animals, slaughtered simply so Pansy here can silently show off her family fortune."

Draco said nothing.

"I er — I think it's a bit weird . . ." Ron said, hoping nobody would prod Draco for his lack of reply. "Wrong, really, isn't it? Suppose it depends on what they were, though. Maybe had they been something like gnomes —"

"They're nothing like gnomes, you redheaded twit!" Pansy hissed. "They're soft and they're rare and their fur is practically priceless!"

Ron shrugged. "Still weird. I wouldn't wear something like that, is all I'm saying."

Astoria smirked, but Pansy narrowed her eyes. "What do you know of fashion, Weasley? You're proud to sport the secondhand socks your mother shoved in your Christmas stocking."

Ron went red in the face. "I didn't get any socks."

"Then what did you get?"

"That's none of your business."

"Something cheap, then, surely," Pansy said decidedly. "It's all your parents can afford, anyway."

Draco glared at her. " Some people aren't so gauche as to flaunt their wealth, Parkinson."

"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!" Pansy laughed. "I've never met anyone that flaunts their wealth as much as you! Maybe not lately, but rumor has it there's not much to flaunt without Lucius's access to the vaults."

Nott elbowed her, but Pansy did not look like she planned to back down.

"I have more important things to worry about than gold," Draco sneered.

"Oh, and would you care to explain what that is?" Pansy asked. "I'm sure we'd all be fascinated to hear."

Draco stared at her for a moment, challenging her, but Pansy merely batted her eyelashes and watched him with animated interest. Nott massaged his temples, clearly irritated with the both of them.

For once, Ron could sympathize with him.

"I don't have time for this," Draco finally scoffed.

He then fixed his tie and hurried out of the Great Hall, his long legs carrying him at a pace even Ron would struggle to match. Ron, of couse, knew better than to try.

Pansy shrugged and stabbed a fig.

"All talk, as usual. Some things never change."


Draco continued to disappear in the weeks that followed. After classes, he would wordlessly scurry away. During study sessions, he would excuse himself mid-chapter. When Ron mentioned Operation Snape, he would glare, snap, or avoid the conversation entirely. Eventually, Ron stopped bringing it up altogether, and by then, his birthday was fast-approaching.

So were Apparition lessons.

Ron remembered how pleased his brothers were with themselves when they got their Apparition licenses, but for some reason, Ron was far from excited about getting his. In fact, he dreaded it.

"Dunno why anyone'd want to Apparate over using the Floo," he said, lingering behind Crabbe and Goyle in the entrance hall. They were adding their names to the signup parchment hanging there, but Ron wasn't so sure he was going to be adding his own. "Haven't they heard of Splinching?"

"Splinching only happens if you're not careful," Tracey Davis explained.

"But how can you be careful the first time you do it?" Ron asked. "You have no idea what you're doing yet and you're supposed to be able to just . . . do it? Not keen on losing a limb when I could just get some Floo powder instead."

"The Floo Network doesn't run everywhere," Draco muttered. "Apparition is important."

"Sure, but it's not like I'm going to be running around forests and the like. Besides, there are lots of places you can't Apparate either. Like here! You can't Apparate anywhere near Hogwarts. How do they even plan to teach us?"

"They've managed every other year," Tracey pointed out.

Ron still wasn't convinced.

"You ought to be more excited than anyone," Goyle said, handing the signup quill to Draco. " You're almost seventeen. You get to actually get your license soon. The rest of us have to wait around."

"Did you miss the part where I said I'd rather use Floo?"

Draco moved to write his name, but stopped and clenched his jaw. "Damn it. I can't sign up."

"What? Why not?" Crabbe asked, frowning.

"My birthday's too late," Draco said, pointing at some fine text towards the top of the sheet. He passed the quill to Tracey. "The cutoff's in May."

"That's bollocks," Goyle muttered.

Ron shrugged and slung an arm around his friend's shoulders. "That's all right, Draco. We can study while these wankers send their pinkies to Germany."

" We won't be doing anything. You're getting your license."

"Did you not hear me a second ago? I've got no need for it," replied Ron.

"Sometimes there are emergencies, Weasley," Draco said coldly. "Just get the bloody thing."


Chatter filled the Great Hall.

Sixth and seventh-years were peppered around the grand room, whispering to one other with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Then, there was Pansy Parkinson, who proudly told Daphne Greengrass, "Actually, these are my cheapest shoes. I wouldn't want to Splinch my designer boots now, would I?"

Ron spared her a glance and muttered, "Can't believe I paid twelve Galleons for this."

"You'd be sorry if you didn't," Blaise Zabini said, craning his neck. "Trust me, this is something you'll be glad you have."

"I'd still rather use the Floo," Ron grumbled.

"You can't use the Floo if you're in a bind."

"Could just carry around a Portkey."

Theodore Nott scoffed. "Good luck getting the Ministry to allow that."

Before Ron could protest, there was a crack! and a fair-skinned man appeared in the center of the room. Marietta Edgecombe from Ravenclaw clapped excitedly, to which the man bowed. Marietta's face turned cherry-red. Ron rolled his eyes.

The fair-skinned man pushed his wand to his throat, and in a booming voice, he announced, "Hello everyone! My name is Wilkie Twycross, and for the next twelve weeks, I will be your Apparition instructor."


Apparition was just as terrible as Ron thought it would be. Not only did he Splinch an eyebrow, but he was forced to practice with Granger, who Apparated perfectly on her very first try and did her best to keep reminding him of it.

By the end of the third lesson, he wanted to quit.

He followed Nott and Parkinson out of the Great Hall, tagging along with them through the corridors while Pansy did her required rounds. He much preferred Draco's company, but he knew his friend wouldn't be pleased with him after Crabbe and Goyle inevitably informed him of Ron's poor performance in the class.

He was, after all, bizarrely invested in Ron getting his license.

"She's an absolute swot," Ron complained, words reverberating off the stone walls of the Lower Dungeon hall. Then, in his best Hermione Granger voice, he mocked her nagging tone. "' Don't forget, Ronald. Destination, determination, and deliberation . . . You aren't being deliberate!' I can't bloody stand her."

"Apparating isn't really all that hard," Pansy said. "I managed on my third try but I wasn't really trying the other two times."

"Yes you were," Ron challenged her. "You had to be, there's no way you'd risk catching a Splinch!"

"Don't argue with me, Weasley. I'll serve you up with detention faster than you can spell your name."

Nott's mouth pulled upward into a smirk, and Ron scowled. He knew Pansy well enough to know she would do it without hesitation, even if it made Slytherin look bad.

They continued on quietly, snaking through the corridors and peeking into broom cupboards, checking abandoned classrooms and poking at the usual alcoves. Occasionally, Nott would stop to whisper in Pansy's ear. Ron scrunched his nose as she giggled along with whatever he was saying.

" Theodore , that's —"

"OUT OF THE WAY, OUT OF THE WAY! ARE YOU BLIND? HE'S DYING!"

The interjection came from the intersecting corridor. The unlikely trio exchanged glances and hurried towards the source of it.

"Watch out," Pansy hissed, pushing Ron aside. "I'm a prefect, it's my job to —" She stopped dead in her tracks.

Staggering past a group of seventh-years was Neville Longbottom, supporting the weight of none other than Potter. The Scarhead did, indeed, appear to be dying.

The supposed Chosen One was frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling back into his head as he stumbled around in an attempt to find his footing. It was of no use. He couldn't stand on his own, and as such, Longbottom dragged him by, his own eyes red-rimmed and wild. The nearby seventh-years pointed and gasped. One let out a shriek.

"Theodore, help him!" Pansy ordered.

Nott shot her a look, questioning what she was telling him to do. She glared back and gestured to Potter.

With a resigned sigh, Nott wrapped an arm around Potter's other shoulder. He groaned and heaved him upward. Potter was too dazed to argue, which Ron had no doubts he would do if he had the energy.

"Thanks," Longbottom said, seemingly beside himself. "Harry, we're going to get you to the hospital wing, okay?"

Potter garbled something in response. Ron and Pansy exchanged looks.

"I'll come with you," she said quickly, flashing her prefect badge. "Weasley, go to the common room."

"No, I can —"

Potter then emptied his stomach onto the floor. Streaks of garnet blood flowed through the mess of bile.

"I said go to the common room," Pansy repeated through gritted teeth.

Horrorstruck by Potter's display, Ron simply nodded.


Boshley poured a goblet full of firewhisky and held it in the air.

"To whatever moron poisoned Potter!" she exclaimed.

"'Ear! 'Ear!" Urquhart said, clinking his chalice with hers.

Pansy was tucked into the corner of a common room sofa, glaring at the two of them. Ron sat beside her, his lips pursed and his stomach churning. While Potter was not his favorite person in the world, there was no way to celebrate what he witnessed in the corridor after Apparition class. No sane person could.

"I can't believe you two," Pansy hissed. "I hate Potter too but . . . you didn't see him."

"And we won't see 'im on the pitch either," Urquhart laughed.

Pansy let out a scoff, but it was drowned out by the opening doors. In sauntered Crabbe and Goyle, Draco trudging behind them. Immediately, the two Beaters' eyes landed on Urquhart and Boshley's goblets.

"What're we celebratin'?" Crabbe asked, heading towards the witch and wizard.

"Potter being out next match," Boshley said, smirking. "Apparently, he drank some poisoned mead."

"He did what ?" Draco cut in from across the room.

"He went drinking with Slughorn and that giant freak," answered Pansy. "He nearly died."

"Hasn't he nearly died three or four times now?" Goyle asked.

"'Is time'll come eventually, same as it does for all of us," said Urquhart, pressing his wand to his goblet. "Geminio!" Two exact copies of the goblet sprung forth into his hand. "But for now, 'e's out of the game with 'ufflepuff and that's all that matters! Gryffindor'll have a loss under their belt right in, an' that should put us in a good position for the Cup."

"I swear I'm about to cheer on Gryffindor this time around all because you won't shut your horrible mouth. Congratulations for achieving the impossible," grumbled Pansy.

"Wouldn' matter even if you did. Especially with 'ufflepuff's new Chaser."

"The Chaser's sure to give them a good run, but I'm wondering just who they'll replace Potter with," said Boshley inquisitively. "Hufflepuff's Seeker isn't anything to write home about . . . If the Gryffindors get someone decent, they might have a chance."

Urquhart poured another serving of firewhisky and passed the goblet to Crabbe. As he filled the second goblet, he replied, "No idea. Whoever it is, they won't be up to snuff. 'ufflepuff'll kill 'em."

Ron noticed Pansy cringed at the word "kill." Strangely, he noticed Draco did too.


The Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game came swiftly. With Potter still in the hospital wing, the Slytherin team remained unsure who was going to fill in as his team's Seeker. One thing, however, was certain: Whoever it was, they would be criminally under-practiced.

"It'll be Thomas," Harper had said.

"I got five Galleons it'll be that Irish bloke," Urquhart had replied.

The speculation before the game had been the hot topic in Slytherin, so much so that real bets had been placed.

Ron, who had no gold to offer, thought to himself that they might pick someone that had tried out for the role. That was commonplace, after all. Unfortunately, he had no idea who that would be . He hadn't spoken to Ginny much that year, especially about something competitive like tryouts.

There was also the possibility they would have her fill in instead; Chasers were easier to replace, and Ginny was one of the best players in the school.

Regardless, the hanging question did not seem to sway Boshley and Urquhart from their support. The two Slytherins were decked out in full yellow hours before the game, showing off striped honeybee-patterned scarves, looking rather like unwanted insects amidst the jewel-green of the common room; Boshley even painted a badger across her cheek.

"If this game goes how I think it will, your sister will end up in the hospital wing too," she said, smirking at Ron. "Then we'll really be set to win."

Unsettled, Ron couldn't even force a smile. No matter how much he disliked Ginny sometimes, he didn't want her to get hurt.

"She's their only 'ope at winning, really," Urquhart replied. "She's quite a Chaser, I'll give 'er that."

"No match for Hufflepuff's new bloke, though," Boshley said. She turned to Crabbe and Goyle, who were muttering to each other on the other sofa. "No yellow for you two?"

Crabbe and Goyle immediately stopped talking and turned to goggle at her, Crabbe looking like a scared animal and Goyle elbowing him.

"No, we er —" Crabbe cleared his throat as Goyle elbowed him again. "We don't support anyone but Slytherin."

Boshley raised a suspicious eyebrow, and Ron couldn't blame her. They were up to something, he could tell.


Draco Malfoy was a phantom.

He had been a master of disappearing acts for years, but now, with no other explanation, Ron was convinced Draco had learned some type of magic passed down in more traditional pure-blood families, something that made him vanish into thin-air like their pumpkins in Transfiguration class.

Of course, this was a fleeting thought. In actuality, Ron knew that Draco's secrets ran deep, and whatever those secrets were, they had robbed him of his love for Quidditch.

Ron had looked everywhere for him before the game. He had checked the common room, the dormitory, the library, and the courtyard. He'd even shouted into two different bathrooms, one of which featured a rancid smell and Slughorn replying, "Just me, Beasley!"

He had not lost all hope, though. As he made his way up into the grand-stands, he scanned every bench for some sign of that shocking platinum head. He found bright blonde locks and nearly hurried towards the person, but the closer he got, the better he could see. It was only Tracey Davis, braids concealed by her scarf. He sighed, defeated.

Without anyone else to sit with, he plonked down between Urquhart and Zabini. He supposed it was better company than Crabbe and Goyle, even if not by much.

Urquhart clapped loudly as the Hufflepuff team marched onto the field, pumping their brooms in the air.

"Can't wait to see who's fillin' in for Potter," he said.

"Did anyone else try out for Seeker?" Boshley asked from Urquhart's other side. Urquhart shrugged, and Boshley shoved him back so she could shout past him. "Weasley! Did your sister mention who tried out for Seeker?"

Ron, who was busy searching for Draco again, quickly snapped his attention towards his teammate. "What?"

"I asked : Did your sister — oh! There they are!"

The Gryffindor team was trudging onto the field, scarlet robes whipping in the wind and broomsticks tightly in their grip. None of them looked very confident — except for one, a new face for the team.

"McLaggen?" exclaimed Ron, taken aback.

"Longbottom looks like 'e's about to sick up," Urquhart pointed out.

"It's Longbottom," Blaise drawled. "He's probably already sicked up."

"Ginny looks mad," Ron muttered. "She suspects they're going to lose. I know that look."

Urquhart glanced behind him and frowned. "Too bad Crabbe and Goyle aren't 'ere to see this pummelin'."

"Wait, they're not here?" Ron asked. He realized he had indeed not seen the dimwitted duo, yet he had been so wrapped up in looking for Draco that he had barely registered their absence. "And they're not coming?"

"Don't think so," Urquhart replied lazily. "Saw 'em following Malfoy into the bathroom. Looked like they were up to somethin'."

Blaise scoffed. "Probably were."

"Which bathroom?" Ron inquired.

"Second floor," Urquhart answered.

Ron pressed his mouth into a thin line. He hadn't checked that one.

Part of him considered going to find them, to catch them in the act of whatever they were planning. Ron would happily help Draco with anything, yet he chose the only two Slytherins that were sure to get caught? It made little sense.

Hooch blew her whistle, and Ron sunk into his seat.

It was barely even a game.

Within the first thirty minutes, Longbottom was knocked to the ground by a Bludger, distracting McLaggen and leaving the Snitch open for Hufflepuff.

A sea of hands flew into the air, the roars coming from those dressed in black and yellow.

Ron didn't join in.


Draco slunk into the dormitory well past curfew, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. Despite the hour, Ron was still wide awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he wondered what the three boys had been doing in the second-floor bathroom. It had been nearly twelve hours, and nothing that took that long could be any good.

"You lot have been busy," he said, working hard to keep his tone even.

Draco stopped at the foot of his bed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean all three of you missed the game," Ron said, sitting up. "Potter was out, they replaced him with McLaggen, and Longbottom was so bent out of shape he took a Bludger to the broom! You missed the whole thing!"

"Ah, right," Draco said, opening his trunk. He pulled out his nightthings.

"We missed that?" Crabbe complained. "I knew we should've gone!"

"How bad was Longbottom?" asked Goyle. "Think his face'll be worse than it already is?"

Ron ignored the two buffoons and went on. "Good news is Scarhead and Fat-Bottom are going to be out for a bit. They'll be dragon-shit on the pitch once it's finally time to play them — which could be great for us. But the bad news is we're stuck with Harper , so —"

He stopped as Draco peeled off his robes.

Alabaster skin gleamed in the semidarkness, and for a brief moment, Ron nearly forgot why he was upset in the first place. There was something mesmerizing about Draco that he could not exactly pinpoint. He sometimes thought the boy could be part-Veela.

Groaning, he rolled over and pulled his blankets to his chin. It was the only way he could stay angry.


Crabbe and Goyle's absences continued. Ron had grown accustomed to Draco disappearing, of course, but Crabbe and Goyle were always sitting around, sniggering and drinking, passing gas and charming the scent to follow Pansy. While Ron did not particularly miss them, the common room felt strange without them there. It was somehow more stuffy, more pompous.

Or perhaps that was just Nott and Zabini.

Regardless, Ron wondered just where the houses's village idiots were being sent off to, because it was quite obvious Draco was behind their skiving off. They had even missed two Apparition classes — the one class they seemed to care about, and the one class Draco wanted Ron to take.

None of it made sense.

So by the time they skipped their third bout of Apparition, Ron could no longer tamp down his curiosity. His best friend has been avoiding him, choosing the company of the two biggest dolts in their house, and he wanted to know why.

After the Wednesday course, he separated from Pansy, Nott, and Zabini.

He scoured the corridors all on his own, wand drawn in case the imbeciles had been instructed to do something rash. He scared several groups of younger students along the way, and earned nasty looks from a few seventh-year Hufflepuffs. Ron ignored them, though, and kept pacing the corridors in search of Crabbe and Goyle — and Draco too, if he was with them.

It took him nearly two hours to reach the sixth floor.

There, he peeked into the bathrooms and the broom cupboards, and even behind the statue of Glanmore Peakes. It was one of the emptier hallways — the type of place Draco might have been holing up with the others.

Then, as he peeked into an abandoned classroom, he felt someone tap him on the arm. He spun around, heart thundering in his chest.

Two small girls were staring blankly at him.

"Sorry, we didn't mean to scare you," one girl said.

"S'fine," Ron said, circling around her, assuming they were playing some sort of post-curfew game.

His chest settled and he continued his quest to find the two troll-brains and their silver-eyed leader.

"Er — sir?" the girl called after him. "D'you — could you tell me the direction of the hospital wing? My friend and I — we er — we think we ought to go there. You see, we woke up in a broom cupboard and —"

"First floor," Ron grunted, and his hunt recommenced.

He took the next set of stairs two at a time, leading him to the seventh floor. Down the corridor, he gazed, and that was when he wondered if he was seeing things, or if he'd been pranked.

Up ahead, there were two girls that looked exactly like the girls he had just sent to the hospital wing. Confused, he turned around and peered down the stairs to see the backs of the girls' heads disappearing into the intersecting hallway. He squinted.

Perhaps they just looked similar from afar.

With caution, he approached the girls ahead, suddenly recalling where he was. Somewhere here, there was the Room of Requirement — the room Potter used to meet with his organization the previous year.

The problem was: Potter was in the hospital wing, and even he wasn't daft enough to teach dangerous magic to girls this young.

But there was always the possibility of Polyjuice Potion. Ron remembered how easily Granger identified it earlier that year. Perhaps, she'd been brewing the stuff. Perhaps, she was disguised as one of those first-years, ready to curse anyone that came near her.

Ron tightened his grip on his wand.

The two girls were muttering to each other as he quietly moved along the corridor, until one of them — the brunette — caught sight of him. Her eyes bulged and she elbowed the other.

The girls were, in fact, identical to the others.

Ron sized them up. "Something tells me you and those other girls aren't twins."

"What other girls?" the brunette asked.

"The other girls that look exactly like the two of you," Ron said.

The blonde girl elbowed the brunette back and the brunette cleared her throat to say, "Er — yes, we are. They're our — erm — twins."

Suddenly, Ron had a suspicion neither of them could be Granger. They seemed too flighty, too dumb. Granger wouldn't fumble such a scenario so quickly.

"Well if that's the case, think you ought to check on them, then," he said, calling their bluff. "They're headed to the hospital wing."

"They're what ? Damn it, Cra — Meredith . Guess we ought to go check on our er — twins."

"Yeah, Crameredith , suppose you ought to," Ron said, leaning against the wall. "I mean — unless there's some reason you wouldn't want to leave this spot."

The two girls exchanged glances.

"I mean, if you're waiting for someone, I could tell that person you had an emergency," Ron said. "Since obviously, you wouldn't want to miss your twins in the hospital wing."

"We actually have to stay," the brunette said quickly.

"Goyle — I mean — ow !" the blonde howled, grabbing her foot and hopping on the other. "What was that for?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "C'mon, I know it's you two morons." He jerked his head towards the wall. "Is he in there?"

"Is who in where?" the brunette, or rather Goyle, asked.

"My drunk Uncle Bilius," Ron said sarcastically. When they blinked dimly he said, "Draco, you twits!"

Girl-Crabbe's eyes pinballed around the corridor. "We don't know any Draco. Our names are Meredith and —"

"Don't play games with me, Crabbe," Ron growled. "What is he doing in there? He's been driving me mad with all the secrets and I'm tired of it, so someone —" He looked from Girl-Crabbe to Girl-Goyle. "— is going to tell me what's going on and why he's got you dressed up as girls."

Girl-Goyle sighed. "We don't know what he's doing. He just told us to stand guard."

"And even if we did know, he told us not to tell you anything," Girl-Crabbe added, earning yet another nudge from Girl-Goyle.

Crabbe's words felt like a punch to the gut.

"But it's me," Ron said, wounded. "I'm his best mate."

Girl-Goyle kicked at the floor. "Sorry, Weasley. He said he'd curse us if we breathed a word to you. But I wasn't lying when I said we don't know what he's doing. We really don't."

Unsure what to say, Ron simply slumped his shoulders. His best mate didn't trust him. After all the letters, after all their years of friendship, Draco still didn't see him as an equal. Ron reckoned Draco didn't even see him as a Slytherin .

"You better go," Girl-Goyle said, pulling him out of his thoughts. "He'll kill us if you're out here once he's done."

"And how's that my problem?"

"We'll report you to Snape for being out of bed!" Girl-Crabbe shouted.

"But you're out of bed too."

" We have his permission," Girl-Crabbe replied. She pulled a parchment from her robes. "See."

Ron snatched the parchment from her grip, though Girl-Goyle made a reach for it. Immediately, he read it, wondering just how Snape had approved of such rule-bending.

To Whom it May Concern:

Lietta Woods and Meredith Cobbing have my explicit permission to remain in the seventh-floor corridor after curfew as they are to study the effects of their batch of Renewal Potion on the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

Have you any questions, you may refer to me, Argus Filch, or Professor Slughorn.

Severus Snape
Def. Against the Dark Arts
Head of Slytherin House

Ron glanced up at the other boys and scoffed. "Fat lot o' luck this'll do you once that potion wears off."

Girl-Goyle pulled a flask from his robes. "Won't happen til we want it to."

Ron scowled. He could easily report them to McGonagall, but they were both too stupid to keep their mouths shut, and they would snitch on Draco too. Some part of him considered doing it anyway. It's what Draco deserved, after all.

Yet Ron couldn't do that — not to him.


The weeks dragged on, and Ron found Draco continued to keep his distance — with one exception.

"Your Apparition test is soon," the blond pointed out over lunch, mentioning Apparition for what Ron could have sworn was the hundredth time. He took a large bite out of an apple and gestured Ron with his pinkie. "You think you'll pass, right?"

Ron was not even remotely confident in his ability to Apparate. He had only done it successfully once, and even the instructor thought it a fluke, calling it "the luck of the tenth try." However, Ron knew Draco wanted him to be able to Apparate, so he painted on a false sense of certainty and nodded.

"'Course," he said, reaching for a sandwich. "My brothers were the best in the class. Runs in the family."

Draco nodded. "Good. Apparition is the most important skill you can know."

"Especially in times like these," Goyle quipped. "Ow! Wha'd you kick me for?"

Ron turned to look at Draco, who was scowling in Goyle's direction.

"We should prob'ly start going back to that class soon, actually," Crabbe said. "Draco, you think you could let us off tonight? We need to get caught up on this Apparition rubbish, and I could go a night without tasting that swill you call a po — OW!"

Ron fought off his laughter. No matter what they were doing, watching Crabbe and Goyle squirm would always be funny.


Ron did not pass his Apparition test.

In fact, according to Twycross, Ron was lucky the only thing he Splinched was his toenail, and giving him a license would not only be a danger to himself, but to anyone that Side-Along Apparated with him.

Some part of Ron was pleased by this: No license meant no Apparating. Yet, there was another part of him that felt absolutely devastated, and that was the part of him that did not want to disappoint Draco.

He left the Great Hall in a slump, holding in a snarl as Granger boasted to Parvati Patil about her perfect score.

"You really bollocksed up that one, Weasley," Dean Thomas said from behind, to which Seamus Finnigan let out an obnoxious snicker.

Irate, Ron trudged back to the common room, wondering just how to tell Draco about his failure. He wondered what the other boy would say, if he would think Ron failed on purpose out of fear, if he would be angry with him.

He went to bed with those thoughts, yet he did not fall asleep.

Instead, his concerns spun in his head, and he was still awake when Draco finally stepped into the dormitory, hours past curfew. The blond sat on the edge of his bed, staring at Ron with those smoldering, silver eyes. Ron could practically feel the burn of the gaze pinned on him. It was hard not to, Draco was fixated on him, and he wasn't trying to hide it.

"Hey, mate," said Ron. "All right?"

"I'm fine," Draco said thickly. It was hardly a convincing tone. "Did you get your license?"

Ron swallowed. There would be no small talk, apparently.

"Er — yeah. Yeah, I did."

The lie slipped past his lips before he could stop them. The truth would be revealed in time, Ron knew this, and had he simply thought before he spoke, he would've been able to stop himself.

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to upset Draco — especially not when he already seemed hurt by something, even if Ron did not know what that something was.

Draco accepted the fib with a nod and rolled onto his back, shoes still on his feet.

"Good," he said with a heavy sigh. "That's really good."

"Yeah," Ron said, anxiously. "Er — we ought to get some sleep . . . Night, Draco."

"Yeah. Night, Ron."


Ron could not escape the guilt he felt for lying to Draco. He couldn't focus in class. He absentmindedly passed doors he meant to walk through. Sleeping at night had grown impossible.

All Draco had wanted was for him to get his Apparition license, and he failed.

Then, he lied about it.

Ron didn't know why Draco cared so much that he got his license. He still didn't even know why Draco had been absent all year. Of course, his friend's secrets had come between them since they were younger, but that didn't change the fact that Ron missed him immensely.

Yet he couldn't even do the one thing that might bring them closer.

Nearly a week after his lie, he still hadn't come clean.

He and Draco were eating breakfast together — or rather sitting together while others ate breakfast — and Ron poked at his tomatoes, chin in palm, fearful that he may vomit on the Slytherin table. Draco barely touched his food anymore either, eating what Ron would consider the bare minimum. His frame showed it too.

In the background, Pansy was doing as she always did.

She chattered on at Nott, earning sarcastic quips from Zabini every few moments, quips Crabbe and Goyle attempted to match but simply couldn't. Her squawky voice was white noise, a mere buzz in Ron's ears.

But then there was a voice even Ron couldn't ignore.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

Ron jumped a bit and whipped his head towards the entrance of the Great Hall. The rest of the student body had done the same.

There stood Lavender Brown, fists balled and hair as wild as Granger's. Longbottom was backing away from her, jaw slack and eyes bulging.

"WHAT ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT?" Lavender shrieked.

Parvati Patil hurried towards Lavender and wrapped an arm around her trembling shoulders. She shot Longbottom a glare and led her friend back to the Gryffindor table, soothing her with dulcet tones.

Ron turned back around to look at the other Slytherins. "Wonder what the hell that was about."

"You didn't hear?" asked Pansy.

"Hear what?"

"Longbottom was moaning some Hufflepuff's name a few weeks ago when he was in the hospital wing," Pansy explained cheerily. She smirked a little and added, " Apparently , Brown let him get away with it, but then he did it again . . . mid-snog ."

"Mid-snog?" Ron repeated, aghast. "You're joking!"

"I don't joke, Weasley. I heard the Patil twins talking about it."

"Mid-snog, though? Really? "

"Leave it up to Longbottom," Zabini supplied with a snort.

"What I don't understand is how everyone's suddenly so interested in him," Draco muttered. "He's not exactly —" He stopped midsentence.

"Not exactly what ?" Pansy pressed, emanating mischief.

"Nothing. Ahem , I need to get to class."

"I'll come with you," Ron said quickly.

Draco blinked, seemingly surprised by the offer, but nodded. "Yeah, all right."

Pansy's smirk grew, but Ron didn't dare ask why. Instead, he followed Draco, idly aware of Longbottom who was now receiving a pep talk from Potter as they crossed the threshold. When Potter saw them, he immediately stopped speaking.

Ron scoffed and continued walking with his friend. They were nearly to the staircases when the other wizard whirled around.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked.

"Did you — did you see that?" Draco breathed.

"See what?"

"The elf — I could've sworn I saw . . ." Draco shook his head and turned back around. "Never mind."

"Think you're seeing things, mate," Ron joked.

"Yeah, maybe," said Draco.

He didn't sound convinced.


Potions was one of the few classes Ron still enjoyed. Sharing a table with Draco, it was one of the only courses where the two boys had the freedom to talk to one another as they did their work. Of course, Draco was distant as usual, but Ron would catch small smirks when he would make a jab — small pieces of the Draco he knew. Those were the moments he longed for more than anything else in the world.

In fact, he longed for them so much that he found himself drifting off during Slughorn's explanation of the day's brew, instead subtly eyeing Draco as he slumped in his seat.

". . . and last, but certainly not least, I ask that you all take extra care today to mind the usual potioneering precautions! One drop of this elixir could eat away at your bones until your arm is a mere nub at your elbow!"

That , Ron heard loud and clear.

"Leave it to Slughorn to let students brew a potion that could burn their arm off," Ron said lowly.

Draco let out a soft snicker and stood to make his way towards the ingredient cupboard, Ron close at his heels. The rest of the students were crowding it all too quickly — particularly the Gryffindors.

"Harry, those are beetle legs. We want wasp legs," Granger said, exasperated.

Ron and Draco exchanged humored looks.

"Imagine if she didn't fix his every mistake," Nott uttered from behind them. "He'd be dead in a ditch somewhere."

"With a nub for an arm," Draco finished.

Ron held in his frustration that Nott had butted in. While he disliked Nott less than he used to, he and Draco's time together was already so scant. He preferred their time alone was just that.

Ron shoved his way through a handful of Ravenclaws to get his ingredients, seizing extra for Draco. He left Nott to get his own.

He then went back to his station and piled the ingredients atop the surface; Draco organized his methodologically. Reddening, Ron tried to organize his better too.

They worked quietly from the book, after that, Draco occasionally shaking his head and guiding Ron through the more difficult steps. Ron noticed Nott had made some of the same mistakes and Draco hadn't bothered helping him . Upon this realization, he fought a smile.

Finally, his potion began to bubble — all because Draco cared to assist him. Ron grinned.

"And now we just wait for it to —"

Shattering glass interrupted him.

"Harry!" shrieked Granger.

"Oho, that's no good, no good at all!" Slughorn exclaimed, hurrying towards the source of the sound.

Potter had broken a phial, and according to the gasps surrounding him, the spill was causing some damage.

"My shoes!" a Ravenclaw girl exclaimed.

"The floor!" Ernie Macmillan shouted.

Slughorn arrived at the mess. Urgently, he said, "Dear boy, please tell me you didn't forget to dry the merman's scale!"

"I — I don't —" Potter stammered.

The Ravenclaw girl was screaming now, wrestling her shoe from her foot.

"Everyone out!" Slughorn boomed. "Take your potions off the heat and get into the hallway!"

Everyone did as they were told, scrambling to get out of the room. The Ravenclaw girl threw her shoe onto the floor and raced out to catch up with the rest of the class. Just behind them, a shimmering yellow smog began to fill the room.

They reached the outer hallway just as Slughorn slammed the door.

Whatever that cloud of smog was, it was leaking into the corridor. Ron leaned against the wall with Draco, his eyes burning, and lungs aching. Somehow, his tongue felt like it was swelling too.

"I'm — I'm sorry, everyone, I —" Potter rambled.

"Yeah, well you're not forgiven," Ron spat. "You could've killed us all."

"On the contrary, Mr. Weasley —" Slughorn started, but Granger cut him off.

"It was an honest mistake!" she growled.

"Nobody asked you, Granger," Ron bit back. "Though I suppose we ought to've. Took your eye off him, did you? Left him to his own devices and he poisons the whole class? Maybe you're just as responsible as he is."

"I'm not his babysitter!"

Slughorn was looking between the two students, seemingly unsure what to do.

"Oh, so we can blame him, then?" Ron asked. "Just as well, then, Potter. Guess this one is your fault. Unless someone buttered your fingers."

"It was a difficult potion, and his first try!" Granger hissed. "And as if you have any room to talk about mistakes, Splinching your own toe in your final Apparition exam!"

Ron paled.

In his peripheral, he could see Draco drawing his brows together.

"It was my toe nail ," Ron corrected under his breath.

"You failed it either way," Granger snapped, crossing her arms.

"You told me you passed it," Draco hissed at him.

"I — It wasn't —"

Slughorn looked from Granger to Ron and then regarded the class as a whole. "Due to the circumstances . . . class will be dismissed early. The room is in need of clearing . . ."

The students started to break away from one another, many shooting Potter a nasty glare, while some others thanked him for getting class cut early. Ron paid them no attention. His mind was on Draco, who had started down the hall, moving at a rather fast pace.

"Draco!" Ron called, running after him. "Draco, I didn't mean —"

Yet he moved faster, and did not stop.


Draco had been cold all year — or so Ron thought. His previous mood was nothing compared to how he was after discovering Ron's lie, and while it was hard to blame him, he hadn't exactly made it easy for Ron to tell the truth. Honesty would've made him just as angry, Ron was sure of it.

The other boy avoided him at meals, ignored him during class, and constantly pulled aside Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle rather than letting Ron in on their conversations.

All Ron could do was watch his friend from afar.

His sharp jaw was always clenched. His steel eyes were always darting around, quickly pinballing away when meeting Ron's. No matter what, Ron couldn't speak a word to him. He had tried to so many times, only to be dodged in the end.

And it hurt.

Perhaps more than it should've.


Tears cascaded down flushed-red cheeks.

Alone in the dormitory, Ron was poring over Draco's old letters for what felt like the hundredth time, wondering what it would take to win back his friendship.

Weeks had passed, and the world was beckoning late spring. Still, Draco refused to speak to him, and the more time Ron had to spend without his friend, the more he realized the pain he felt was not the kind of pain someone feels from broken friendship. It was sharper than that, something akin to an Unforgivable Curse.

And with that epiphany came another: Ron had to apologize.

He couldn't live without Draco. They had once been so close — joined at the hip, practically — but now, their friendship was a phantom between them, a mere shell of what it once was. And as time passed, Ron realized maybe friendship was not quite the word for what he wanted.

Normal friends didn't obsess over old letters.

Normal friends didn't cry for weeks after a falling-out.

He knew he cared for Draco more deeply than he had cared for anyone in all sixteen of his years on Earth. Being without him felt like he had been cut to the bone.

So it was his job to rekindle whatever they had — even if that was all it could ever be.

That evening, he did not know where Draco was — he so rarely did — but he was going to make things right. He had to.

So as he had hunted the halls for Crabbe and Goyle, he hunted them for Draco.

He sprinted through the dungeons, much to the chagrin of a Hufflepuff prefect. He then ran through the first-floor corridor, shouldering a Ravenclaw and passing a group of girls that scrunched their noses at him. He pushed past a younger Gryffindor, knocking her books down the stairs.

None of them mattered.

Eventually, he reached the second floor, which was mostly empty, sans two Ravenclaws on their way downstairs. Ron kept moving, suspecting that he was more likely to find Draco on the seventh floor, anyway.

Then, he heard something.

A blood-curdling shriek sliced through the atmosphere.

He would know Moaning Myrtle's scream anywhere. She was a rather miserable ghost that haunted the bathrooms on that floor, and it was nothing unusual for her to be lamenting on. Yet this time, it was different. This time, it was far from her everyday groan.

"HE'S KILLED HIM!"

Ron's eyes widened at her proclamation. He ran towards her voice — towards the boys' bathroom.

Immediately, he blanched.

The scene before him was something from a nightmare — the worst possible thing he could ever imagine. Part of him wondered if what Myrtle discovered was a boggart, a terror sculpted just for Ron as he stumbled upon it . . .

There on the bathroom floor lay Draco Malfoy, blood pooling around him.

"Draco?" Ron whispered, horrorstruck.

Myrtle hovered above, still screaming, "HE'S KILLED HIM! HE'S KILLED HIM!"

Finally, the severity sunk in. Tearing his frozen feet from the floor, Ron rushed towards his friend.

"DRACO — DRACO, WAKE UP!" he sobbed, sinking to the tile. Trembling, he felt for Draco's pulse, sucking in terrified breaths, his fingers slickening with blood and knees staining crimson. He glared upwards at Myrtle and shouted, "MYRTLE, GO GET SOMEONE!"

"But who ?" she howled.

"Anyone! Pomfrey, Snape, I don't know!" Ron answered urgently. He looked back down at Draco and brushed his hand against his face, streaking blood across his cheeks as he felt for any bit of warmth he could find. Alas, he was cold. Salty tears and snot touched Ron's tongue. "Wake up, Draco, please wake up. Please, please, please wake up . . . MYRTLE, GO!"

"You better not let him die," Myrtle hissed, before floating away.

Ron cradled Draco's head in his lap, rocking back and forth as he pleaded with the other boy to wake up.

In the distance, Myrtle could be heard yelling for help.

"HE'S DYING!" she shrieked.

Warmth was quickly blooming near Ron's nethers, and for a second he wondered if he had been so upset he wet himself.

Then he realized the reality was worse.

Blood was pouring from the back of Draco's head, soaking Ron's robes. Shaking, he bent to view the wound and swallowed a scream. It was far too deep for him to heal.

If this was the end, Ron wanted it to be his end too.

Crying, he kissed Draco's hair.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Draco," he whispered. "I — I never meant to upset you. But you can't die. Please don't die."

He pressed his lips to Draco's pale forehead, lips cracking through the stream of salty tears.

It felt like ages before he heard faint footsteps draw near.

Then, he looked up, Draco cradled in his arms, and he saw what he could only describe as a guardian angel dressed in black. There stood Snape, eyes hard, Myrtle floating behind him.

The professor sunk to the ground, pulled out his wand without word, and began muttering a spell.


Draco was alive.

Asleep, and poorly, but alive.

Ron watched blankly as Madam Pomfrey emptied at least a dozen phials between his purple lips, from pain potions to sleeping draughts.

". . . muscle trauma, shattered cartilage, concussion , his spine alone —" Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "He was lucky you were there, Mr. Weasley, let me tell you. Had you not been . . ." She trailed off, leaving the rest to Ron's imagination.

Ron merely nodded along to her praise. His eyes were out of tears.

Unlike Ron, Snape did not loiter in the hospital wing. Apparently, the professor didn't dwell on saving a life, for he had left hours earlier, muttering that he had to inform Dumbledore of the attack. He returned only at the toll of the midnight bell.

"I must encourage you to get to bed, Mr. Weasley," he said silkily.

Ron glared back at him. "I'm not leaving him."

Professor Snape observed him for a moment. Then finally, he asked, "Do you happen to know who did this to Mr. Malfoy?"

"No . . . I just — I just heard a scream and then I found him," Ron answered raspily. "If I knew who did this . . ." Ron decided it wasn't in his best interest to finish the thought.

"What of Miss Warren? Was she there before or after you?"

"Who?"

" Myrtle Warren," Snape amended impatiently. "The ghost girl."

"Myrtle . . ." Ron breathed. "Wait, that's it! Moaning Myrtle knows who it was! She kept saying 'he killed him, he killed him!' You see, it was her scream I heard, Professor. She would've been there when it happened!"

The professor's beetle-black eyes flashed.

"You are certain of this?"

"Yes, definitely . . . So it had to be a man, right? Since a student couldn't do this . . ." Ron frowned. "I mean, this is — this is real Dark Magic, isn't it? Something only a real practiced wizard could do . . ."

Snape pressed his mouth into a firm line. "You're correct in your deduction, Mr. Weasley. To put it plainly, Mr. Malfoy's injuries fall in line with that of the Cruciatus Curse."

"The Cruciatus Curse? But that's an Unforgivable!"

"Indeed," Snape muttered. His nostrils flared. "Due to the severity of this attack, it would be ill-advised for me to leave you alone in this hospital wing, as Madam Pomfrey will be retiring to bed soon. Come, I will escort you to your dormitory."

"But, Draco —"

" Mr. Malfoy will be here tomorrow, I assure you."

Ron hesitated. He did not want to leave Draco's side, but as Snape stared him down, he realized he had no other option. With a hard swallow, he squeezed Draco's forearm and rose from his visitor's stool. Snape led him towards the doors, black robes dancing behind him in the breeze of his step.

Ron glanced over his shoulder at the boy in the bed, frail, bloodied, and bruised.

His heart stung at the sight.


Eternal circles lined Ron's eyes.

He had been sleeping very little throughout the year, and the night of Draco's attack was no different. Tossing and turning, he awaited the rising sun, wanting only to be back at Draco's side, back to comfort his friend through the misery some evil wizard had forced him to endure.

His eyes fluttered shut but a few times, yet his small slumbers never lasted long.

At the very crack of dawn, he threw off his covers and hurried out of the dormitory, ignoring Goyle's dazed grunt of "Where're you goin'?"

The hospital wing seemed even grimmer in the daylight.

Sterile white with stinking potions and bland scones, Ron couldn't help but think it was something of a prison. He considered telling Madam Pomfrey this when he sat down beside Draco's cot, but decided he preferred she was in a good mood when she was treating his best mate.

"Don't you have class this morning?" she asked Ron, scribbling something down on her clipboard.

"No," Ron lied.

Madam Pomfrey gave him a look of disapproval.

"Mr. Malfoy will receive the same level of care whether you're here or not, Mr. Weasley, and I suspect he won't be waking any time soon."

"What d'you mean he won't be waking any time soon?" Ron asked, panicked.

"It's not a bad thing, dear, he needs his rest — and if Professor Slughorn has done his job with our potions, Mr. Malfoy here will be out cold for the rest of the day," Madam Pomfrey explained.

"I don't care," Ron muttered. "I'm staying."

Madam Pomfrey exhaled. "I suppose I can't force you out, but if you receive any questions from your professors regarding your absence, I won't be signing any permission letters."

"Fine by me."

And so there Ron sat, the uncomfortable stool bruising his bottom and the stench of the hospital wing on his nose.

Hours of silence passed like that, only interrupted by clinking glass phials and Draco occasionally shifting in his sleep.

Despite his appearance, Ron thought he looked rather peaceful when he slept. He did not have that line of concern drawn between his pale eyebrows, and his mouth wasn't fixed into a sneer.

Somehow, he looked happy, and Ron rather liked that.

By the late afternoon, the Highlands rain began, droplets splattering against the windows, cutting rivers through the soil just outside. Without much else to do, Ron watched in awe, only occasionally looking back at Draco, ensuring he was still at peace, still soft, still looking happy.

"I noticed you weren't in my class today, Weasley."

Ron jumped, startled by Snape's low drawl. He then righted himself.

"Someone should be here when he wakes up," he said.

"I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will be nearby," Snape replied. He cuffed his hands behind his back. "Tomorrow, you're to attend all of your classes. Do I make myself clear?"

"What if I get sick?" Ron asked pointedly. "I've been here in the hospital wing all day, I could catch something quite easy, I reckon."

"I don't care if the Whomping Willow removes your head from your body, you will be present to learn the curriculum of this school, and that's final."

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. There was no winning against Snape.

"Yes, sir," he grumbled.

Snape acknowledged him with a single nod.

A lingering moment passed before Ron asked, "Did you find out who did it?"

The question had been on his mind all night. Ron knew that Draco was involved in something big — there was no denying it, especially considering he had been procuring Polyjuice Potion to do whatever it was he was doing. Regardless, Ron could not understand why someone would want to hurt him. Was it someone he knew? Was it someone involved in what he was doing?

Ron needed to know. It was the only way he could stop it from happening again.

"I'm afraid I'm unable to share that."

That answer wasn't good enough for Ron.

"But are they — when you do find out who did it, they'll go to Azkaban, right?" he asked.

Snape eyed him. "Regrettably, I can't be sure."

"But he's — he could've died! Pomfrey told me so! They literally tortured him within an inch of his life!"

"There is no need to detail Mr. Malfoy's injuries to me, Weasley. I am quite familiar with them already."

Ron scoffed. "But are you fighting for him? Are you going to —"

Despite his fury, he stopped. Draco's eyelids were fluttering, and that line he wore was starting to make its way to the center of his brow.

Clouded pewter gleamed beneath the harsh lighting charms.

"You're awake!" Ron exclaimed, beaming.

Draco rubbed his eyes and groaned.

"Ron?"

"Yeah, it's me, mate," Ron breathed. "I'm here."

Draco flexed his jaw.

"Strange. I had a dream about you . . ." he said, trailing off.

Ron battled with the heat growing in his cheeks. He knew he must have resembled a tomato right then, but he couldn't help it.

His gaze flicked to Snape briefly before settling back on Draco. " Ahem — er — d'you — d'you remember what happened?"

"Yeah, Potter cursed me," he spat.

The professor didn't say a word. Ron, however, whirled around and glared at him. Of all the terrible things Potter had ever done, this was by far the worst.

"Potter?! He'll be expelled for this, surely?"

"That will be up to Dumbledore and his Head of House," Snape drawled.

"But it's an Unforgivable!" Ron exclaimed. "You have to do something!"

Snape's silence continued. Only after a long moment did he speak, and it was merely to say, "It's good to see you awake, Mr. Malfoy."

"It's good to —" Ron started. "But —"

The professor was headed for the doors, and before Ron could argue any further, he was already gone.

Ron sucked in a breath. Blinking back tears, he looked back down at Draco. What happened to Potter would come to light in due time. Right then, there were more important things to worry about.

Draco was alive.

He was awake, and he was alive.

Ron sniffled and whispered, "I was afraid you were going to die."

"Me too," croaked Draco. He screwed his eyes shut. "The last thing I remember was Potter — he found me in the bathroom, and then —" He gulped, opening his eyes once more. "He was coming for me . . . so I shot a curse at him, and — and he sent a Crucio back at me . . ."

"And that's all you remember?" Ron asked, stomach twisting.

"Until the dream."

Ron chewed on his lip. "The one with me in it."

"Now that I think about it, it might've been a memory," Draco replied softly. "You were in the bathroom with me, but everything was black . . . I only heard your voice and then —" He paused. "Yes, I just remember your voice. That's all."

"Yeah, I was there," Ron whispered, clutching the side of the cot. "That was me."

Draco nodded and averted his attention towards the ceiling.

Wordlessly, he threaded his fingers with Ron's.


It was like that for a week.

Ron would visit Draco in the hospital wing — outside of class hours, now that Snape and Pomfrey threatened him with detention if he skived off — and they would hold hands.

They never talked about what it meant. Ron simply sat on the stool beside Draco's hospital bed, his fingers laced with the other boy's, chatting on about Hogwarts and life and the upcoming end-of-year exams.

Nothing serious seemed to happen to Potter.

They didn't talk about that either.

They were resigned to this new companionable norm, the outside world be damned.


"I'm getting out today."

"I know," said Ron. "Pomfrey told me yesterday when you were sleeping."

Draco nodded, staring at the ceiling, yet again. A dozen empty phials lay on his bedside table. In his hand, as usual, was Ron's.

"You may not see much of me," he said after a while.

"What d'you mean? Pomfrey said you need to take it easy."

"I have commitments."

"Commitments," Ron repeated skeptically.

"Yes, I have a task I must complete," Draco said. His tone was firm. "There's no need to pretend you don't know."

Ron could not believe what he was hearing. After all that had happened, Draco still was willing to risk his life for his stupid secret project.

"Are you mad?" he shouted, yanking his hand out of the other boy's. "No, not a chance! You're not going back to doing . . . whatever it was you were doing! It's too dangerous."

"I have to."

" Have to," spat Ron. He crossed his arms. "You don't have to do anything."

" Actually , I do," Draco rebutted. "And I don't say it lightly. You can't talk me out of this, Ron. Believe me, I've tried to talk myself out of it more than you ever could."

Arms still folded, Ron glared at him. "Then you have to tell me what you're doing — where you'll be. So I can find you if — if —" His voice cracked. He couldn't manage the words.

The Scarhead would have every opportunity to try to harm Draco again, considering McGonagall and Dumbledore gave him nothing more than a slew of detentions. The favoritism at Hogwarts never failed to disgust Ron — especially when it came to the likes of Potter.

"I can't do that," Draco said softly.

"So you'd rather die than tell me?" Ron asked, agog. He scoffed. "You're bloody unbelievable, you know that? After all we've been through —"

"I haven't told you because I'm trying to protect you!" Draco shouted, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He winced and wobbled on weak arms, the muscles diminished from weeks of bed-rest. "How have you not gotten that through your thick skull yet?"

Ron frowned. " Protect me? But —"

"But nothing. If you knew everything I'm doing, you'd be in danger," Draco said flatly. "I won't allow that, considering —" He stopped. "Considering I owe you a life-debt."

Ron didn't know what to say.

Draco shook his head and fell onto his back once more, grimacing as his head met the pillow. It was still sore, despite all of Pomfrey's potions and spell-work.

"Forget it," he muttered.

"Forget it?" breathed Ron. "I'm supposed to forget that you nearly died ?"

This time, it was Draco that didn't know what to say.

Chewing on his lip, Ron stared out the window. It was raining again.

"I have to be able to help you somehow ," he whispered. "Whatever it is you're doing, even if you can't tell me, there has to be something I can do."

The question lingered in the air, swelling with every passing second. At last, Draco inhaled a shuddering breath.

"A time will come when I tell you to leave the castle."

Ron turned towards him. "All right . . ."

"I'm asking that you listen to me."

"But why —"

"This is how you can help, Ron," Draco said. Silver eyes searched cerulean, clear and cloudless as a summer day. He placed a hand on Ron's shoulder. "Promise me you'll do it."

The fear in Draco's eyes was the very fear Ron felt — the fear he had been holding onto ever since that night in the bathroom.

He swallowed, and whispered back.

"I promise."


Ron hoped the day would never come — but it did.

On the thirtieth of June, Draco raced into the library, earning a shout and the threat of detention from Madam Pince. Draco paid her no mind, continuing his sprint despite the glares and the gasps from all those he shouldered on his way by. He did not stop until he arrived at the table where Ron was studying. He was panting, and he didn't sit.

"What is it?" Ron asked, not bothering to pull his nose out from his Charms book. They were on the verge of their end-of-year exams, and he had every intention of passing.

Draco whispered only two words.

"It's time."

Ron dropped the book. He settled on Draco's features and realized that it was not some kind of horrible prank. The boy looked wild — feral even. He was shaking, terrified, eyes twitching and red-rimmed.

Something bad was about to happen. Ron could feel it emanating from him.

"Now?" Ron hissed.

Draco nodded. "As soon as you go, I'll be seeing it through."

Ron closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Still, Draco would not tell him what "it" was, and now more than ever, Ron feared for his friend.

Nevertheless, he closed the book.

Slowly, he pushed it inside his schoolbag, mind tearing through every scenario that may keep Draco from seeing out his task. He stopped, book only halfway inside of the bag.

"And if I don't go, will you not do whatever this thing is?" he asked hopefully.

"If you don't go, you'd be breaking a promise to me."

"But would it make you safe?"

The look on Draco's face told Ron the answer before he even said the word.

"No."

Never in his life had Ron felt as cornered as he did just then. Anxious, he shoved the book into his schoolbag and stood, slinging the bag over his shoulder. There was no telling what was to come, but whatever it was, he knew one thing.

"Nothing will be the same after today, will it?"

Draco shook his head and swallowed. "No, it won't."

Ron nodded and reached out for Draco's hand. He gave it a squeeze, lingering there to play with his pale fingers.

"Where should I go then?" he asked softly.

Draco leaned in, pressing his forehead to Ron's. His breath was warm, and Ron feared it would be the first and last time he felt it so closely.

"The greenhouses," Draco whispered. "I'll meet you there once it's done."

"And you promise me that?" Ron choked out.

Tears were rolling down his cheeks, pooling in the corners of his mouth. When they started to fall, he wasn't sure.

"I promise," Draco said.

They stood like that for a moment, sharing the warm air between them, hot tears raining down Ron's face. Then slowly, he leaned closer.

His lips brushed Draco's.

It was more awkward than Ron imagined most first kisses to be, and at first, he wasn't sure if Draco was going to push him away or not.

But he didn't.

Draco leaned into him, cracked lips caressing Ron's in a simple library alcove, where anybody could have seen them. It was salty and solemn, not quite like Ron had imagined it, but it brought him back to the ground when he thought he was going to float away, a mere wisp of phobia and dread.

His heart clenched as they pulled apart.

"I suppose we should go."

Draco closed his eyes and nodded.

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"I don't care about quick," Ron muttered lowly. "Be as safe as you can."

Knots.

Every bit of Ron's insides felt like they were twisting and contorting as he walked across the grounds to the greenhouses. Tracey Davis pulled a smile and waved at him. He forced a wave back. She seemed so normal, so oblivious to what was about to happen.

Everyone did.

His short journey was studded with laughs and smiling faces, with small screams as thunder roared in the distance, with first-years grousing about end-of-year exams. They were all even more clueless than he was — innocent bystanders to whatever chaos was about to ensue.

He wanted to warn them all that something was going to happen, that they should run to the Forbidden Forest, or even Hogsmeade. But for Draco's sake, he pursed his lips and tucked himself in the small walkway between Greenhouses One and Two. There he remained, waiting for the inevitable.

Minutes felt like hours, an hour felt like a day, and Ron started to wonder if anything was going to happen at all. He wondered if Draco changed his mind, or if this was all some ploy to throw Ron off, so he could continue doing whatever he had been doing in the bathroom and on the seventh floor. He toyed with this thought for a long while, trying to decide if it was better or worse than what he thought was to come.

Then he heard the screams.

He slipped into Greenhouse Two and stepped behind a plant he'd sooner eat than be able to identify. There, between the saw-patterned leaves, he peered out the glass, observing the scene from afar.

Something was wrong.

People in black robes marched along the cobblestone trail, their faces concealed by skull-like masks. Their wands were drawn, and they shot curses every-which-way — at animals, at the hedges, one even sent a beam of green light at another robed figure. The second figure collapsed. They trampled on the corpse.

"IF ANYONE ELSE EVEN THINKS OF QUESTIONING ME, THAT'LL BE YOU TOO!" the assailant shrieked. The voice was feminine.

Ron breathed in shallow breaths, trying to make sense of what was happening. Everything was moving far too fast.

Members of the group split away from each other, their mission seemingly to destroy the grounds. The oaf's hut burned. The Quidditch pitch blazed on in the distance. The Dark Mark glittered amongst the clouds.

All that seemed safe were the greenhouses, and Ron wondered how long that would last.

His pupils zipped around in terror, searching for Draco.

Was this what he had been doing? Summoning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers?

Ron felt like his feet were glued to the ground below. The glass surrounding him could shatter at any moment, yet if it did, he had no idea if he would be able to run.

Did Draco warn them not to attack him there? Had he even considered that the place was a death-trap?

Question after question raced through Ron's mind as he frantically looked for the one face he needed to see.

Finally, he found him.

He was stumbling alongside the steepest hill with Snape, a shock of platinum that gleamed against the raging fires. Ron nearly ran out to meet him, eager to escape this hell that surrounded them, this hell that Draco may have created himself.

But he stopped.

Potter was stalking along the hill too, towards Snape and Draco, his wand drawn. Ron seized his own, having half a mind to jet out from the glass building and kill Potter where he stood. Yet, Potter's aim was not on Draco. It was on Snape — and Snape alone.

"STUPEFY!"

Snape lazily countered the spell.

"Run, Draco!" yelled the professor.

And he did. Draco ran, scrambling up the muddy hill as Potter continued closing in on Snape. The older wizard didn't move.

"HE TRUSTED YOU!" Potter cried. "HE TRUSTED YOU AND YOU KILLED HIM!"

Ron drew his eyebrows together, wondering just who it was that Snape had killed.

"Lower your wand, Potter," Snape's voice rang. From behind the glass, it was barely audible amidst the sounds of the celebrating Death Eaters. Ron's gaze kept bouncing from Draco to Snape.

The mud was getting the best of the former, a slippery mess that was all but unclimbable.

"CRUC —!" Potter yelled. Ron's eyes darted back to him.

Snape dodged the curse with ease, sneering, "You dare use an Unforgivable on me? How quaint."

Potter was breathing heavily. He tried the curse again, but Snape blocked it once more.

Ron glanced back at Draco. He had seemingly given up on the hill, skidding down the side of it. He appeared to be heading straight for the greenhouses — straight for the glass hell.

"Fight back!" Potter screamed. "Fight back, you cowardly —"

"Coward, did you call me, Potter?" Snape shouted. "Your father would never attack me unless it was four on one, what would you call him, I wonder?"

Chest heaving, Ron searched for Draco once again. He was nearly across the grounds, nearly to the greenhouses —

"Off to hide then, are you, Malfoy?"

Ron blanched.

Longbottom had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, wand ready and Granger at his side. Her wild hair was even wilder than usual, a tangled mess only she could achieve. They both looked positively bloodthirsty.

"You bring Death Eaters into our school, and then you run away from the consequences?" Longbottom went on. "Now, that's cowardly — even for you."

Draco gulped and pointed his wand back at the two of them.

"Don't you even try it, Longbottom," he said, his voice cracking.

"Or what?" Longbottom said with a smirk. "Going to kill me, are you?"

"Neville, he's not worth it," Granger hissed.

"You'd be wise to listen to your boyfriend's girlfriend there," Draco spat back. His hand trembled. "You'll keep your life if you turn around and take her back to the castle. You both will."

Something changed in Granger's expression.

"Leave him," she told Longbottom, seizing him by the arm. "Come on , Neville, let's go."

Longbottom flexed his jaw. Ron couldn't watch anymore.

"BOMBARDA!"

The explosion rattled the glass wall, spraying the shards outward towards the grounds. Longbottom's eyes widened as Ron dove through the new hole, a sneer on his face, and his weapon aimed right for the Gryffindor.

"Should've known you'd have someone waiting round back there," Longbottom growled. "Wippi —"

"Impedimenta!"

Draco's jinx cut through Longbottom's, knocking the Gryffindor back a step. Longbottom moved to right himself, but Granger grabbed his arm again.

"Neville, stop it!" she cried. Sniffling, she shook her head. "You're better than fighting like this. I know you are."

Longbottom eyed her.

"Take her to the castle, Longbottom," Draco rasped. He shook his head slowly. "They'll kill her once they find out what she is, you know they will."

Longbottom hesitated.

"You swore to protect this school, Severus!"

The group of four turned their attention back towards the scene on the hill. There was McGonagall, storming in Snape's direction, the skirt of her dress hoisted and her wand aimed at him. The silhouette of her hat glowed orange against the nearby flame.

"These students trusted you! Albus trusted you!"

Ron still could not understand what Snape had done — who he had killed.

"We have to get to Harry," Ron heard Granger whisper to Longbottom. "He needs to get back to the castle, if he doesn't —"

Draco leaned towards Ron to whisper a plan of his own.

"We need to get to Snape. He'll Apparate us out."

"There's no way," Ron hissed back. "Not with McGonagall there!"

"McGonagall won't hurt students," Draco reasoned.

"I can Apparate us," Ron argued. "If I can get us to the gates —"

"You can't. The Ministry receives unlicensed Apparition alerts. They'll be there waiting for us by the time we get to the Manor."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw Granger and Longbottom hurrying towards Potter and the two professors. He gulped.

"The castle's out of the question, isn't it?" he asked, hopelessly.

Draco did not bother answering. He jerked his head towards Snape, "Come on."

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Potter shouted in the distance. "I'LL HUNT YOU DOWN, SNAPE! I'LL —"

He was standing behind McGonagall, trying to force his way past her, yet she would not allow it. Her arms were spread wide, her own wand pointed at the other professor.

"Severus, what you have done tonight is unforgivable," she said shakily. "These halls will never be the same!"

Snape said nothing. His beady eyes had darted towards Draco and Ron, who were hurrying towards him just behind Longbottom and Granger. McGonagall turned to look at them too. Her mouth was fixed into a grave frown as they split away from the two Gryffindor students. Potter fell into Granger's arms, and Longbottom offered him a pat on the back.

McGonagall, however, was still staring down Ron and Draco as they joined Snape.

"Mr. Weasley, I'm afraid you are making a terrible, terrible mistake," she breathed.

Ron didn't reply.

"I know your mother and father. I can promise you that you will regret this. This is not the path they would choose for you," she continued. "Whatever you're wrapped up in, I can help you. There will always be help at Hogwarts for those that ask for it.

From the corner of Snape's mouth, he uttered, "We move towards the gates. That's the Apparition point."

Ron and Draco exchanged looks.

"Go!" Snape barked.

So they did.

There was no turning back.