Hello there, again!


The city of Silverbay was founded more than three centuries ago by Lord Malster Grace, whom the commonfolk named Silvercock, as it was an habit of his to take many ladies of lesser birth into his bed in detriment of poor Lady Alissa, who was not as beautiful as she was kind.

If we were to ignore the foul desires of Lord Malster, however, an incredibly clever man was all we would remember of him. A man with a very ambitious dream, he was; that of making a city large and great enough to rival those across the sea in the Old Continent. For Lord Malster had grown envious of his neighbours and fellow purebloods—like many other lords of those Great Houses who once decided to make theirs the New Continent, it should be noted—and he decided to put an end to such foul emotions.

He sought the best architects and the best builders the Wizarding World could offer. Then he sought those in the muggle world. And farmers, fishermen, men and women of business of every kind, soldiers and even fellow purebloods of lesser name and wealth. Many of those he sought were familiar to magic in one way or another; half-bloods, muggle-borns or relatives of theirs, both close and distant. Those mentioned were who later came to call Silverbay a home, for all those who were not related to magic in any way were executed in cold blood once they were no longer of use.

Among them two stood out to later become Lord Malster's most loyal servants and confidants, therefore his names deserve to be mentioned here: Albond Oakhand, named so given the famous wand he came to wield in defence of the city, and the Duke of Vermin, named so given the way he came to know the streets and the way he purged them, who years later were granted a minor lordship.

It took a year for Silverbay to be born; though at first it was just a field with a humble dock and ugly households and dirty roads and small farms. But it grew and grew, slowly yet surely. Many answered the city's call, seduced by promises of prosperity, security and privacy from muggle eyes. And so Silverbay rose into the great city it is today. With a large part of its story written in blood, of course.

As a funny note, back then it was said the town grew thanks to the many bastards Lord Malster sired into this world. Whether this is a fact or one of the Duke of Vermin's jest is but a mystery. And I will allow folk to think as they see fit.

Lawrence the Third, in 'Cities and Places of our World', chapter 13.


Chapter 55 - Silverbay

Ron could find no words to describe such a sight.

"They like their cities bright, noisy and flashy," Jakob said with a grin. "When you think they've had enough, bam, a new building appears; flashier and brighter and noisier. Funny enough, we'll be hosted in the only building which doesn't try to blind you, Oakheart Palace. It ain't a palace, as you'll see soon enough, but the house of an important man here. And we are to be his honoured guests."

Ron simply shook his head in disbelief. It was Tuesday night, and here he was, lost in the largest magical settlement he had ever known instead of having dinner in Hogwarts. He had taken a portkey in the Ministry around four hours ago, just to be welcomed into another continent by Jakob and Benjamin. The pureblood boy had taken them here, into Silverbay; a seaside settlement built three centuries ago.

They walked through the city's main alley, a way of greyish stone darkened by years and years of use; it was so wide that, no matter the absurd amount of people around, one could avoid bumping into them in each step. To both left and right stood tall buildings, each of a different shade, size and style. His eyes fell upon a Quidditch shop; of two levels, its windows were so large a hundred brooms were displayed there. Then upon a wand shop; its facade made of black, glassy rock which seemed to reflect the lights.

"This is just…" Ron began, yet didn't get to finish his sentence.

His eyes also took in Silverbay's folk. Many wore robes above their clothes, and just as many were dressed in muggle clothing. There were plenty of Aurors, too; their robes, of a dark shade of blue with two black stripes going across their chest, made them quite the easy target to spot.

And the noise… It was the worst. He could but take part of each and every conversation around them. A mother who worried about his son's grades; a man who complained about his wand; a girl a few years his senior who could not stop gloating about the fantastic game she had played this week; and the owners of all those businesses shouting wonders about their craft, which rose over them all.

"You'll get used to it," Benjamin said, an amused look in his green eyes.

"And you've already done so?" Ron asked back.

"I was born in Paris. It's a far busier and larger city than Silverbay, though not a magical one." Still his eyes had roamed around as avidly as Ron's, showing the same curiosity and awe.

A certain building caught Ron's eye. It was not as large nor as tall as many he had seen, but its bricked walls, dark and spotless, were run by columns of purple crystals which shone into the night. At its door stood a mountain of a man; he glanced menacingly at Ron when the redhead's eyes lingered far too long on him. "What's that building?" he asked, keeping eye contact with the man.

"Oh, that's the Duke of the Bay," Jakob explained. "The most renowned and exclusive pub in the city. Though I wouldn't look at it too much—there's no way we are getting inside. Well, I'm sure I'd be granted entry were I to tell them my name."

"But you are sixteen," Benjamin pointed out.

"And? Things don't work like that, little Benji. There's a certain privilege in being of the Old Blood. A fact very well known in every magical settlement. Our pockets are heavy with gold, after all, and there's nothing like that to put a smile on every face."

"What do you mean by that?" The way Jakob had said that had reminded Ron of certain words Nott once used. He could only hope to hear otherwise from this boy he had come to appreciate as a friend.

"About what? The Old Blood?" Ron gave him a nod in response. "Redfield is one of the seventy Great Houses to be part of the Ancestral Council. Our name, and our blood, has run through generation after generation up to this day, hence we are referred to as the Old Blood. Honestly, it surprises me to know you didn't know this, given the fact your House is also a very old one in England. I'm pretty sure an ancestor of mine has once feasted and toasted with one of yours."

"And among those seventy Houses," Ron pressed on, "isn't there a… How do I put this? There was once when Nott told me about the Blood, and why, in his opinion, they should rule above all else and take over the world once more, as he believed it is theirs by right of birth. All I want to say is…"

"Theodore Nott doesn't belong to the Old Blood," Jakob stated. "Or to the Blood, as he said. It's the same name but with different words; though the most radical wing often use the term Blood alone, as they consider theirs the one authentic. Anyhow. His line might be pure and ancient, but not so royal as many others. Even in England there are Great Houses of far royal lineage, such as Black, Malfoy and Greengrass. Now, after all those hours we've spent together, sweating and bleeding in training, do you really dare to think so low of me and my name?"

It took Ron little to find his answer. "No, of course not," he sighed. "I'm sorry, Jakob. Like I said, it was your choice of words, so similar to his, that made me commit this mistake. I was raised to treat everyone with the respect they were due, you see; regardless of birth, gender and race. Since I can recall I've believed for purebloods to behave just the opposite, and though I was proven wrong at Hogwarts by a few who did become my friends, I was also confirmed by what my parents told me about them. That they were cruel and condescending toward those of lesser birth. Not all of them, but most. Again I apologise. I guess it's hard to get rid of old habits. "

A tense silence stained their tour through Silverbay. Ron could but send his gaze everywhere, trying to avoid Jakob's, who just led them a tad quicker than before.

It was Benjamin who put an end to such trifle. "From what little experience I have in this world, purebloods are a rather interesting and weird group. As a muggle-born myself, I was embraced by Lord Redfield as if I was a nephew of his; because he was interested in my talent, of course, but still treated me incredibly well. There's this other family, Dupond, whose lord, Antoine Dupond, saw me as a way to make money instead of his daughter's friend; still he doted on me. Then there's the Great House of Feudanseur, whose daughter and heiress is a year older than me, and, well… Let's just say it is a miracle she doesn't spit on my face anymore. To see if her royal spit could make the mudblood worthy of magic, she used to say. Well, that and the fact she always tried to set my things ablaze. It seems she was a little offended that I didn't treat her as a queen."

Jakob and Ron glanced at one another in disbelief.

"That's fucked up," the redhead mused. "In Hogwarts, there's plenty of vermin, but it's with foul words and glances above their shoulders that they treat the muggle-borns."

"Wish I could say the same," Jakob grimaced. "I've seen plenty of horrible things in Durmstrang. Tried to stop some of them myself, in fact, but the Old Blood has a lot of influence in the castle. There are only ten or eleven muggle-borns as of today, all in truth, but not even half-bloods are spared of such treatment."

Ron was about to speak, but his words died as they reached the end of the alley. He now could understand why the city was called Silverbay.

The main alley opened into a large dock area, one even more crowded than the main alley. Countless sailing yachts were tied to the silvery quays; the larger yachts drew attention easily due to their size, but there was beauty in the unique craftsmanship of the smaller boats. Ron's eyes fell upon one of crimson prow which faded into a darker shade or red until it looked black at the end. Another, a white and ordinary one, was its open sails which caught his eye; of yellow and black stripes, as if the body of a bee.

Moonlight fell upon the silvery touch of the docks, making the place almost gleam into the blackness of the night. And the water, ever the infinity void into the horizon, was of a deep turquoise close to the land, revealed by the embrace of such beacon of light.

"Silverbay indeed," Benjamin voiced out in an awed whisper.

Jakob grinned at their reactions. "I and my sister did that very same face a few years ago, when I first visited Silverbay. Imagine, me being a boy used to Nurgon and its austerity, and to my father's strict character, just to be blinded by all this city offered. I won the Major back then, so I was free to explore Silverbay at night. I will give you two a nice tour if you perform well enough. Perhaps show you a little taste of the Old Blood privilege. Come on, let us not waste more time here and head to the manor. I could really use a bed."

He led them through the docks. Ron used his time to take a closer view. Their silvery touch was given by a smooth stone of the said shade, seamed by touches of white and gold in irregular patterns; it had nothing to do with the dark, dirty road in the city. The boats looked far more impressive from up close; far larger and taller.

"They do look so muggle-made," Ron observed.

"Because they are," Jakob said with a shrug. "Say what you will about muggles, but their craft is a hundred times better than ours. Of course, these are no regular boats. They only move through wind, hence the importance of the sails. Do you fancy a relaxing ride? If so, the breeze will be your ally. Do you fancy a race? Use your magic, then. Or you can make them fly, if you are skilled enough. There's a very famous sailor around who excels in such practice. Never flew on a boat myself, but I've heard it's quite the experience."

So he talked and talked as Ron and Benjamin listened and eyed all there was to eye around. The smell of seafood soon joined their walk, so did the laughs and shouts from some parties. Silverbay was to Hogsmeade what light was to darkness, Ron thought.

At last they reached Oakheart Palace, at the edge of the docks and well far from the city's centre. A wide, pebbled road of white rock, surrounded by a sea of low-cut grass, went uphill to lead into a large building of five levels; there was a balcony in each, waning in size as it rose up. Made of white and grey stone, with details of light-brownish wood, it looked a rather fancy yet not so flashy household. Both manor and road were brightened by small fires atop of tree-like lamps.

Yet what really stood out was not the manor per se, but the enormous oak which grew behind the household. Thicker and taller than Ron had ever thought of a tree, it must have been born centuries ago. Its thicket, a sea of leaves so dark as if a black curtain, seemed to expand in every direction. As if the tree were to shield the manor from the countless stars which reigned the night.

Jakob just took the road uphill. "It would be wise to treat Lord Oakhand with the respect he's due. That of a lesser lord, but also that of a man who has kindly hosted us under his roof. Do not refer to him as 'my lord', though. Well, not you, Ronald. I'm afraid you'll have to do it, Benjamin."

"What's his name?" Ron asked.

"Jason Oakhand."

It was about the entrance to the manor when Ron noticed the smell of saltpetre had been replaced by one he liked far better. There had not been many flowers in the way uphill, but it was the smell of spring which they now enjoyed. It kind of reminded him of The Burrow in such a time of the year. And he made sure to pour as much as possible of it into his nostrils.

"Jason Oakhand isn't one to enjoy the smell of salt and fish," Jakob told them, taking a deep breath himself. "Nor is he fond of the city's noise." He came about the large door, which opened to them by itself.

Inside awaited a white, slabbed floor so clean it seemed to reflect the moonlight. It was an empty hall, perfectly round and devoid of any furniture, which led to a large staircase at the end of it. Grey columns run through the edge of the hall in a circle, holding the floor of the upper levels. It was only once they reached the middle of the hall when Ron discovered its true beauty. He looked upward, feeling too powerful a light falling upon them, to discover the hall opened to the sky there; as if a hole through the household. And the giant oak, which had moved his branches away in order to allow the moonlight a safe passage.

Benji and he both stood like fools under the dark sky, whereas Jakob went on ahead, to the large staircase at the end of the hall. Then, halfway through the stairs, he noticed the lack of footsteps behind. "Come on!" he shouted. "I want to get the introductions done as fast as possible!"

Jakob led them through the first level as if he owned the place. Ron observed each level was built the same. Two wings, left and right, were born from the empty hole in the middle, each with their numerous rooms and hallways. And finally, at the end of a narrower hallway, stood a larger door. Jakob knocked once before barging inside.

It was a simple yet cosy room. The floor and the walls were made of brownish wood; while the former was covered by a dark-green carpet the latter was by bookshelves and drawings of plants and herbs. Plenty of light seeped through the oval window of the right wall. Under which a short man of brown hair stood, dressed in green and gold. His eyes were dark and small, and with a touch of roughness as they fell upon the teenagers.

"Welcome to my humble household," he said with a faint bow of his head. "You have certainly grown into a fine man, Jakob. And these two must be the gentlemen Lord Covan talked to me about. Your fiery and untamed hair speaks of you louder than any word, Ronald Weasley. And you, blond and pale and fair of eyes, must be Benjamin Lepenant."

"It's a pleasure, sir," Ron replied with a curt nod.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," Benji said with more exaggerated courtesy.

Oakhand's eyes seemed to soften a bit. He made his way over to his table. "The pleasure is all mine. It is quite late and I imagine you are to wake up early tomorrow, so I will not entertain you for long. However, by Lord Covan's petition, there is something I must see done before calling it a day." His eyes fell upon Ron and Benji once more, studying them at length. "Yes, I can make a fine work of you two."

They could but share a dumbfounded look. "Beg your pardon?" Benji let out, whereas Ron's eloquence made an act of presence with a "You what?"

"You are to be the protagonists of a great event this weekend," Jason Oakhand went on, circling them with a slow stride. "Your martial skills are your mightiest weapons, undoubtedly, but looks and character are also important to make an impact. We want the fans of the sport to adore you, after all. And to achieve that a few changes must be made, I'm afraid."

Ron sent an accusing glance at Jakob, who just walked back with an amused look on his face. "They will wear the black and blue uniform," he told Oakhand. "With the white shirt underneath, if possible."

"Of course, of course. Yes, I can see it." Oakhand flicked his fingers and a short, thin elf appeared to his call. Not saying a word she presented two uniforms to them. They were very similar to the one he wore in Nurgon, but with a few differences. One had a dark-blue cloak attached to it, clasped in the shoulder by a fastener in the form of a white unicorn. The other had no cloak, but it did have a black diagonal stripe across the body; if looked closely, one could see the drawing of a unicorn depicted on it. "Now let's take a look at the goods. Do you have any preferences among these two uniforms?"

This was a turn of events Ron had not predicted. "Honestly, I don't really care. If they are the same as those I've worn in Nurgon, so comfy and loose… Yes, whatever. Like I said, I don't really care."

"Oh, but I do! How about you, young Benjamin?"

"The one without a cloak, perhaps? I don't really care, either."

Oakhand's gaze lingered on him for so long the boy seemed to shrink so nervous he was. "Yes, the cloakless uniform might be the best choice for you, given your circumstances." His eyes fell upon Ron next. "And for you… For you it will be the cloaked one, yes. However…" He fell silent for a while. "Does the House of Weasley have any coat of arms?"

Ron needed a few seconds to process such words. "A coat of arms, you say? No, I don't think we have one. Why would we have one?"

"Because your House is ancient and pure, Ronald." Oakhand shared a puzzled look with Jakob, who answered his wordless question with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ron was losing his patience. "And why is it so important?"

"Because we need it for the uniform! Oh, I cannot believe this needs to be explained! Anyhow. Benjamin does not need one because he is a muggle-born, so Nurgon is all he will represent. But you, a Weasley, have a name to shoulder, with all its story and pride. I do not care if your family is one to have turned tradition aside, or one to feel no love toward its story. But I do care about your name, so does Nurgon."

Ron then considered his words.

It wasn't that he didn't care about his family's story, rather he had never spared a thought to it. He knew that his maternal family, the Prewetts, were far prouder of their heritance than his paternal side, as that old hag of Muriel always made sure to note. More so, he had seen their coats of arms everywhere in her manor, let it be in flags, banners or pictures. A lion of red mane up on its legs with a rose between its fangs; a proof of courage and beauty, Muriel used to brag.

But was there one to represent the name of Weasley? He had no way to know that, and given the urgency of the situation, he could not consult his father about it. So he came to a decision of his own.

"An eagle," Ron said. "Its wings wide open amidst the winds. Carrying a sword on its talons." And the room became silent.

Jason Oakhand eyed him cautiously. "Is that the blazon of the House of Weasley? I was not aware."

"It is not," Ron replied. "To be honest, I have no idea which is my family's coat of arms. But I do know there's no one here who knows it. Because of that, as I feel no desire to insult the history of my name, I will give you a blazon of my own. There you have it, Lord Jason, to do as you must with it. The eagle and the sword, remember."

At last he smiled, "Of course! A wise choice, I must say. Landry, you know what to do."

The elf smiled and clasped her hands. The cloaked uniform glided toward Ron, and there he saw his eagle and its sword on the white clasp of the shoulder. Much to his surprise, the blazon had also been sewed on the cloak; on white over dark-blue, it would almost cover the entirety of his back. He could but feel a sort of giddiness toward it.

"And now," Lord Oakhand went on, "give me your opinion about them, Landry."

"Landry thinks Benjamin has no need of a change; he is a boy who takes great care of his looks, Landry can tell. But the young lord Ronald… Well, Landry thinks she has a lot of work with him. She thinks cutting his sides very short will favour him. And the hair atop of his head should be left a bit longer when cut. It's a very beautiful colour, and it needs to shine as bright as possible!"

Ron's giddiness disappeared in a jiffy. "I… I need what? What does she mean?"

"It means she finds you foul to the sight," Jakob laughed.

"Oh, no! Landry means no insult to the young lord! Please, excuse Landry if her choice of words angered you!" The elf got so pale suddenly Ron started to worry. "Landry will receive her punishment with as much honour as possible."

Now it was Ron who paled. "What the hell? No! There will be no punishment for Landry!" It was then when he took in how little time it had taken the elf to think so of the situation. Ron sent a dark look at Oakhand, whose eyes seemed to regain a touch of the initial coldness.

Jakob read the room just in time, fortunately. "Okay, why don't we finish this as soon as possible. It's late already, and I'd rather make use of what lille hours of sleep we have. Come on, Landry, why don't you take Ron with you and do… do whatever you must with him. And you, Benjamin, I will walk you to your dormitory. Last level, right, Jason?"

"Indeed."

Ron was who broke the silent duel as Landry took hold of his hand. "Come with Landry, my young lord! She will finish in no time at all!" She took him outside and all across the hallway, into the first door at the left.

"Say, does he hit you frequently?" Ron asked the elf.

"Hit me? No, Lord Jason would never do that!" she said. "Lord Jason punishes Landry when she deserves it, whenever she commits a mistake. So Landry can learn and do better next time. And Landry has learned a lot! She barely gets punished nowadays!"

The elf made him sit on a pillowed stool in front of a tall mirror. A comb and a pair of scissors appeared in her hands as Ron's hair was damped by water she conjured. Ron allowed Landry to do her job as she hummed a fast-paced song. But he was not in the mood to share her merry spirits.

Perhaps Hermione wasn't as crazy as I thought, Ron pondered. Elves might be meant to serve, as their nature tells them. But they breathe, bleed and feel just as we do. No one should ever lay a hand on them just because they made a mistake. He wondered if this was one of the reasons why the Weasley family had repudiated the very world they belonged to; the pureblood world.

If so, perhaps Ron was pissing on their great legacy by simply bringing their name back to such a foul world. But I do need them, these bastards. I need them to become stronger. To protect my family of the looming war. He could only hope for them to understand his reasons.


Ron woke up later than he used to, though the sun had just crowned the sky. Its weak rays seeped through the room's window; powerful enough to pierce through the wall of curtains. He bolted up immediately; nervous, yet in a good way. It took him little time to gather his things and get dressed.

Though he did halt for a moment in front of the tall mirror. The dark-blue uniform suited him nicely, and the cloak gave it a rather cool look. His eyes fell briefly on the white fastener, the eagle with a sword on its claws. His blazon, it still felt strange to think so of it. Then his eyes rose and fell upon his face. The cut really suited him. His sides had been cut almost down to the skin, fading downward, and the mop of hair atop his head which used to fall over his eyes now was but a few inches long. And the pillow had styled it into a messy fringe.

When did I become a girl? Losing so much time in front of a mirror and caring so much about my looks? Huffing in disbelief he just walked out of the room.

He found no one outside, so the redhead made his way over to Benjamin's room, all across the hallway. There he knocked on the door. "Coming!" the French's voice came from inside. In no time at all the two of them were walking down the staircase, toward a certain hall in the third level where breakfast supposedly awaited.

It wasn't until they reached the said floor when Ron noticed something funny. "Wait, have you put on some perfume?"

Benjamin sent him a sideways glance, "Yes. Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Perfume, for a duelling tournament? Really?"

"It was a gift from Catherine. And it smells quite good, for the record." Ron could only shake his head in amusement. So Benji decided to change the topic, "Are you nervous?"

"A bit," Ron said as they entered the hall. There awaited Jakob, a steaming cup of coffee on his left hand as he made quick work of a sandwich he held on his right hand. He just acknowledged them with a nod of his head. "I was way more nervous yesterday, so much that it took me about an hour to sleep. But today I woke up quite calm. If there's something to worry about, I'll worry come its time. Not now, when such a succulent breakfast is begging me to devour it."

Ron found in Jakob a tough foe at the table. The Redfield heir made an art of eating, just as the redhead himself. Benji could only stare at them, awed and horrified in equal measure, as they stuffed themselves with more and more food. "I'm sick of keeping good etiquette in Hogwarts just because those snooty Slytherins were raised to behave as proper ladies and lords at the table," he told the French. "I was raised to not waste any crumble, so I do."

"Hear, hear!" Jakob nodded. "There's nothing better to start the day than a belly full of food! More so on a tournament day."

They departed once satisfied. The morning was warm and sunny, as there was no wind to cool it. It took them about thirty minutes to reach the stadium built past the city's core. A huge building of grey and white stone, clearly inspired by the ancient coliseums of old, rose tall and wide enough to host thousands of people.

"Not so many people will come, not nearly to fill all the seats," Jakob said when asked about it. "Like I said yesterday, they like it big, flashy and nosey. In this world of ours, for many, appearances are way more important than anything else."

Yet what they found under the colosseum's shadow told Ron that, perhaps, so many people had indeed come to see them. Many posts had been raised everywhere, giving a touch of colour and life to the otherwise cold and serious picture; the smell of food came from some, whereas from others it was the voice of men and women selling their items to commemorate the event, let it be clothes or toys or many kinds of souvenirs. Ron could but eye them as he felt the pocket of his uniform. Ginny would appreciate a gift, he thought, and it would be nice to buy a detail for each of his brothers.

But his pockets weren't full of gold, as he knew very well. And he would need each and every galleon for later.

"They seem to be having fun," Benji pointed out. His gaze was set on some rowdy post, where a motley crew of many wizards and witches shared beers and shouts in equal amounts. The waiter, a petite and young girl, could barely keep up with them.

"Oh, of course those fuckers would come!" Jakob laughed. "They call themselves the Ale Warriors, and they never miss a damn tournament. Innkeepers love them, and so does the Federation. You'll hear them as you duel, clapping and shouting and whistling. We, duellists, might be the soul of the competition, but fans are the heart of it. Don't ever forget that."

Ron drank in all he saw and heard. Music was played here and there; funny and cheeky ballads, most of them, in which many joined and turned them into even cheekier plays. Children playing around their parents, toy wands held in their hands and shouting atop of their lungs the incantations of inexistent spells. He found himself smiling soon enough.

At last Jakob took them through a wide gate in the left wing of the colosseum. Two wizards stood watch before it, and two more presided over the said table. "Look at you two, Ben and Malik, looking sharper than ever!" the Redfield heir greeted them.

The brown-skinned man grinned back at him. "Long time no see, young Redfield! Here for the inscription, right? Let me check it… Oh, here they are! Benjamin Lepentant and Ronald Weasley, aren't you? Both fourteen years of age." He handed them a purple wristlet. "Show this to my pals inside and they will let you know what to do. Oh, and good luck, by the way! I'm excited to see Nurgon's new blood in action!"

They bid the lively man farewell and stormed into the colosseum. It was colder inside. And there, through the wide and solemn passage, Ron felt nervous again. Take a deep breath, he told himself, as you've done countless times before. This is nothing, really. All I need to do is to make some arrogant purebloods bite the dust. A dream, truly.

"Never expected to find a colosseum here, honestly," Benji said. "It really doesn't fit in this city, one so bright and loud. I expected another kind of stadium."

"It was built a few years ago," Jakob explained as they walked by more officials from the Federation, who seemed to be in a hurry. "One of Lord Grace's itches. He built this stadium to his desire, with his gold and personnel, but it's the city's folk who pay its maintenance with their taxes, I believe. He and the Mayor reached some kind of agreement to also split the benefits, from what I've heard."

"That's quite weird, isn't it?"

"Well, Lewis Grace is kind of Silverbay's champion, as it was his ancestor who founded it. It's far too complex for me to understand what happened here, honestly. I recall that at some point in history people got tired of the oppressive tithe and rose up to change the way things worked, therefore the Great House of Grace were no longer the Lords of the Bay. Like I said, it's far too complex for me. I know about knocking out people, not numbers or history."

"Can't you guys shut up and leave history lessons for another day," Ron cut in. "I'm trying to focus here."

Jakob's ever present, and ever annoying, grin did nothing but widen. "Oh, so you don't want me to explain to you how the tournament is gonna proceed, right? Because I assume you did not read the guideline we gave you two weekends ago. Or did you?"

"I didn't. I was far too tired after Tsikaev beat the shit out of me again and again."

And it fell to Benjamin to put an end to Jakob's snickering. "We'll be sorted into eight groups of four," he explained, "and we'll fight each rival once. The one to obtain more victories gets the first seed, next comes the second seed and the other two are eliminated in the first round. Then comes the bracket stage, in which the first seed from one group must face the second seed of another, and vice versa. The matches will be done via sorting."

"See?" Jakob pointed at the French. "He did read the guidelines. Now, as much as I love to mock you, it's time to turn serious. All Benji said it's true. In fact, the groups should already be done. This year the competition is not so fierce, but there are bigger names. I believe there will be one group with two of those big names. Regardless, you two must make out of groups and, at least, reach the top eight. Don't ever dare to set a foot upon Nurgon if you do not make it."

For much a merry boy Jakob was, his words carried a touch of coldness Ron had never heard before. Though it went as briefly as it had come, like the spark of a shooting star. Though a spark was capable of setting fire to a forest, and so had done this spark to their conversation, which turned into a tense silence.

And the task to break it would fall upon one of the Federation's officials, a tall man of black hair. "You two, come with me," he said as he closed the distance. Next he handed them a thick, translucent bottle.

Ron followed him, eyeing the bottle with a dumbfounded look, "What's this for?"

"That's for you to pee in." He could but halt after that, surprised. "Come on, boy. We are in a hurry, in case you haven't noticed. And don't look at me like that. We need to make sure none of you have made use of illegal substances to enhance your capacities. You'd be surprised to know the number of fools who thought they could trick the Federation."

"There was no doping control in the Minor of Hogsmeade," Benjamin observed.

"You said it yourself, it was a Minor," the Official said with a huff. "Nobody cares about a Minor. There's not enough personnel to run these tests in every competition. Nor enough money. Now be quiet and let's get this done as quickly as possible."

The man took them into a small room, divided into even smaller locked rooms. Ron stepped inside one and tried to make quick work of such a task; though his nerves did not seem to share his opinion. He finally stepped out feeling a few kilos lighter. They handed the bottles to the official, who just said, "The groups should already be drawn. Take the hallway and then turn left. You'll meet there with Jyla. She'll take you to the restrooms." That said, he stormed out of the room.

"Tham man ain't good on the head," Ron shook his head, "I'm telling you."

Benji gave a nod to those words. "Let's go and meet this Jyla. I want to know my rivals." The hallway was empty and silent; there was no trace of Jakob anymore. "Imagine we fall into the same group?"

"That would be… rather unlucky. I'd have to sweep the floor with your pretty face, and I'd hate that."

"You'd try, and you'd fail."

Ron bit back a rather ingenious response, though the smirk he wore spoke by itself. It didn't take them much to meet Jyla. She was a tall woman of short, brown hair; and much kinder than his colleague, fortunately.

"Oh, you must be Ronald Weasley and Benjamin Lepenant, right?" she asked chirpily. "Lord Redfield's pupils, right? Wait, let me check it." She took a few charts from her robes to eye them. "Oh, here you are. And here you have!"

Ron eyed the chart. Atop of it was his name and picture. Next came one he knew very well: Markov Pavliov, whom he defeated in Hogsmeade. Even here he looks as if trying to murder me with his eyes! Then came the face of a pretty girl, of blond hair styled in two buns and brown-eyed. Her name was Olivia Grace-Shultz. Grace, as the famous lord Jakob mentioned? Last there was a boy with a sorry try of a beard, of short, black hair and dark eyes. Mathew Thompson, his name was.

"Oh, is that Pavliov boy again," Benji said as he eyed the chart from above Ron's shoulder. "Doesn't look like a hard group to me."

"Neither does yours, to be fair. Tobias Murray, Stephen Green and Natasha Kravlenko… Oh, but that one sure looks nasty. Anyhow, I guess we both dodged a bludger here."

Someone approached from behind, as the loud footsteps told them.

"Don't get those spirits so high this soon," Jakob cut in. "May I remind you that neither of you have achieved nothing yet? I bet your opponents thought an easy prey of you, too." He still eyed the charts from above their shoulders. "Though they don't look too fearsome, certainly. Well, whatever! Do any of you have any last minute doubts about the tournament?"

For a reason their eyes fell upon Ron. "Really?" he glared at them. "But… Well, is there any rule which is different here when compared to the Minor? I didn't pay you much attention yesterday. A boy needs his rest, you see."

Jakob just shook his head, "All you need to worry about are the time-outs. You can call it once per duel, whenever either you or your rival haven't yet casted a spell. It doesn't matter if you are about to blow their heads with the best stunner you've ever casted. Has it gone out? No, so it doesn't matter."

"And I'm granted a rest just like that? That's bloody wonderful."

"It might save you, if well called. It might save your rival, if well called. It's a blade of double edge, in my opinion. Though in this category most of the duellists don't get to use them, honestly. Usually they are far too prideful to even think they need it. Or too lost in the frenzy of battle. By the time they realise how much they need it, they are already knocked-out cold."

A loud sound, that of a gong, cut through their conversation. And it echoed again and again, almost like a melody.

"Well, it's time to see if you are worthy to represent Nurgon," Jakob said, then. "Remember our teachings. Step into the arena with a calm head, yet with fire in your hearts. Feel inferior to none, yet also stand proud and tall. I have great faith in both of you, Ronald and Benjamin. Do not let me down."


Ron's heart drummed against his chest. He had thought to be past such things, but his previous experience in Hogsmeade could not compare to this in any way.

The grandstands were filled to the brim, and though he could not yet see it he could hear such a choir of voices. He waited inside, in one of the many restrooms the challengers had been granted; a small room with a large table and some benches in the middle, and with some lockers and a wide mirror embedded into the walls. It had taken him a while to find one unoccupied. His hands glistened with sweat, though they did not tremble.

"There is no reason to feel so nervous," Gerd observed as she glided across the room. She had answered his summon, as she always did. "You are far better than those opponents you are to face within the first rounds. Trouble will come later, but we are also ready for it."

"It ain't my opponents that make me nervous," Ron replied with a sigh, "but the stage and the crowd. And I find it funny, now that I think about it. I used to dream of days like this one, you see. I loved to imagine myself ploughing through the skies atop the quickest broom in the market, wearing the Chudley Cannons colours. We always managed to win in the last second, thanks to my stellar performance. And they all rose from their seats, clapping and shouting my name. My family being the loudest of them all."

"Some parts of such a dream could have been made real," she pointed out. "I am sure your family would have cheered on you like no one else; their shouts and claps so loud you would have heard them from the arena."

"I'm sure of that. But I still think I made the correct choice. I don't know how to put these feelings into words, but… I feel as if this part of me, this duellist in the making I've become, is not a Ronald Weasley they should get to know. I turned this way because of the visions you showed me, because of a looming war. Yes, I would rather have them remain oblivious."

Gerd said nothing, though he did see a touch of disapprobation in her eyes.

They fell into a comfy silence then, one which lasted several minutes. At some point of the eternal wait Ron felt the need to stand up, for his left leg had numbed. He found himself in front of the mirror. Pulling from his sleeves and neck, he came to admire the quality of the uniform's silk, which almost felt as if a second skin. For a moment he refused to believe the boy in front of him was also named Ronald Weasley. He looked… Far too proud and elegant for a Weasley.

"It suits you very well," Gerd observed as she descended upon his shoulder. There was no trace of her in the mirror, of course.

Ron's eyes fell upon the white clasp on his shoulder, which held the cape close and tight to his body. "I thought of you while choosing this, you know?" he said. "It's you, in your eagle form. With the blade you wielded so skillfully. I'm not so great a wizard to have anything worthy to make a blazon. But you do."

There was a glimpse of surprise in her eyes. Then her face was brightened by a soft smile as she became visible into the mirror. "I like it."

"Didn't you tell me that to make yourself visible to not only my sight you needed to borrow some of my energy?"

"I do, as I am but a projection of my soul, which is confined in the strange world we came to name as Scala ad Caelum. To truly be part of this world I need a bit of its energy. Your energy, given to me through our Link. But you have grown much stronger in these few years. Much more than I ever thought, even in my best dreams. Back then I could have drained you dry in an hour. Now it would take me days, or perhaps weeks."

They stood like fools, proud and conceited fools, staring at their reflection in the mirror. Ron swore his eyes seemed to glow even bluer as Gerdnyaram's ethereal gleam flashed. Just for a fickle instant, though.

His name was announced, then, a loud "Ronald Weasley, please head to the seventh arena," which echoed through the restroom. So he snapped out of his stupor and took a calming breath.

"Well, time to perform," he told himself, then walked out of the room.

A long, wide hallway awaited outside. Burning candles run through it on the white walls, safe in their golden shelters. On the floor was the Federation's blazon, on crimson and golden stone. Such a pattern was repeated every ten metres, and it ran as far as his sight reached. Each step he took forward, the voices became louder; and the whisper became a shout.

And he finally stepped out of the hallway, welcomed into the colossal stadium.

Its ceiling was open to the skies, and the sun sent its blessing in the form of warm and bright rays. The weak breeze made its best to waive all those flags and banners in the grandstands, which, as he had feared, were packed to the brim; a colourful and lively sea of people, whose chants made the colosseum roar with life. Thick and tall columns of grey stone run through the edge of the circular arena, supporting the grandstands and suites. And there, in the middle, eight pits had been built, of white and polished stone.

Someone came to stand by his side.

"You have become stronger," Alexander Shawn observed, eyes taking in every corner of the colosseum. He was dressed in gold and blue, as per usual. "I can tell with a simple look at your bearing. Covan really made a warrior out of you."

"That he did," Ron hummed in response.

"Make sure to reach the finals, Weasley. I will meet you there." And Shawn walked toward his arena, then.

"Come on," Gerd urged him. "Let's get this done as soon as possible. I will grant you the Anticipation before the duel begins. You will not hold anything back today. Let it be known that Ronald Weasley is not someone to disrespect."

His walk toward the pit was a far calmer one; as if he had become deaf to the crowd, almost. Perhaps it was the confidence Gerd had shown in him, or maybe the warmth she bequeathed upon him. All Ron knew is that he would achieve victory no matter what. So he paid no attention to anything but what laid ahead and jumped into the pit.

Ron blinked and observed his rival.

Pavliov had grown several inches, but still he stood almost a head shorter than him. Though his dark eyes had not lost a touch of coldness nor of sharpness. He wore the same robes; full black, with the red and yellow blazon sewed on his breast. But there was a detail which stood out over the rest. They way he held himself, so rigid and clenched.

A dangerous idea took root within Ron's mind, then.

He put on his best smirk as he crouched down. He felt so relaxed his limbs seemed to be made of jelly. And the redhead made sure of making a show of it, putting his weight into one leg and then the other, moving around with the looseness of a feline rather than the rigidness of a man.

The way Pavliov's features hardened was all proof of his success he needed.

Even without the Anticipation he could have guessed in which way Pavliov was about to open the duel. Still the golden silhouette told him about the curse about to be unleashed upon him. "Confringo!" But Ron had already bolted up, and the curse missed its target by no short margin.

The barrage of spells which came next was one to be extremely proud of; more so given the fact its caster was the youngest duellist in the tournament. His technique so polished, his movements so calculated and his footwork so elegant… And still did Pavliov miss all his spells. And still did Ron refuse to attack, dancing through the magical rain as if he had been born to do so.

It did not take long for desperation to make an act of presence within Pavliov's face. Memories of their last duel had swarmed his mind, he knew. So, much to Ron's surprise, the boy stilled. He had not predicted this Future; its golden silhouette a shy one lost amidst the current of Futures.

So the duel became one of glances more than wands.

"Fight, coward!" Pavliov grunted. "You run like little girl. No duellist from Nurgon. Coward! Coward!"

"Not my fault you cannot land a bloody spell to save your life," Ron bit back.

Next he feigned an attack. His wand glowed orange, the sign of an Exploding Curse about to be born. Pavliov bit the bait, and casted a Shield despite his initial surprise. Yet it was a rain of inoffensive sparks which came out of Ron's wand. A taunt embellished by the most arrogant smirk he could pull out. "Don't be so scared, little Pavliov! I was joking!"

This time Pavliov dived head first into his trap. Face so red with fury it seemed about to explode, there was only one Future to consider in his mind: that of teaching Ron a lesson. He's just like Nott, though way easier to taunt and predict. Ron paid no attention to the golden silhouettes of the Future, instead used the Sense to get a far more accurate feeling of the spells. And when Pavliov's pattern became predictable enough, Ron put an end to the duel.

It was amidst two Severing Charms, when Pavliov grew so confident of his polished technique that he neglected his defence,that Ron finally attacked. A silent stunner; as simple as it was effective. It hit Pavliov right in the chest as he was about to cast the second spell. His eyes opened in surprise, while his hands could but lose the grip on his wand. It fell to the ground with a soft thud, followed by a louder one when the boy's body came down next.

"Ronald Weasley wins by technical knockout!" the referee exclaimed as he jumped in between them.

Only then did Ron draw in a deep breath. Well, this went better than expected. He had felt much more nervous than his performance had given away. But he had fallen into a kind of trance, that of battle, which had taken away his nerves and doubts and stiffness. It was something Lord Covan had told him about; a feature known to most warriors.

He jumped down the arena and made his way toward the inside of the colosseum. Ron caught a glimpse of Nott from afar, about to begin his duel, and also of Ume Sang-hyeok, who had just finished hers. And there he almost crashed into Benjin as their paths met.

"You won?" the French asked.

"And you?" Ron replied.

Silence reigned for a few seconds as their stride never halted, then they grinned so wide their smiles were about to split their faces in two.

"Easy enough?"

"Well, kind of. I knew this Pavliov guy from Hogsmeade. He's gotten much better, but it was his mind rather than his wand which lost him the duel."

"Lucky you! I didn't know my rival, so I wasted a few minutes studying him. He wasn't bad, that Australian lad. But I don't think he'll make the cut, to be honest. He lacked… a bit of boldness, let's say."

They strode into the wide passage, where a short official awaited. "Congratulations to the two of you! I saw your duels from here and really liked your performance. Here, have this for yourselves." They were handed a blue bottle and two cereal bars each. "The next duel will begin in an hour or so. Make the best of what little rest there's left."

Ron led the way to the dressing room he had first chosen. There he took a seat with his legs up on the table and had a taste of his snack. "Humh. This is delicious! Chocolate and almonds, I think. And the drink… Oh, it's not water. Kind of a lemonade, it seems."

"It's one of those energetic drinks," Benjamin observed as he took a seat on the ground, his back onto the wall and legs straight before him. "Now, what are we supposed to do until our next fight? An hour is too much time to sit it out."

Ron made quick work of his reward. "Talk for yourself. I'm gonna sleep it out. Wake me up when my name's announced."

"Wait, really?"

"Of course! I would never joke about something this important."

The redhead closed his eyes and dived into the blackness. However, as minutes went by, he realised it was not so easy. Could not his heart slow its beating? He sat up with a groan. "I can't bloody sleep!"

"Must be the drink's caffeine," Benjamin observed. He was making drawings in the air with his wand, which its tip rained a cloud of misty spark. It really resembled a unicorn. "You drank it too fast."

"You do have the drawing of a unicorn on the stripe of your uniform," Ron pointed out.

"It's the blazon of the Great House of Redfield, as it was Lord Covan who recruited us. Had it been Lord Andersen, I would wear the three towers." The misty unicorn was given the final touch with its glowing horn. Benji gave it an approving nod, then erased it with a twist of his wand. "Man, I'm bored to death."

Ron stood up and said, "I'm going outside. Wanna come?"

"What for?"

"Going for a walk and watching some of the duels. Whatever I can to kill time."

"I'm gonna stay here, I think. Do enjoy them for me, though."

This time his walk through the hallway felt so different when compared to the first one, now that he wasn't prey to his nerves. He took in its details, and noted how beautiful it was. So it happened once he stepped outside. Had he really ignored such a breathtaking place? The chants made sense now, too. He could locate those so-called Ale Warriors from afar, being the loudest and chirpiest. And the silent spectators, whom most were seated in the fancy suites.

Ron strode around the arena, eyeing the many pits and duels being held there.

"None of them are better than me," he mused after a while. "See that black dude over there? His spell repertory is better than mine, but he's far too slow and going forward seems to be his only way. And the tall girl over there, she's far too passive and grants her rival too much liberties." The flaws of these duellists came to his mind one by one. "Not to talk about that boy's hesitation; he'd been eaten alive by a decent duellist."

"Indeed," Gerd agreed. "But I do not see any of those names we were told to worry about. This first stage is but a sieve to separate the grains of sand from the grains of gold."

Ron came to sit under the shadow of a column, close to the one under which Ume Sang-hyeok rested. Her eyes were as restless as his, it seemed. And he allowed time to pass as the duels came to an end. He had fallen so still in his relaxed trance he barely noticed his name had been called out.

"Stand up, Ronald," Gerd told him. "Your rival awaits."

Ron did as told, having taken a decision just then. "I'm going to end this duel as quickly as possible. The last was a matter of brains and ruse. This will be a matter of unmerciful offence. Next will be of impregnable defence. Let them fear my name and skill as they fear Shawn's. Then I will have the mental edge over them."

Mathew Thompson had grown impatient by the time Ron stepped into the pit. It was clear he was a year older than the redhead himself; taller, broader of shoulders and with the first glimpses of hair in his face. But it was his dark eyes which caught Ron's attention; they glowed as two black pits on his pale face.

Gerd granted him the Anticipation as Ron opened himself to the Sense. Thompson's aura was as still as the water of a lake on a windless day, and there was no Future of his that Ron dared to choose. But when the referee bid them start, their wands rose as if arrows drawn from a bow.

Two furious Blasting Curses came to meet halfway through the pit, and a storm of dust and smoke was born out of them. Ron used the diversion to turn invisible and ventured into the cloud. Yet a few spells of unknown nature rocketed in his search. Their magical signature was strong, hence he was able to keep track of them. Yet they kept coming. Of course he's able to use the Sense! This is the elite!

"Your aura is screaming louder than thunder!" Gerdnyaram hissed. "Get a hold of yourself and control it!"

Ron drew in a deep breath as he jumped to the right; the purple spell missed him by a mere inch. He searched inside for his magic; from its core it flowed to everywhere. He held it down with a dyke of will. Just then did Thompson dispel away the cloud of dust smoke with a push of his hand.

Three more curses came at Ron, which he was able to dodge in the last second.

"Your hair and nails have become visible!" Gerd said. "Reduce your aura, but do not lose focus of the spell. Find the balance between them!"

All Ron remembered is that he jumped and rolled to dodge the never-ending barrage of spells. And then it ended. He halted and tried to still his breath, but his heart thundered in his chest as it had never done before; so loud that he found it a miracle people had decided not to laugh and point at him with their fingers.

And Ron became a ghost to both sight and Sense.

Thompson stood on his end of the pit, so confused his mouth and eyes were wide open and he scanned the pit. I've bloody done it! A cold wave fell upon Ron and took away his euphory, then. It was time to carry out the offensive. Celebrations could wait for later.

He glimpsed a certain Future, that of a possible Shield casted out of fear and precaution, and he waited until it was discarded. Then his wand was set ablaze as he announced his presence.

Spell after spell was fired, of each and every kind he knew. Those simpler and weaker, Thompson either parried or dodged with a side-step, those stronger and mightier, he could but cast a quick Shield just for it to be shattered right away. And meanwhile Ron closed the distance between them, his wand a flashing beacon on his hand.

"Again, again, again," Gerd repeated like a mantra, which he obeyed with no hint of hesitation.

Exhaustion let itself known as slight traces of dull pain appeared within his limbs. Ron just ploughed through it. If he were to doubt an instant, Thompson would break free. He needed to fall, now. "Carpe Retractum!" Ron chanted while thrusting his hand forward.

Too busy parrying a succession of stunners, Thompson could not avoid the red cord of red light which coiled around his ankle. Ron clenched it on his hand as he showed his rival a grim smile. "Incendio!" The cord was set ablaze and the flames flowed from one end to another.

Ron took delight in the fear and surprise which appeared on Thompson's face. He could but thrust his wand down, trying to cast a Finite on the flames before they were to devour his leg. And it was then when Ron's wand gave him the final tough. "Stupefy!" It was launched with such force as no other stunner before. And when Thompson's hand rose in a futile try to block it, the spell sent him flying backwards.

By the time he landed out of the pit, unconscious, Ron had already stilled; his face but a mask of cold calmness. Part of this show was to send his competition a message. Yet part of him stood awed at his prowess and the skills he had obtained under Nurgon's tutelage. If someone were to show this duel to his past self, that younger Ronald who wished so fervently to get out of his brother's shadow, he would have frozen in disbelief.

The referee declared him victorious with a loud shout, "Ronald Weasley wins by technical knockout! Therefore he's qualified for the next stage!" And the chants and the claps from the crowd made sure to rise over the announcement.

Ron greeted them by raising his fist into the air, a wide and honest smile replacing the mask he had worn. And he jumped down the pit, taking delight in all the attention he received; so much that he didn't look around to glimpse any of the other duels. They followed him well into the passage, until they weren't louder than the noise of his breathing.

"I'm famished," Ron said, then. There was no one around, but still he spoke in a whisper as he was long used to. "Breakfast feels like a thing of the far past."

"You did waste a lot of energy today," Gerdnyaram observed. "Not only in the fighting, but also in the waiting. Nerves are quite harmful to one's endurance, both physical and mental. Use your time and rest. There is still an hour until the next duel."

Ron gave her a nod as he opened the door of the restroom. There was no trace of Benjamin, but there was of another boy of fair hair and eyes.

"Congratulations!" Jakob grinned. "What a way to go, Ronald! That second duel was awesome, mate. And the first too, of course, but not so much. Here, come closer and delight yourself as you fancy."

It was then when a delicious smell reached Ron's nostrils. "All of that… For me?"

"Most of it, actually. There's plenty for both Benjamin and you, but… Well, we both know he doesn't eat nearly as much as you or I do."

It was a picture taken from Ron's dreams—meat, fish, vegetables and every kind of food were presented to him on small, round plates. But there was so much of it, and his stomach urged him with so much haste, that he attacked the table with no other thought but to regain all the energy he had lost.

"Easy, easy!" Jakob whistled, as he helped himself to snatch a chicken-wing from a plate. "This rest between duels is longer as it grants you enough time to eat, but not so long for your belly to digest such a ton of food."

"It's delicious," Ron pointed out, though he certainly slowed his pace.

"The Federation has a chef who cooks for all the challengers, but I like this kind of food better. I figured you'd be one to share my opinion."

It took Benjamin five more minutes to arrive. He pushed the door open just to stand there as his eyes took in such savagery. "Wow. Where do you guys store all that food? Seriously, I'm worried."

"Come here and take a bite, prince charming!" Jakob urged him. "You've also duelled twice this morning. There's plenty for you and ten of your likes!"

Benji could but heed his advice, shaking his head in disbelief. Still he ate as voracious as Ron had never seen him do. The conversation only began once they all felt satisfied enough.

"Ronald's next rival, that girl by the name of Olivia Grace-Shultz," Benjamin began, "is she related in any way to the Great House of Grace? You told us a former lord of the said House was who built Silverbay centuries ago, did you not?"

"She is, indeed," Jakob nodded. "A cousin of the main bloodline, I presume. It happens quite a lot, when a lord's daughter is married to another lord of lesser name. A sort of agreement. Though a lesser lord, a man has his pride, you see, therefore he must fight for his name to remain alive as he seeks to make it larger and more prominent. Whoever this Shultz is, he must be a man of remarkable nature to have won the favour of Lord Grace."

Ron couldn't care less about such information; albeit it was a rather interesting fact, nothing else. "Do you have any information about her? About her duelling style, I mean."

"Nothing. Today was the first time I heard her name, and, unfortunately, I had business to deal with this morning, so I could not watch any of her duels. Now, I do have something about your rival, Benjamin."

"Natasha Kravlenko? She must be quite good, as she also won her two duels."

"She's the daughter of a very eccentric lord, Igor. They live in the mountains, somewhere in between Russia and Ukraine, in a palace into the rocks. A family of vigilantes, though not so much in peaceful times. It is said that, to socialise with other lords and ladies, they organise huntings instead of balls and feasts. Now, whether it is humans or beasts, what they hunt is something which may differ from one mouth to another. Nobody but those who had been invited truly know."

"And your advice is?"

"To expect a fight like no other before. To picture a rabid beast instead of a pale girl, with fangs and claws instead of nails and teeth. To be cautious and not rush things. That's my advice."

Ron shook his head. "You, pureblood lot, are a bunch of weird people. First, this girl who has a mixed name just because one is wealthier than the other. Then, this beast-girl you have just pictured as a rabid creature."

Jakob simply blinked, "You are one of us, in case you've forgotten. But I'll say no more, as I already know you well enough that this is but a lost battle."

And it was with such exchange that their conversation died, so just another one, far more casual and enjoyable, could be born. Ron told them stories of Hogwarts, such as that in which Harry and the rest tried to smuggle a dragon out of the castle. Benjamin did the same about Beauxbatons, where Veelas, girls of incredible beauty and pride, filled the corridors and the gardens with their disputes. And Jakob, of Drumstang, a sombre place in which the sun rarely shone.

There was no trace of nervousness within Ron, and when his name was called about two hours later, he stood up as a calm boy. "Well, it's time to finish the day on a good note. See you later, I guess."

His friends each bid them farewell with a lively, "Good luck!" as the redhead strode outside. His walk through the passage seemed as fickle as a spark, as he knew every detail by memory. Ron found the noise way less deafening now, like a background choir. Perhaps because his eyes had fallen upon the shape of his last rival; and nothing else mattered to him.

Olivia Grace-Shultz was a short girl of gleaming, blond hair, styled in two tight buns, and of big, brown eyes. She was also far too cute for such a menacing glare she tried to display, in Ron's opinion. But she had won her two duels so far, and that made her a dangerous opponent regardless of looks.

Ron had already come up with a way to start the duel when she spoke, "There's no need to eye me as the most succulent prey you'd ever come across. I will forfeit the duel as soon as it starts."

Ron blinked in surprise, "Say again?"

The referee jumped into the pit and made her way toward them, unaware of their brief conversation. Thinking a ruse of her words, Ron made use of the Anticipation. Only one silhouette appeared, and it could be seen around her body as if a golden aura. The Sense, too, seemed to confirm her words as there was no fluctuation within her aura; it stilled like a leaf on a windless day.

It was then when the referee bid them start.

"I surrender," Olivia Grace-Shultz said as she stored her wand back into her purple robes. That said, she just walked away under the crowd's awestruck eyes. Utter silence came from their area's grandstands, and then followed the boos, loud and piercing.

Ron went after the girl as the referee announced him victorious. "Wait a moment!" he shouted, catching up to her. "What's wrong with you?"

She halted, just to eye him from atop her shoulder. "Don't you dare to scream at me, you peasant." Such venomous words and attitude were not so threatening when they came from a girl more than a head shorter than him, he reckoned. "I'm already qualified, so there's no point to sweat and tire myself with such a pointless fight. Besides, you are not worthy of my secret technique."

So she left in a hurry, her purple and golden cloak flapping behind. And Ron stood like a fool amidst the arena. "Now, what the hell is wrong with her?" he mused.

"That is her problem to deal with," Gerdnyaram said, unfazed by the girl's strange behaviour. "Let her think and do as she pleases. On our part, all we must care about is the fact you have finished the group as the first seed. Congratulations, my dear Ronald. I think you proved a lot of people wrong today."

Though his eyes remained set on the girl's waning shadow. "Perhaps. But work's not done yet. I'll celebrate when all it's said and done."

Ron travelled through the passage one last time, in search of the sun and a bit of fresh air. It surprised him to find so little of both outside. The sun was but a faint disk of a dull yellow on its way down, and the breeze was almost non-existent. "I really spent the entire day in the colosseum, did I not?"

"Let's go for a walk," Gerdnyaram said. "I want to observe this city's people; to listen to their words and to glance at their faces. You and I, together, like the old times."

Ron granted her such a desire. Most of the people had yet to leave the stadium, so the streets were almost deserted. Those few men and women they found were busy cleaning their posts. The smell of food still lingered on the air, but there was barely a conversation they could overhear.

He ended up following a bunch of children, their clothes so dirty and dusty after hours and hours of playing. "Look at me, I'm the great Leon Krause!" one of them shouted as he brandished his toy wand. "No, I'm Leon the Golden!" another replied as he ran past his friend. "And I'm Belle the Tall!" a girl exclaimed as she led the group into another alley.

Gerd gave the hint of a smile. "We did not have much of this in my age. There was danger out there, yes, but also fear of the past. Not so much of the defeated Nightmares, but of ourselves, humans, as we fought to claim what little power was there to claim after the War of Dawn. Laughs and smiles were the most precious of the treasures, even if no one came to see them as such."

Ron gave her a silent nod as he ventured into another alley, a much narrower and darker one. It was a faint melody that led him there. Tud, tud, tud, tud… The drumming echoed. And what awaited at the end of the alley was a small group of people, all gathered around an old man, whose hands skillfully tapped against a musical instrument. A weak ray of sun did its best to brighten the spectacle. It seemed to grow stronger as a young lady added her voice to the piece.

The redhead observed them for about five minutes, until he felt Gerd's curiosity had been satiated. Then he walked away and allowed his legs to carry him wherever they fancied. It was not a long walk, in the end, for he almost bumped into Jakob as he turned into another alley.

The pureblood heir, despite his surprise, was quick to jump away before they crashed into one another. "Oh, here you are!" he said. "I've been looking for you! Benjamin won his duel. Though not as easy as you did, certainly. Honestly, what the hell was that girl thinking? To surrender in such an event… It's an insult to the sport! Anyhow. Come with me. Little frenchie is waiting for us."

"What's that?" Ron's eyes had fallen upon a little bag Jakob carried in his hand. It had been its metallic tinkling that caught his attention.

"Oh, this? Well, it's money. Money I won betting." It was funny how he had almost whispered his response, ever one to shout more than talk. "Hey, what's with that look? Don't you dare to tell my father about this! You hear me?"

The evident fear in his voice made Ron snicker. "I won't, don't worry. Unless you happen to make fun of me, or to cross me, in the future. Then I may, or may not, use this little secret of ours against you." Now it was a foul look that Jakob sent at him. "I'm joking! I'm joking! I'm not a snitch. By the way, did you bet on me winning or losing?"

"I bet that both of you would win your three duels. There's honour among thieves, I say."

"It wasn't me who earned money in such a shady way," Ron replied with a smirk. "Still I appreciate your trust."

Jakob bit back a response; a not so kind one, most likely. Instead it was the sound of their footsteps against the firm rock of the street that broke the stillness of their stride.

And then a new voice cut in their conversation with the sharpness of a sword, "You've grown taller, Ronald."

Ron did not turn around to meet her eyes, mainly because he knew not how to react. And Jakob, meanwhile, could but send him a curious glance, then at the girl behind them. "Oh, well. I'll leave you two alone, I think. Yes, that would be best." He walked away with too much haste, almost running.

Finally did Ron turn around, and he came face to face with Daphne Greengrass.

For a moment he forgot how to breathe as he took in her face. It was just as he remembered, perhaps even prettier. It took him a while to find his words. "Daphne," was all he achieved.

A part of him was happy to see her, he could not deny so. But still… The way she had left them when he needed her most, the way she had not bothered to even write them a word of farewell… Both sides clashed, as the waves did crash endlessly against a cliff, and no side rose victorious in such a clash.

A soft smile appeared on her face; almost tentatively. "You were awesome today. I saw all three of your duels. I cannot believe you are the same boy I met at the Slytherin table more than three years ago."

"Me neither," he muttered.

His cold response erased the smile from her face, though just for a fickle instant. Daphne closed the distance between them, and then she offered her arm to Ron. "May you go for a walk with me? I believe we have much to talk about."

Ron was about to refuse her petition, but then he felt Gerdnyaram closing her side of the Link, granting him privacy. She was nowhere to be seen, also. "Sure, lead the way," he gave in with a sigh. Gerd's had not been a very subtle push, but he allowed himself to be convinced.

Their walk through Silverbay was a silent one. And slow and awkward, too, as none wanted to make the other speed up their stride. The sun seemed to grow tired of such pitiful spectacle, as it disappeared behind the far wall of the endless sea. And then Silverbay roared alive again, its lights so bright and flashy one could but think it was still midday.

"This city is beautiful in its own way," Daphne mused, at last putting an end to the silence. "I arrived this morning, and I saw none of the wonders people had told me about. To wait for the night, the locals told me. Now I see how right they were. Though it might be a tad too flashy and noisy for me, perhaps."

And silence returned yet again, even heavier than before.

"Did you come here alone?" Ron asked, now his turn to break the ice.

"I did. It took me quite the effort to convince Headmistress Lessard to grant me a leave, but I had my mother's permission, so she gave in to my wish in the end."

"How's Ilvermorny?"

"Oh, it was very strange at first, quite different to Hogwarts in each and every aspect. It was sad, too. But then it all got better, as…" Daphne took to heart the task of filling their walk with words. She had taken him up to the city's centre, still in their way toward the docks. And Ron remained silent, not because of anger anymore, but because he found himself enthralled by her tale.

To a point in which, from time to time, his questions turned the monologue into a conversation. "So, there are also four Houses there, and their names are those of magical creatures instead of those of the founding wizards and witches?"

It was well into the docks when Ron noticed a bright smile had set itself upon Daphne's face. And it refused to leave, it seemed. He also realised that he did not regret his decision, much to the shame of his pride.

At last she halted, in front of a rather exotic place. On bright, blue letters displayed atop a wide arc of dark marble, made of those gleaming crystals he had seen so much through the city, could be read: The Waning Moon. Looking past it one could see a huge patio opened to the clear sky of the night. The last docks of the bay had been used to set upon large tables on which groups of people feasted in a choir of laughs and shouts. And beyond, where the docks ended, a large surface of grass and tall palms had been raised, like a green oasis in the artificial desert of Silverbay.

Ron halted suddenly, then glanced down at Daphne. "And this is…?"

Her eyes rolled up to his question. "I know you hate it when others use their money on you, silly, so please do spare me the talk" Daphne said. "That you consider it charity. But this is no charity, just a girl trying to make amends because of some stupid decision she took. I want us to have fun, Ronald. To talk and laugh as we used to do, even if just for a few hours. I want to write a new page in the book of our friendship. It will not erase the horrible page I wrote last year, that I know, but… I am deeply sorry. That's all I can say."

She looked up, hopeful, in search of Ron's eyes. He, on his behalf, had not the nerve to be angry at her anymore; not today, at least. Though that voice from inside cursed at his stupid decision, at his weak character, it was not so loud anymore; a whisper, more than a shout. So he gave in with a slight nod of his head.

And the way her face lit up, well, it proved to Ron that he had taken the correct decision.

Daphne took him inside, her shy and tentative stride now replaced by one as lively and energetic as that of storm. A short, plump man, dressed in white and black uniform, came to meet them once they made it past the arc. "I've got a reservation," the blonde said, "to the name of Daphne Greengrass. A dinner for two, in the small dock."

The waiter gave her a curt nod. "Of course. Follow me if you may, my lady and lord."

He took them through the restaurant, and Ron could but overhear all those conversations which filled the place. It surprised him to find no trace of idle talk. Money, money and money; such was all the talk here.

They finally reached the small dock, which, true to his name, was but a small dock with a simple and round table on it. But just like any other, it had great views of the greenish sea brightened by Silverbay's heart and soul. Colourful fishes danced close to the docks, as if seeking the customer's attention.

"May I take order of your drinks?"

"A pineapple cocktail for me, please," Daphne said as she took a seat. "Without alcohol, of course."

"And for the little lord?"

"For me? Well, a bit of water would be fine. Oh, and don't call me a lord, please. I'm not one, you see." The waiter sent him an estranged glance, yet nodded and left. "This place might be a tad too… formal and snotty for me, I think."

A sly grin was drawn in Daphne's face. "Just a tad? The fact I was able to convince you to come here is already too great a success. Imagine the face of your first-year self, that angry boy who got sorted into Slytherin, if he were to see such a picture."

"He would curse at me until dawn, undoubtedly."

And just like that their conversation came to an abrupt end. Daphne set her eyes on the endless sea; and he swore he could almost see the gears moving in her mind as she tried to revive the conversation. Ron, however, glanced down to look at the fishes and their frenzied dance.

Seconds went by, and he finally grew tired of the seagull's singing.

"It would be wiser to go straight to the point, I believe."

Daphne finally stared at him. He saw in her eyes a bit of everything; long gone was the cold mask she had always been so proud of. There was regret, certainly, and traces of nervousness and hope, too. The way her foot tapped against the wooden floor spoke louder of her state than any word, also.

"To be honest," Ron started, "what hurt me the most wasn't the fact you left when I needed it most. Tracey told me about your father and his character, you see, and though I cannot buy such an excuse, it kind of eased the anger. For quite a few reasons." He paused for a moment as their drinks were delivered to them. "I've had my fair share of disputes with my family, too, and I fought, I cried and lost many nights of sleep because of stress, just because I felt it was what I had to do. And to think you weren't brave enough to do so… It just hurt me. To think that, perhaps, we weren't so important to you."

"Yet, in this last year, I've come to learn much about the pureblood world," Ron went on. "About its vermin, the proud and noble lords and ladies which belong to it. I've come to learn about their foul character, about their ambition and need to show no weakness, about their greed and individuality… It made me understand that, perhaps, you did not have another chance but to obey your father's command."

Ron allowed the seagulls to fill the silence yet again. Though it was a far shorter silence this time.

"My father loves me dearly," Daphne said in a whisper. "But his love toward our name is greater. And the duty he feels toward his House, too. I tried to make him change his opinion, I really did. My mother tried her best, too. But he thinks that, were I to remain in Hogwarts, I would disgrace my future and that of the Great House I am heiress to. He does not trust you, my friends, nor does he trust me. Sometimes I cannot help myself but to think he desires for Astoria to have been born first, as she's a much better heiress than I."

"Still, I wrote you many letters in summer, and I received no answer in none of them," Ron added, a faint touch of coldness in his voice. "You did not write any of your own, either. And then I am to know that you will be going to Ilvermorny, just like that. That's what really hit me; way more powerful than any bludger could."

"Because I am a bloody coward, that's why." It surprised Ron to see such firmness within her words. But what really set him off was to see her speaking so plainly of her flaws and weaknesses, ever one to turn a blind eye to them. "I could not fathom the idea of you all thinking that I had failed, that I was not so in control of my life as I let on. More so, I was so stupid to cut ties with you because I thought that, done so, it would be easier to move to Ilvermorny. A letter, a word or a glance… It would have spurred me to hate my father's decision even more, to try to convince him again; let it be with tears, shouts or nails. But I was scared to confront him, too."

The night and its darkness did her a favour to conceal her tears, but the way her eyes glistened spoke louder than any word could ever.

"Yes, that's me, the great Daphne Greengrass. She, who had always been told how beautiful she was, how cold and regal her character was, that of a perfect heiress to a Great House. And I have always taken delight in such flattery, for it felt incredibly good. It was almost enough to forget how much I detested my life. Oh, but do not get me wrong here. My life has been as easy as they come, ever daddy's spoiled girl. But to feel the pressure of my name each day… I just could not stand such a life. One day I was to learn about economy, another about politics and languages, next about the pureblood society, with their ever changing disputes and alliances. I was also to socialise with people I came to despise; those who were meant to be my friends and confidants."

She seemed to hesitate, but Ron encouraged her to talk with a nod of his head.

"But then I met you," she went on, "and my life changed. You granted me the chance to leave my old friendships behind; the likes of Malfoy, Parkinson and Nott, whom I really disliked. You granted me the chance to laugh, to have fun and enjoy life. I had pictured Hogwarts to be but a place in which I needed to meet people of my status and to impress them. A place to study and crush every witch and wizard from my promotion. Not a place to laugh and smile as I explored the castle with my friends, nor a place in which I could play chess for as much as I fancied every night. It became, thanks to you and Tracey and Blaise, a place in which I could be myself. And despite that and way more, I still left you behind.

Daphne gave him a mirthless smile as she sniffed her tears. "Am I not the worst friend ever?" She took a sip of her drink to ease the raspiness of her throat, then continued. "Oh, but there's more! Of course there's more! I've had these silly dreams in which I saw myself, but old and tired and fat. Reduced to a lady whose only duty and purpose was to sire children for an important lord. I've seen it happen to many women in our world, as it is the role society has for many of us. And I thought that, were I to obey my father's word, to keep him happy and to regain his trust in me, I could avoid such a future. So, ever the bloody coward, I chose to leave you behind and not to fight for our dear friendship."

Ron fell silent as her card of regret died into the night, though for a different reason this time. What was he supposed to do now? To console her, the girl he had been furious at for so long? It certainly was what he wanted to do, given her tears and sniffing. But how? This was not something he had studied at Hogwarts or trained at Nurgon. If Benjamin were here, he would know what to do. If there was someone who could understand girls, that was him.

So he did what he did best—to be blunt honest.

"I forgive you, Daphne," he sighed. "I've seen truth and regret in your words. However, I will never forget what you did to us, to Tracey and me, and it's quite a heavy weight. But people can change for the better if they are ready to learn from their mistakes, which I think you've already done. I know that better than anyone, damn it all."

Even up to this day he still wondered where was the Ronald Weasley who came to Hogwarts with all those dreams and ambitions.

"I'll tell you the same I told Blaise recently. It's a good start to apologise, a first step. But I've always been extremely good at holding grudges. Yours was way better than his, way more sincere and honest. And just because of that, I'm still here. So, what about this? Let's enjoy this night, you and me, like we used to do. Let's laugh and smile and joke. It might be the best for that new page you've mentioned."

Then they shared a smile, as they had not done in more than a year.

Stories about Ilvermorny and Hogwarts were exchanged then. Daphne told him about her new friends, about the classes there; some she had come to appreciate, such as literature, and some she had come to despise, such as physical education. And Ron told her about Tracey and how she had become the chaser for the Slytherin team, though he briefly mentioned Umbridge, as there was no room for such a hateful woman tonight.

And it was as he devoured his steak that he finally noticed something about her.

"Your hair," Ron mused, surprised. "You've done something to it, right?"

"Oh, so you finally noticed!" she smiled brightly. "Yes, I did fancy a change." There were threads of silvery hair among her honey-blond locks, and it had been cut short around her upper back. "You also did something to yours."

Ron huffed as he ran his hand through his short hair. "A bloody elf did this to me. She thought my previous look didn't fit me so well. Can you believe it?"

"Well, it does suit you nicely. I think you look quite handsome."

Ron stared at her, dumbfounded. "Flattery won't work on me, you know?" he cleared his throat. Why on earth did his face feel so warm suddenly? "For the record, I think you look quite pretty, too." And now it became way worse, damned be his stupidity!

Thankfully he was saved by a helping hand from above.

Fireworks rose to the skies, launched from the docks. Some people stood up, to watch and clap at them, more glad than surprised. But Ron could not. All he could do was to stare at them, mouth and eyes open in awe.

Daphne smiled at him. "They do this every friday. It was the main reason why I brought you here."

Flowers of many colours and countless petals were born amidst the blackness of the night. And they exploded into rings of light after a few seconds. A second wave of fireworks was launched, then. This time they took the shape of birds; their large wings wide open as they ploughed through the rings of light, to later dance with one another.

The spectacle lasted about ten minutes, around the time they also finished dinner. It must have been past midnight, Ron reckoned, yet the streets of Silverbay seemed to not acknowledge such a thing, for they were quite crowded. "This city never sleeps," the redhead pointed out, a bit in awe.

"It seems so," Daphne hummed. "Like I said, it's too much for me. I'd rather live in a more peaceful place." They reached the city's main alley, where she halted to glance at him with questioning eyes. "Where are you going? Oakheart Palace is that way. I thought you were to spend the night there."

"I am to spend the night there," Ron replied. "But that man, Jason Oakhand, he's a bloody elf beater, that bastard. I'm not gonna share a roof with the likes of such vermin." It was a decision he came up with yesterday, as Landry cut his hair. "I still have three galleons on me. I reckon it should be enough to buy a bed in any sleazy inn. I did see one of those in a dark alley near the Duke of the Bay."

Daphne rolled her eyes at his antics, yet, much to his surprise, said nothing about what she surely thought to be that poor judgement of his. "I could lend you some gold, you know. You'd need to give it back to me in the future, of course. And, no, this isn't charity either."

Ron, much to her exasperation, allowed himself a sly grin, "My problem, my shit to deal with. I thank you, Daphne, really. I don't think your help is charity. But, like I said, this is something I brought on myself, so I must deal with it on my own… Besides, rich life doesn't really suit me."

She knew a lost battle when she saw one. "Whatever! I'll see you tomorrow, okay? I plan to stay here the entire weekend. We could hang out a bit once your duels are finished. I'd like to make the best out of the next two days."

Ron bid her farewell with a waive of his hand. "If I'm not dead tired or beated into a bloody pulp… Then, yes, I'd like that very much." The way she frowned at him made Ron remember better times; simpler and easier times. "Have a good night, Daphne."

And so, Ron ventured into the dark alleys of Silverbay, where he felt more comfortable, in search of a place for the poor to sleep.