Weasley is King

Chapter 1: A Year For Many Firsts

By: HolyHeathen

Proofread By: colormeblue42

A familiar chime signaling the departure of the Hogwarts Express echoed throughout the hallowed halls of King's Cross Station. Bustling crowds of wizards both young and old swarmed over the old brick pavement. Student robes speckled among those of older guardians and the occasional muggle garb. This wasn't the first time Ronald Billius Weasley had come here, seeing how he had four older brothers attend Hogwarts before him. This time however, he would be the one boarding the train, stepping upon the halls of Hogwarts as a student, and joining the rot and toil, as just another of the Weasley lot, or so many had said.

He strode forward calmly, perhaps too calmly for the circus of noise and movement in front of him, and Ronald advanced through the crowded masses. The familiar bunches of strangers unconsciously parted, allowing him just enough room for easy passage. His eyes swept along each passerby, who shot past in swirls of magic and the mundane; Hogwarts yellow, red, green, and blue danced with muddled browns, blacks, and grays. He came closer to the train entrance, and upon not spotting anyone of interest, Ron briskly turned to wave his goodbyes to his shouting family, whose enthusiastic departing remarks could only barely be heard over another blowing of the train's horn. Ron absentmindedly waved back, turned forward, and stepped over the threshold and onto the Hogwarts Express, ready to start his next grand adventure.

Students ran up and down the central carriage of the Hogwarts Express, in and out of sliding compartments, but as soon as any of the boisterous children came near Ronald, they instinctively pushed themselves against the walls to allow him passage. Wide, young eyes stared at him and his aura in awe as if in a trance, only to immediately continue their childish meandering past him the moment he walked by.

Row after row, his eyes flew over the unremarkable youths he would soon be forced to call schoolmates. It was only when the train jolted did a shifting figure out of the corner of his eye catch his attention. A remarkably dull- but distinguishable nonetheless- lightning bolt-shaped scar streaked across the boy's forehead in between the jostled curls of his unruly dark hair. It was only then that Ronald's interest peaked.

Ronald pushed open the sliding door, thinking it would make enough noise to alert the boy to his presence, but to his surprise, the individual he presumed was "Savior of Wizardkind" seemed lost in thought, so he went with just speaking with an elevated tone: "Oi, the name's Ronald, my friends call me Ron. Can I sit here?"

The boy jumped, startled, too much so for a normal reaction, and quickly nodded his head. "Yeah, sure. My name's Harry."

"Really mate? Could you be… Harry Potter?" After a moment of silence and another nod, "Based as hell mate, though you're not exactly as the stories describe."

A now more in-depth view at the aforementioned teen revealed thin limbs and a gaunt face, newly bought robes, of which it seemed he hadn't grown accustomed, and unkempt hair, either from a lack of self or parental care.

"I'm not sure what the stories tell," Harry finally spoke, light confusion muddling his brow, "I didn't grow up reading them."

"Then where did you grow up? My mum and dad, and basically the rest of my family, couldn't bloody escape all the tales about you. I mean, my sister even owns the whole Post Dark Lord: Adventures Of A Potter Heir trilogy, it's right insane!"

The boy in question froze at the question, as though mention of where he had been was a secret or a trauma worse than torture. Seeing this, Ronald instinctively reached across the cabin, and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, allowing a warm, comforting wave of magic to wash over his steeled figure. "It's alright mate, I didn't mean to push, I was just happy to meet a friend."

At that final word, the mention of "friend" seemingly, Harry snapped out of his stupor and glanced back at Ronald with appreciation, his face and shoulders visibly relaxing from the magical atmosphere put out by the red-headed boy. "I've never had a friend before, you know. Never was even allowed to have one. Or see one if I met one in school or whatever." Harry leaned back against the seat, allowing Ron's hand to fall off of his shoulder, "I lived, or do live with my aunt and uncle I guess. Never really knew anyone else but them, I never even knew I was a wizard until the bloody letters! Even those, they hid from me! Sorry, I mean- I didn't mean to… " Harry's tone rose and fell as obvious emotional distress crossed his face at the mention of his guardians, ending in a distraught outlook, obviously feeling that he had overshared with someone he had just met.

Following Harry's tangent, the dots connected in Ronald's head. Estranged muggles taking care of a magical orphan happened often enough, especially after the war. In such cases, and even in cases of muggleborns, abuse was common. What those who do not understand do to what they don't understand can often be monstrous.

But regardless, this was Harry Potter, savior (at least so claimed) of the (British) wizarding world! There was little rhyme or reason it seemed to place such an important person with a family who, even to the untrained eye, treated him poorly, at the very least. The only wizard with both the political and familial connections to have a say over Harry's placement would be Dumbledore, Ronald thought, regardless of how much my mother may fawn over the man, I must be wary of him. If he is willing to physically and emotionally endanger the beloved "Harry Potter" who's to say what he would care, or care not to do as headmaster of the school?

Tabling thoughts of conspiracy and attempts to explain the childhood neglect sitting before him, Ron extended a hand; "Well, how about I be your first friend, mate? While at Hogwarts there will be no one to strip any friendly relations from you, except teachers of course, with shite, like detention. I heard Snape's a real nasty bugger, head of Slytherin and all that, but don't worry, I'll take care of yeh." Harry reached over hesitantly and shook Ron's hand, unsure he fully understood what the Weasley boy was saying or implying, but for sure on board with the being friends bit.

The instant their hands met, a sense of assured confidence was imbued into Harry, his spine straightened, and his eyes steeled slightly; at that moment he became more certain than ever that this would be a forever friendship, his first best friend.

At that same moment, unbeknownst to Harry, so enthralled in his ideals of a real future friendship, a twisted grin broke out across Ronald's face, only to be swiftly fixed and replaced by a carefree confident smile. The same smile and relaxed charm that had fooled so many before, and wouldn't fail to deceive many more to come.

For many, their first day at Hogwarts, and indeed many of the ones proceeding, are filled with the spectacle of mystery and the joys of childhood enthrallment. Regardless of explanations from one's parents of what to expect from the castle, Hogwarts was itself a magical living entity and was prone to the occasional change from time to time; a new corridor here, a missing bathroom there, few were privy to all or even the majority of its bountiful secrets.

Those few, however, did not exclude Ronald Weasley, whose twin brothers had made it their personal quest to ruin any potential marvel brought forth by his initial visit to the castle. Any moment they had over breaks or in written mail they would take to spoil its hidden corridors and seeming bewildering design flaws they had discovered (instead of attending class), creating for Ron the image of a school more in the name it seemed than in actual design.

Thus, when approaching many of the sights that many other new students hesitated to approach or understand such as the (supposedly) horseless carriages and the enormous half-giant groundskeeper who would accompany them across the lake in boats without oars, Ronald was often one of if not the first to step into each situation, only turning around to encourage his newfound friends; "Come on lads, it's really not that scary, and anyway, I'm bloody starving. The earlier we get there, the earlier we can eat!"

The comedic invocation of Ron's appetite got a small chuckle from his weary scar-bearing and muggleborn companions and in using his hands to help them into their boat, a small bout of absurdness flowed through each of them. They all looked towards the castle as its looming figure slowly approached; its form growing in gradient scale and magical might, a lone island fortress of scholastic solitude and ancient forgotten secrets.

"Welcome students, new and old, to another year here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! I am your headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and at the table behind me are our lovely professors. One of whom, may I welcome, Professor Quirrell, who is to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!"

A weak round of claps echoed emptily throughout the Great Hall, as students seemed none too enthused to be having yet another new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. As the man in question began to get up, and Ron looked over his full plate of fresh bread and hot meats to see his soon-to-be teacher, his eyes immediately narrowed. Quirrell pushed off of the table and approached the podium with violently shaking hands, but incredibly, dangerously so, steady and silent feet.

Ron closely analyzed Quirrell's speech, about his thanks for the position and hope for a good year, which was interspersed nearly every seven seconds on the dot, Ronald noted, with a misspeak or stutter. And even from his view at the Gryffindor table, it was obvious the man's eyes were clouded a dull gray color. There was something quite wrong with this man, and with his previous conclusions of Dumbledore's negligent behavioral tendencies, Ronald had little hope of any proper screening having being done on someone who so obviously was putting up an act (for whatever reason he was doing so).

Returning to his meal Ronald compiled his thoughts, all the while in the background Dumbledore finished his inane welcoming speech and the Hogwarts song was sung by those who knew it; the appearance of Harry Potter and this strange new professor was too important a coincidence to not take notice. And with the current headmaster's incompetence and lax attitude towards child safety, whose jumpy and malnourished effects were currently sitting next to him, Ron was all the more interested in the year of school that was to fall before him.

Finishing his thoughts, and polishing off the last of his turkey, Ron turned towards Harry whose plate, he had noticed, had barely been touched. "You gonna finish that, mate?" After a small shake indicating 'no', Ron grabbed the remainder of Harry's plate, shoveling it onto his, all of which slopped together into a singular lumpy pile of red, green, and brown. "Thanks, mate, they really get rid of the food too soon. My mum normally makes a ton of food at home, but the stuff here is so peng, yah know? Whoever makes it must be a bloody genius at cooking or something!"

A small guffaw escaped from Hermione beside him, and in glancing over at her, Ron was met with a look of utter disgust plastered across her face. "For goodness' sake, Ronald! There's no way anyone could be that hungry, and Harry doesn't even eat enough, to begin with!"

Knowing and having speculated on Harry's general situation, Ron knew that at the very least from a visible look at Harry's nutritional level, he wasn't used to large or even normal amounts of food and that any questions along this line of thought could possibly lead to his living situation which was a trigger for the young lad. Thus, to avoid that line of confrontation, Ron scrunched his face, and took a defensive posture, swallowing the current mouthful of what was once Harry's plate; "I'm sure if Harry didn't want me to have his food he would have said so, yeah?" And looking over to see a small thankful glance from Harry, he continued; "and I find it quite rude of you to assume how much food it takes to keep this body o' mine working! My mum says I'm a growing boy, and some boys, especially more magical ones, need extra fuel to light the metaphorical fire of growth!"

Taken aback, Hermione merely stared between Ronald and Harry. She was confused by the look of appreciation Harry had, as she was only attempting to stop Ron from bullying Harry out of his food, wasn't she? The gears in her complex, and unfortunately deeply insecure mind began to turn, and in the end, she came up with what must be the only answer; she was being made fun of. There was no room in her head for her to be wrong, so any answer, especially one in a social situation, defaulted to what had been the outcome of a great many relationships throughout her childhood, a great big prank.

The beginning of tears started to form in Hermione's eyes, as the emotions of finally making some new friends and immediately being brought to the reality (not so) that this was yet another chance to make fun of the book nerd, began to boil over. Hermione's thoughts began to accelerate and pushed through her head, one after another; This was supposed to be different. Hogwarts was supposed to be different, a whole new place of new chances and experiences, a whole new world, brand-new friends and opportunities all ripped awa-

Instantly Hermione's mind quieted a serene peace of emptiness, for a few moments she bathed in the lack of thought like a black cloud against a starless night before coming to awareness and looking at the warm hand placed upon her shoulder. "I meant no malice nor jest when I asked to be your friend, Hermione." Ron spoke, in a voice uncharacteristically calm and soft, "I wished for us to be friends with every fiber of my being."

Removing his hand, Hermione's mind slowly came back to its normal state of computation and analysis, and by the time she had processed the experience of nothingness to wholeness, Ronald and Harry had left, seemingly to bed for the night.

Tomorrow marked the start of classes after all, and not having time to contemplate the potential of what their interaction had meant, Hermione hurried off herself, to study ahead a bit more before the first exciting day of classes.

Classes were, as Ronald had anticipated, quite dull. Not to say that there was nothing to be learned, but in his months prior to school (spent reading foreign textbooks and what little there existed of his family tomes), it was obvious in comparison that the offered curriculum was both out of date and rife with the deterioration of intellectual sensibilities that had seemed to be the trend in the stagnating research culture of modern magical Britain.

Thus, besides reading ahead in the interesting textbooks, most classes were either only half-heartedly attended, or slept through in their entirety. Many a classwork and homework assignment was neglected, and moving into the fourth week of classes, Ron's "less than preferred" scholastic behaviors came to a head in a confrontation with his head of house:

"Mr. Weasley, while I am not one to expect perfection from the students of my house, the most basic minimum efforts, I certainly do."

Having been asked to stay after transfiguration class, Ron had expected the conversation to run along this route, but he hoped to end his "scolding" as quickly as possible. It seemed Hagrid had found himself an illegal magical creature, and Ron was very interested to learn more than Harry's hushed "it's really dangerous for him to have it", during class.

"Which of your expectations am I not fulfilling, ma'am?"

With a raised eyebrow McGonagall looked down at her desk and picked up a small stack of papers, some in different handwriting, Ron noted, before she began to list; "Two written notations in herbology, four two-foot essays in charms, three four-foot essays in potions, and finally in my own class; not a single of the last six transfiguration papers. Our expectations of our students include that they at least do their homework, Mr. Weaseley. And in terms of that, you have done none of it."

A moment passed as Ron only stared at the professor, several possible fictional stories built and discarded before he finally gave up and decided on relaying the truth, just this once.

Straightening his posture and hardening his gaze, Ronald shed his airy persona and momentarily embraced in true inner ego.

"It is not explicitly my intention to have my teachers think so little of me", he began, a slow cool breeze billowing into the room and lightly ruffling his robes; "I simply think very little of what we are learning."

Taken aback at the sudden shift in his speech and demeanor, and all the more off-put by the mysterious breeze appearing in a room with magically sealed windows, McGonagall herself took several seconds to respond to the young boy's statement. "Regardless of what you may think of them, the classes are required. Failing your classes now will only lead to more work in your future." She intently stared back at the young lad, analyzing his every movement, waiting to see who this Ronald Weasley was, and if possible, why a Gryffindor under her eye showed such Slytherin qualities of deception.

"I guess I can acknowledge that. Though I have spent a great deal of time Professor, prior to my admittance here at Hogwarts, reading textbooks both of this school and abroad- and while I am not so ignorant as to think myself infallibly learned," taking a pause to breathe, Ron continued, his disdain obvious in his voice, "I am most certainly far more advanced than the rabble of pathetic idiots I am sharing my lessons with. Why, in Egypt, by their first year, students are already expected to have-"

"I understand your feelings, Mr. Weasley." Interrupting what was becoming a rant, McGonagall slightly softened her complexion, "And in honesty, I agree, in our current system us teachers are not the arbiters of learning, merely the deliverers of it. The ways of this school have been decided by people with more authority, and supposedly more knowledge. I had honestly hoped today to simply convince you into doing some of your homework, but it seems I have far more of a problem on my hands."

As she leaned back into her armchair, McGonagall breathed out a tight huff of frustration, allowing an empty and uncertain silence to follow while she thought of a solution.

Breaking the still atmosphere of the room, Ron aired his own thoughts; newfound respect and understanding of his professor at the forefront of his mind: "If I may Professor, if I were able to demonstrate that I know the material already, is there any way for me to simply only take the tests and forgo the assignments? Enough so that I at the very least avoid expulsion? I simply find the trivial repetition of information I have already grasped to be… demeaning and repulsive."

Sighing once more in exasperation, McGonnagal's eyes roamed the ceiling as she thought for several moments before answering. "As your Head of House, I have the final ability to determine all grade-related expulsions of students in my house pertaining to the Hogwarts Bylaws." Looking back to the boy, she continued, eyes narrowing, "That does not mean, however, that I am inclined by any stretch of the imagination to simply let your poor workmanship slide within Gryffindor. But… if you were able to perform as you say, and I have not been blind to your ability in our practical lessons as of yet, I may consider an alternative… route, shall we say?"

Standing up from her desk, McGonagall turned and, with a sharp flick of her wand, summoned a blackboard from the side of the room. "Coming from a family of wizards who have been attending Hogwarts for generations, I expect you to know that in their fifth year, most wizards and witches take their O.W.L. exams. Now there are of course special cases; those in which students were unable to attend school that year, where exams themselves were canceled, or even where students took their exams early." McGonagall waved her wand in a complex pattern revealing a chart of classes and topics written in glowing white. Turning back to Ronald, the Professor continued, "I shall personally give you mock O.W.L. exams at the end of this school year and the next, in increasing difficulty in preparation for taking the actual exams in your third. If you don't see fit to study the 'trivial' topics of your peers, I might as well have you study the ones which will both be of use to you and keep you out of trouble, is that acceptable?"

"Most certainly."

Being best friends with the boy who lived had been quite the step up in public image for Ron from just another of the supposedly innumerable Weasley brothers. It gave him a title, an image, but it was not his own. Ron had spent several nights alternating between reading the books he had smuggled in his bag of inner expansion, and contemplating how he could make a name for himself. A name that he could make his own, one which would stand out from amongst the crowds of Dark Lord vanquishers and sons of ancient families in his grade. Why, in comparison, the Wealsey name was damn near treated as a slur! The only reason other children saw fit to even speak to him was either they were ignorant muggleborns, or they wished to get to know Harry through him. Swatting off these sad attempts at flattery had been amusing in the beginning, but had quickly grown tiresome. The only solution to cease the pestering was a solemn threat from Ron, what persistence!

Alas, as Ron was but a mere child, he had little in the way of opportunities for grand achievement, and even less in sway and believability when it came to adults. Thus, he was forced to wait, bide his time, and stick by his friend. So long as his fame drew eyes upon Ronald, Ron would think and dream of what future glory his own path would entail. However, as long as he remained in the common room, even his dreams were prone to interruption by those needing swatting.

"Oi, Weasley!"

"What Seamus?"

"You seen 'arry around?"

Ron's left eye twitched.

"Not recently, think 'Mione dragged him off to the library to study, why? You need him for something?

Finnegan looked down and fidgeted with his hands slightly as he responded, "Well you see, m'um tol me to make frien's wit' him or something o that sort. She's a big fan ye see? An' well… shite. Never mind. I cann' a' be a bother like this, jus let 'im know I said hi yeah?"

Ron's eyebrow raised in question, "You sure mate, there's not somethin' I could be of help for?"

"Nah, it's… well…" sighing loudly, Seamus collapsed next to Ron on the couch, leaning deadly into the red velvet of the Gryffindor pillows.

"Fock." Seamus whispered before sitting up and looking Ron hard in his eyes, "Don't tell a damn soul, Weasley, you got this?" A stern nod later; "Me dads a muggle right? So mums the one who runs our famlee business. We sell anti-werewolf charms ye see? An' during the war me parents were doing fine, but they never really saved anythin up, so now that everthin 'as calm'd down, we're… kinda like you- I don' mean in a bad way- but wer' fla' broke. So mum asks me to go an ask Potter to do an in'erview or som nonsense 'bout one of 'em stories she read about how he fought a werewolf, to try an boost sales or wha'not. Kinda a reach if yer ask me, but it's wot she's got in 'er head, and she won't bloody stop sendin' me letters 'bout doing it!" Huffing out the rest of his air as his tangent came to a halt Seamus stared at Ron expectantly, as though they were both in the same situation.

Initially offended that Seamus believed him to simply only be friends with Harry to leech off of his reputation, Ron paused and realized the opportunity before him.

"Seamus, first, I know you don't know Harry all that well, or at all really, so I'll let you know first and foremost that all those stories of shite he did after defeating You Know Who are all full of shite. Secondly, even asking Harry about anything like that would for sure turn him away, as he really isn't interested in people knowing about his private life."

Hearing this, Finnegan was obviously only somewhat dejected, but from how hesitant he was to even approach the topic Ron had already surmised that this was more his mother's plan than his own.

"But, I think I might be of some help mate!" Seamus swung his head towards Ron, his eyes wide in quizzical surprise, "I'm most sure of your exact business per se, but a lot of businesses post-war went out due to a lack of diversity. I'm going to assume your folks only sell anti-werewolf stuff?" A slow nod. "Well therein lies the problem, right? With folks like Dumbledore in charge having a more open stance towards werewolves and other previously 'creature' class species, the public negative consciousness towards them is going to inevitably shift in a more positive direction, leading to a lessening in sales that are propagated by paranoia and fear of them, you feel?"

"Where the fock was this Weasley during potions?"

"Don't worry mate, stick by me, and I can assure you, you'll be at the top of the bloody world."

~ Several Months Later ~

In a darkened corridor near midnight, two figures cloaked in spells of secrecy and avoidance approached one another, their steps and bated breaths unheard by any of the nearby sleeping paintings. Quiet whispers were exchanged and a brief shuffling of cloaks allowed for them to pass an object between their hands, a red glint only momentarily becoming perceivable as it passed from one's invisibility spell to another. The transaction having been completed, the two turned and departed, their business done.

As one figure fled quickly, the other instead turned into a near-empty classroom, their Ill-gotten goods clutched tightly to their chest. The pounding of their heart thudded in their ears. Months of patience and plans had come and gone, and here in his- in their hands laid the proof of his labor.

Canceling the concealment spell, Quirinus Quirrell became visible once more, his hands really shaking for once, in strained anticipation, and not the silly act he put on for the stupid teachers and headmaster.

He quickly reached into his robes for the black sack he had finally acquired and emptied its contents into his other hand. A rose oblong stone fell into his quaking palm, its reflective glass surface teemed with specks of white glistening magic which slowly spiraled around an unseen center as though to mimic the movements of the miniature cosmos. Power, pure ethereal power, radiated from its very existence. The power of creation, of longevity, of rebirth.

"I FEEL IT QUIRINUS, I FEEL YOU HAVE IT! " A voice spoke muffled through the back of his turban but shook and reverberated inside his mind.

"Yes, master! I have found the stone for you! What is next? What is the next step?"

A moment passed before the voice spoke again, "I WILL REQUIRE A MAGICAL SACRIFICE TO STIMULATE THE STONE'S POWER AND PLACATE THE MAGICS FOR THE CREATION OF A NEW VESSEL."

The conversations between master and servant were often strained, as the energy it took to maintain speech he knew took a great toll on his esteemed Lord. The longer he spoke, the longer he took to speak the next time, it was a harrowing curse of diminishing his remaining life force that they had been hoping to finally fix with the very stone within Quirrell's hand.

"Very well, my Lord, what species of sacrifice is required?" As he briefly contemplated potential sacrifices, Quirrell's thoughts moved to perhaps leaving the castle should the required ingredient more than likely not be within the available grounds.

While for a professor leaving the grounds was easily done through their own personal floo connection, the potential discovery at any moment of the philosopher stone's disappearance could increase that difficulty greatly, so figuring out and preparing for his next destination was at the forefront of Quirrell's mind.

As Quirrell moved towards the door, thinking of immediately packing his belongings and as he waited for his Lord's reply, a strange sensation fell over him. He reached for the handle and attempted to pull open the door, his Lord… his Lord?

Quirell's mind became muddled as his train of thought evaporated into a pixie dust cloud and then a rainbow of glittering, shiny stars and jewels. Before he ever had a chance to reach for his wand, Quirrell fell unconscious against the cold stone floor.

"AWAKEN QUIRINUS!"

Jolting forwards, eyes straining against a stark bright light in front of him, Quirrell woke to his own nightmare. He was still in Hogwarts, of that he was sure, but instead of the glory of reviving his Lord and being crowned the right-hand servant to the most powerful man on the planet, he realized he was chained. In an unknown windowless dungeon perhaps, stone floor walls and roof. A rectangle of stone with only a single thick metal bound oak door at the very end of the prison for lack of better words.

The dispersing echo of his Lord's words let him know they were still connected, and in wriggling his body found himself to be quite tightly bound by his hips and feet into the stone below, metal shackles built with no room for movement from below his waist.

His hands were connected in a metal cone sealed magically perhaps, with no visible locking mechanism in sight, not on any of his bindings he noticed.

This room shared the same exact pattern and wear of any Hogwarts common path and the ambient magic was most certainly the school's, but it was… twisted. The ambient light that shines brightly in all directions seemed just too much to keep one's eyes fully open, as though its uncomfortable nature was the intention.

Finally, remembering he was in the presence of his Lordship, Quirrell responded to his Lord's awakening; "I am awake, my Lord! I- do you know where we are? Do you know who has done this?" Knowing the answer may not come quickly, Quirrell momentarily struggled against his chains, to no avail.

"I KNOW NOT WHO HAS IMPRISONED YOU, I DO HOWEVER RECOGNIZE THE MAGICS OF THE ROOM OF LOST THINGS, ALTHOUGH IT IS NOT AS I REMEMBER IT."

Unhelpful. Quirrell subconsciously thought to himself as he sat back and closed his eyes in an attempt to ward off the oppressive glaring lights.

An unknown number of minutes passed, with no way of telling time, and as Quirrell was beyond lousy at wandless magic, master and servant passed the time in silence.

Eventually, the lights dimmed, to a more moderate and mellow level, and the large door at the other end of the chamber clacked as a lock of some kind was released. Sitting up, Quirrell readied himself for the onslaught of Dumbledore, of the mind mages of the ministry, of the mystic songcraft of a siren, anything. Anything, it seemed, but a first-year Gryffindor, who slipped around the croaking massive door and entered the room of his confinement.

As the boy approached, leisurely twirling his orange hair between his fingers, a stunned silence was wrought throughout Quirrell's very being. His thoughts running at a snail's pace, moved only with the boiling rage that billowed up from within him; This was the reason I failed to ascend my Lord to his rightful place? THIS SNIVELING DEMENTED FUCKING- "WEASLEY!"

"Oi, no need to yell, Professor, I can hear ya just fine."

Baffled, angry, and sorrowful all at once, Quirrell looked upon his laziest, most obnoxious student, his mind failing to process the scene before him, and instead, he gave up. His mental defenses, prepared for the most powerful foes known to the world, crumbled before what he had known to be the weakest of his first-year class. Exhaustion overcame him as he slacked back against the wall, for his life had been ruined by the lowest of the low, a fucking Weasley. The ginger brat should have been long expelled, his grades in every class were beyond abysmal.

"WHO IS IT QUIRINUS? WHO HAS DARED TO IMPRISON AND FOOL ME, THE GREAT LORD VOLDEMORT?"

The words, unobstructed by the turban which had been removed in their capture, rang out and were immediately answered by the boy in question.

"How peculiar, I thought about giving you some long sarcastic speech about how I must be the true savior of wizardkind as I beat and caught the fabled Dark Lord, probably with some trifling about how this was always the intended outcome, and how evil never prevails, but no, you're just too damn pathetic." Glancing down at the broken vessel for one of Britain's most feared evils, he continued, "My name is Ronald Bilius Weasley." Giving a deep bow for his introduction, Ron then stepped forward, his eyes hard and emotionless. "I do need to preface what I'm about to do to you by saying it would have meant little to me if you were solely some random professor parading around like a scared kitten only to steal some random magical artifact for your own purposes."

It was then that the atmosphere in the room drastically changed, the lights dimmed further and seemed like they became blood-red. The walls and floors rumbled ever so slightly, and a magical wave of fear, of panic, was blasted so hard into Quirrell that his vision faded momentarily. The pumping emotions and instincts to RUN rampaged through every muscle in his entire body. In a beat, though, the thought vanished. He pushed every ounce of energy into his legs, hoping to escape their connection to the floor. He saw red, bones popped and blood screamed through veins. The flesh of his legs ruptured around their shackles as for the first time in decades, like a babe afraid of heights, Quirrell's subconscious performed accidental magic into his own body in an attempt to escape. But by the time he had realized the absurdity of his thoughts and attempted to put up a mental shield, the damage had already been done.

The feelings subsided, and the lights returned to their dulcet white. The rush of after-effects; falling from such extreme paranoia and chemical stimuli in his brain did not fade instantly and Quirrell could only fall down limply, drooling from the overstimulation of pain and turbulent emotions. Quirrell was in little of a state to do much of anything, yet Ronald's patience could not hold.

Squatting down to face Quirrell at eye level, Ronald looked over his broken body and slumped figure. An adrenaline-induced infusion of magic into stronger muscles had led to them tearing themselves from the bone, and smaller muscles tearing themselves from each other. As the restraints were strong enough to bear even the toughest of dark magics, at least those one can feasibly do wandlessly, there had been no hope of escape whether Ron had to use his wand or not. And in the end, the totality of the sight was quite the gruesome, bloody sinew and muscle exploding in strips from around where the shackles now gripped bloody bone. Glancing down at the growing pool of blood, he quickly flicked his wrist, unlocking the bonds, acknowledging that he did not have much time left if he wanted anything he said to actually be heard.

"In attempting to bring back your silly lord of purity, you threatened quite a few things I have laid claim to. I will see them protected, or at the very least destroyed, should I choose, by no hands but my own."

In his final movement, the dark lord finally found the energy to scream once more, "YOU IGNORANT BLO-" as Ron gripped the sides of Quirrell's limp skull, and summoning a magical strength, twisted his head face from the face, resulting in an ugly 'pop' of the spinal cord, severing it from the bones and muscles to which it had once belonged. As Voldemort's grotesque face swung one-hundred eighty degrees to stare from the front of Quirrell's body, any remnants of life left his eyes and his grip on the mortal plane withered.

Stepping back to allow the now corpse of his former professor to fall with a sickening splat into his own blood pool, Ronald closed his eyes and thought hard of the room of lost things, summoning it into view. He proceeded slowly to deposit the dead body (once possessed by a revered former dark lord) amongst the other trash and trinkets, relishing in knowing he would soon be just another piece of junk to be lost and neglected amongst the other forgotten things.

There was a funeral, nothing quite noteworthy. These things seemed almost expected of DADA teachers, although to Ron's notice, Dumbledore did seem to genuinely sob quite passionately, whatever that meant. The ceremony indeed went on for far too long, and many of the students who spoke obviously did so as a joke (for none even knew him), but for a professor to go missing, one with an accomplice within the school, and no one to suspect foul play, Ronald supposed this would be the best outcome he could feasibly acquire.

Hugging his two friends beside him, he let the emotions in the atmosphere wash over him, a mixture of muted sadness and light amusement at the many comedic eulogies that had been given throughout the evening. It had been a hectic year, and with it being early May, his mock exam with McGonagall was only a month away, as were all the other "final exams" and other such trivial nonsenses. Thus, even as he consoled a lightly weeping Hermione Granger, all of Ron's thoughts were occupied by the books and studies he would enthrall himself in later that night.

"Um, 'scuse me, mates, can I borro' the Weasley fer a moment?"

Turning around to the now familiar brown-haired half-blood, Ron excused himself from his companions to follow Seamus away from the slowly growing noises of the Grand Hall. "What's going on mate? Everything working out alright with the formula I provided?"

"Aye, its goin grand actually. Mums so buried in work she hasn barely been able ter send letters!" Reaching into his robes, Seamus handed one of said envelopes to Ronald. "This ones fer ye, your share she saeys, havent even peeked I swear! Though I bet it quite the load!"

Hastily grabbing the white envelope, Ron put it into his own robes, certain of its authenticity. "Many thanks mate, tell your mum for me yeah?"

"Sure will, but i's ye we should be thankin', really. Me dad sent me a howler jus' cryin' wit happiness, I never heard him cry, long I been livin'! Bu' yeah, have a good one!" With that the boy turned and entered the Grand Hall, whose doors exploded with noise when opened for his entrance. Ron, however, stayed behind, and after doing a quick sweep of the halls around him, opened the letter.

"Congratulations Ron! I knew all those bloody books you nicked from the library were for something!"

"Thanks, Harry, although I must again insist that if it weren't for those "bloody books" and just the damned classes we have both attended all O's would have been a bloody dream."

Huffing in dismissal, Hermione once again signaled her displeasure. "One, language. And two, if I had known you were spending all this time studying for your O.W.L.s instead of class, then I would have very well-liked to join! It's not every day one is offered a chance to take them early, let alone in lieu of regular classes."

"Again, I must insist that they aren't the actual O.W..L.s, but simply practice ones, in preparation for the real ones which, yes, I am taking early. And no, I am not going to ask McGonagall if you can join."

"Regardless of the difference, you're neglecting your actual school studies to skip ahead of everyone else, so why even bother coming to class?"

"What a brilliant idea Hermione! I might as well just spend that precious time in the library!"

Throwing her arms in the air in exasperation, Hermione turned away from Ron and sped off down the hall, presumably towards the End-Of-Term Feast.

"I think she's just jealous that she got an A in flying, and that you're allowed to take more classes than her," Harry meekly added.

Sighing deeply, Ron thought of his response for a few moments. "Maybe Harry, maybe. But someday she has to learn that there just might be people smarter than her, more talented, more capable. She has to or else she will tear herself apart."