By the next day, however, Ron's confidence had dwindled. As great as not getting caught had been, it wasn't much of an accomplishment in the grand scheme of things. Far from it. There were a dozen bigger problems on the horizon, each more likely to land his arse in an early grave than in detention.

Ron scrambled to carry on as a normal twelve year old would, but even while talking to Harry on their way down, he couldn't shake off the unease weighing on him. The familiar movement of the staircases felt amiss. The portraits, although not as odd as Plank's, seemed to follow them with their eerie eyes, waiting for an eventual mistake. Old pesky drawings. It wasn't as jarring as when Ron had first arrived in the past—a whole year ago, now—but he still felt out of place, as if he were rummaging through some long-forgotten dream.

Even more distracting were his fellow students—plenty of whom he'd seen as adults in his previous life. Ron watched their younger versions pass by with eager grins, lost in the retellings of their summers, unaware of the looming dangers within and outside the castle. Here and there, one would glance their way with curiosity before returning to share gossip.

Guess crashing a flying car still made headlines, even if it didn't hit the blasted willow.

The usual buzzing welcomed them into the Great Hall, which today showed a dreary, grey blanket of clouds on its ceiling. No one paid them any mind as they took seats across from Hermione, who was nibbling on her porridge while going over a book—her umpteenth revision of last year's material by the looks of it. She greeted them with a smile, unsurprised to find Ginny next to them. The two girls had spent a good chunk of the train ride by themselves, and must've settled in with each other to some extent.

"What's with the scarf?" Dean Thomas asked after the introductions, "Are you aware our colours are red and gold?"

"Better than you, she is," Ron retorted.

Ginny looked taken back by the attention, and clutched on tight to her scarf. "I-It's from the Holyhead Harpies. Harry got it for me."

Next to Ron, Harry pretended to be interested in his plate.

Dean went on to ask about the Quidditch League and their colours, bringing Ron to expand on Ginny's short answers. It took him some effort to avoid coming off too blunt.

Ron wasn't too peeved about Dean forgetting that—as a Weasley—his sister had known Gryffindor's colours long before he had. He couldn't say he minded going at length over Quidditch teams' colours and mascots either. Nonetheless, he was cautious about any interaction between Dean and Ginny. It seemed silly, though. They were kids without any effing idea of any other timeline. But at the same time, it was easy to be buggered by one or two uncomfortable memories.

All in all, Ron preferred keeping Ginny close. It was her first day at Hogwarts, so he'd made sure she tagged along for breakfast—an addition to their group he planned to make permanent. Diary or not, there was no way in hell he was overlooking his sister this time around. He'd even included her in the discussion the night before, when they'd finally told Hermione all about Dobby and Diagon Alley.

That hadn't gone quite the way Ron had hoped.

"You were lucky Mr Plank found you. There's something strange about that elf," Ginny had said.

About Dobby? Sure, the elf was barmy, but it was Plank who they should be watchful of.

That was a concern Ron's friends didn't entirely share. Not as they should. From Harry's perspective, Dobby had proven to be more dangerous, and Ron couldn't blame his logic. It didn't help Dobby's case that the elf kept foretelling Harry's doom at Hogwarts as if he were the second coming of Trelawney. Hermione was a tad more sceptical of Plank's intentions, but still more interested in Dobby. Even when Ron had been purposely vague about the elf's self-punishing habits, it was anyone's guess if Hermione had any early plans for SPEW.

At least they'd all noticed the unusual amount of Americans around lately and found it strange, if not downright dodgy.

"What do you make of the new Defence teacher?" Harry asked, glancing at the teachers' table.

Ron took a bite of his bangers. "I don't trust her."

"You don't? Why not?" Neville asked.

"I just don't."

Neville stared at the front table with trepidation, as if searching for signs that the new teacher might be as much of a prick as Snape was.

To be fair, there didn't appear to be anything threatening about Sequoia Locklear. She gave the impression of being a reserved woman, yet still talked warmly with the rest of the staff. At one point, she even laughed at one of Flitwick's jokes.

But it could all be an act.

The post soon arrived. Dozens of owls swooped down, delivering the first packages of the term into the hands of the expectant students. Ron hardly batted an eye when Errol rolled over toast and scrambled eggs to deliver a letter from the Burrow—a short message wishing them luck and which was mostly addressed to Ginny.

At least that tosser, Saul Croaker, didn't send a snarky note to remind me of his low expectations.

Ron stabbed his breakfast with the fork. Croaker's words stung, but he knew the tosser was right. There was too much at stake. At the very least, he needed to talk to Dumbledore and fill him in on the American's accomplices. That didn't mean he was looking forward to it. Ron had made it this far without reaching out to Dumbledore for a reason, and doing so now felt like admitting he wasn't good enough.

If only I could have some sort of win before then. Something to show them that I'm not a complete dolt.

A small package was dropped next to Neville. "Must be Gran sending all the stuff I forgot."

"Wouldn't be the start of term without you forgetting a thing or two."

It may have been an odd thing to say considering this was just the second start of the term to his friends, but they all took the joke in good spirit. Well, all of them but Hermione.

"It's not funny, you know. It's not like Neville forgot anything on purpose."

"I don't mind, really," Neville said.

Ron saw no point in arguing. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to make fun."

The conversation went on with the castle's ghosts hovering above. Ron glanced at the entrance a couple of times out of sheer habit, but the American wasn't there. The bastard was likely halfway across the world, and Ron may have well imagined him over the summer.

Ron's eyes studied the Great Hall, finding nothing worthy of attention until he spotted Malfoy. The git was going over his mail, surely wondering how to botch everyone's day.

So, Daddy wrote to the ferret… Could it have something to do with that rotten diary?

Whatever else he was capable of, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't put his son at risk—at least Ron didn't think he would. But then again, maybe Lucius wasn't fully aware of the evil lurking within that ruddy book, of the darkness something like that could unleash.

I have seen your heart…

Ron turned back to his plate with a knot in his stomach. He couldn't afford to let his thoughts wander down that path. He had to remain strong-willed if he was to get that diary. And it was the most urgent task at hand, he'd already decided that.

As much as it pained him, Sirius could wait a few more days. Ron intended to free him at the earliest opportunity and had Crookshanks ready to reveal the rat, but for now, Sirius wasn't in immediate danger. Not like others would be if the chamber were to be open.

The rest of the Horcruxes weren't as urgent. Sure, they were crucial for defeating Voldemort, but they weren't going anywhere. Not for a couple of years at least. More importantly even, none of the others were on the verge of unleashing a fucking basilisk into the school.

"Hey, Weasley! Good morning."

Startled, Ron jumped before turning around to find Oliver Wood, looking quite chuffed.

"Morning. Uh, have a good summer?" Ron asked.

"I did, actually. But things should be just as good now that we're back at Hogwarts."

After exchanging pleasantries with the others, it was clear Oliver wasn't just passing through, which was rather unusual. In the past, Oliver Wood only approached their seats to talk to Harry about Quidditch schedules. He'd never come looking for Ron. Not once. Could this be because of what happened before summer? Ron's name had certainly been moving around after the fight with that American. However, Oliver was the type to pay more attention to Puddlemere's weekend result than to an enemy's attack at Hogwarts.

From his chair, Harry gave Ron a shrug.

"So, anything to look forward to in Quidditch this year?"

"Only that we'll be taking the cup," Oliver replied, giving Harry a hearty pat on the back. It was as if he were sharing some sort of revelation, and not repeating his usual yearly declaration. "Speaking of which, I spoke to your brothers. Is it true? Can you truly play a decent Keeper?"

Oh, you got to be fucking kidding me.

Hermione looked up, and Ginny watched with wide eyes. Ron noticed Fred and George a few seats away, smirking and giving him a thumbs up.

"Those prats are hamming up a silly family match. You should know better than to trust any of their rubbish."

Even if the Gryffindor team didn't already have a great Keeper, Ron wouldn't be interested in joining them. It wasn't only unfair considering he was mentally an adult. He also had a ton of other nonsense to deal with. As much as it pained him to admit, Quidditch would only take away precious time.

Merlin's old bollocks! I'm beginning to sound like Hermione.

"Still, if you're as good as they say, I'm keen to see it for myself."

"There's no way I could beat you. 'Sides, Ginny is way better. It's her you should be trying to recruit."

"I've heard about her too," he said, glancing at her. "I doubt we could get another exception for a first year, especially since we're in no shortage of good Chasers. I'll definitely reach out next year though." Ginny gasped, but Oliver's focus was already back on Ron. "Besides, who said anything about you beating me?"

"So you're offering me not to play."

Oliver laughed. "Oh, if you can beat me, by all means I'll step aside. But I don't believe you will."

"Then why…?"

"We haven't had a decent substitute in a while," he explained. "I'm not one to get injured, but you never know. You could end up getting some minutes. What do you say? Want to show me what you've got at our first practice? I warn you, I'm not easy to impress."

Ron spun around to meet expectant gazes, particularly from Harry. As much as he tried, he couldn't think of a single credible reason why second-year Ron wouldn't be jumping with joy at this very moment. Not even a lousy one. If he turned down Wood now, Harry and Ginny would think him completely mental.

"Brilliant. See you then."

McGonagall appeared shortly after, and Ron half-expected her to add her voice to Oliver's Quiddtch enthusiasm. She did no such thing. Instead, the elderly witch handed out timetables to the students, and even though her curious gaze lingered on Ron for a moment too long, she made no mention of Quidditch or crashing cars.

When they were done, Ron bid farewell to Ginny at the Great Hall's doors. He wished he could keep an eye on her at all times, and watched her leave with an uneasy feeling in his gut, already counting the many dangers he'd have to protect her from this year.

Second year promised to be challenging, possibly even more so than the first time he'd lived through it. However, small mercies existed, and Ron soon realised that the year had started on a better note than he remembered.

At least there was no bloody Howler.

o0o0o

Greenhouse number three wasn't much different from greenhouse number one. Sure, the plants were slightly less harmless, and not as dull; but after the crazy shit Ron had seen as an Auror, they still looked pretty tame in comparison.

The place was always humid, the glass panes keeping the air several degrees warmer than outside. Green vines and exotic flowers decorated the walls, and the musky scent of soil and fertilizer filled Ron's nostrils. It was exactly as he remembered, right down to the twenty pairs of earmuffs lined up on the bench.

Bugger. Almost forgot about this rubbish.

Professor Sprout's explanation cut to the bone. She'd barely told them to put on their earmuffs before pulling a Mandrake out of its pot. Silent gasps filled the room as the grisly baby plant was extracted and repotted.

"Awww, aren't you jolly about that little angel?" Seamus asked once the professor gave them a thumbs up to remove their earmuffs.

Lavender grimaced. "Absolutely disgusted, more like it."

"Oh, don't be like that. Babies have feelings, even gnarly little buggers like those."

Professor Sprout didn't acknowledge the quips. "These Mandrakes are seedlings, their cries won't kill just yet," she said. "They'll knock you out cold, though, so keep your earmuffs on if you don't want to lose your first day of class. Now, up to work. Pots and compost are at the front. Four to a tray, chop chop."

Ron followed his friends and loaded his tray. He'd planned to go through the motions of the Mandrake lesson, but then he spotted an open seat next to Megan Jones, and he remembered a crucial piece of information.

He sat down, surprising both the Hufflepuffs and Harry. "Hi, I'm—"

"Ron Weasley. We know," Megan said, exchanging a look with Susan Bones, then introducing themselves.

He settled in next to the Hufflepuffs, hoping to find a lead on the diary. Harry and Hermione, a bit further away, looked baffled. Neville and Justin Finch-Fletchley had filled up their table.

Ron shrugged at them. He could claim he got confused later.

"Did you really crash a car into a Muggle market?"

The boy sitting on the other side was Roger Malone—a Hufflepuff who'd died during the Battle of Hogwarts. It sent a pang of guilt to Ron that this was already the longest interaction he'd ever had with him.

"We never reached the Muggle town. And it wasn't like we crashed on purpose."

That didn't seem to deter Roger, who still looked fascinated by the story. Megan and Susan didn't comment, but leaned in closer. This was Ron's chance.

"So, Megan," Ron began, "Your cousin bumped into the Malfoys at Diagon Alley."

The statement—because it wasn't a question—went straight to the point. Too much so, because as far as small talk went, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Who told you that?" Megan asked, her eyes narrowed.

"I might've heard it from Sally-Anne Perks."

"Oh, yes, I see. Well, she did spot them while shopping. She told me about it over the summer, and— Wait, you know my cousin?"

"I—"

At that moment, Professor Sprout signalled for them to proceed. Megan made a gesture and slipped on her earmuffs.

Brilliant. He had to try and talk to her in the one class where they couldn't hear a bloody thing.

For the next two hours, Ron followed along with the lesson, eager to finish so he could talk to Megan. He planted his Mandrake in record time, but to his rotten luck, no one could remove their earmuffs until every last Mandrake was repotted.

Harry and Hermione gave him odd looks during class. They were covered in dirt and scratches, though not as much as Neville, whose Mandrake stubbornly resisted being potted. At the table in front of them, Ernie Macmillan pulled off a Mandrake that had clamped onto Seamus' ear.

A standard Herbology class.

"So, your cousin, is she also in Hufflepuff?" Ron asked as soon as the class ended.

Megan was startled. "What?"

"Your cousin. You mentioned—"

"Oh, yes," she said, packing up her things. "Where do you know her from? We're meeting at the Quidditch pitch tomorrow, I can tell her you asked about her."

"I don't really know her, just thought I've seen you talking to her," he said. "She has black hair, right? And, she's a… fifth year?"

Honestly, Ron was going out on a limb here.

Megan gave him a strange look. "Brown hair. Sixth year."

"Yes. Right. That's her."

Roger Malone chuckled. "Do you fancy Megan, or her cousin? Because man, this is painful to watch."

Both Hufflepuff girls eyes' widened, and Ron's face turned crimson. A gasp at their backs told him that Harry and Hermione were in earshot, because of course they were.

"What?! No! No, no, no," he stammered. "I don't. Sorry."

The Hufflepuffs left without another word. Ron joined his friends for a mostly silent walk back to the castle. He made a half-arsed excuse about accidentally sitting at the wrong table, but Harry only half-bought it, and Hermione didn't even acknowledge it.

And I didn't even get the girl's name…

After washing out all the dirt and compost, they headed for Transfiguration.

McGonagall's first class turned out to be quite similar to the previous year. Ron was way ahead, and managed to turn his beetle into a button before anyone else—thankfully without having to deal with a wand taped together. He didn't feel as bad about it. McGonagall expected him to do well, and there was no fooling her steely gaze, ready to snap at the slightest inconsistency.

"Praiseworthy. Well done," McGonagall said after inspecting his button, a smile creeping onto her lips.

It was stupid to feel chuffed—Ron had gone through that simple spell over ten years ago. Even so, he rarely got McGonagall's attention back in his time, and it was hard not to feel some level of accomplishment at her words.

Hermione had accepted Ron outperforming in some classes last term, but this time she huffed and doubled down on her efforts. She definitely didn't ask Ron for pointers, as Harry did.

While the rest of the class practiced, Ron skimmed his book. The theory was dull, too simple to hold his attention. Before long, his thoughts drifted to the diary.

The longer it took to find, the greater the chance of the basilisk being freed. But what could he do? Stand guard outside of Myrtle's bathroom? He couldn't stay there day and night. Could he go straight to the chamber and deal with the basilisk instead? As blood-chilling as it was, the idea had crossed his mind. But even if he could get inside the chamber, he wouldn't be able to call for the basilisk, much less control the damn monster.

No. That wasn't it. He needed a solid plan for that. He needed time. He needed the diary first.

Ron glanced at the other students, hard at work with their beetles. None seemed to be influenced by Tom Riddle's soul, but then again, Ron hadn't realised when Ginny had gone through that shit either.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, his gaze settled on Hermione. Her brow was knitted, as it often was when she was engrossed in her work. She let out little puffs of breath, unaware of the world around her. Ron knew her rhythm by heart, to the point he couldn't help but smile.

The diary would target Muggleborns, he knew. It would target her. Ron couldn't let that happen. It didn't matter if the Malfoys had the diary, or if Megan's cousin was the key to it. He couldn't fail again. Not on this.

He'd promised to change things this time. And it was about fucking time he proved his worth.

o0o0o

"It's a cat, Ron. Don't they all chase mice? I don't see what you're getting at," Harry said as they crossed the courtyard.

"But that orange ball of fur—"

"Crookshanks," Hermione interjected.

"Right, Crookshanks. He seems obsessed with Scabbers. Telling you, something is seriously off with that rat."

Harry stopped in his tracks. "The rat?"

"Well, the cat is a half-kneazle, so he must be onto something," Ron argued. "And I told you Scabbers has lived for twelve years. That's odd, isn't it?"

Harry exchanged a look with Hermione. "You're siding with the cat? Honestly, that rat needs a new owner."

Ron shrugged. "I just feel there's something off, that's all."

One way or another, Wormtail would be unmasked soon, and it didn't hurt to start laying some groundwork. This way, if Ron decided to try an animagus reversal spell, his friends wouldn't find it too suspicious. Maybe it wouldn't even come to that. If Dumbledore knew the truth by then, the old wizard may handle the details.

Ron's musings were interrupted by a flash of light. Colin Creevey appeared behind his camera, eager to know all about Harry and the car crash—now rumored to have destroyed a Muggle park.

As usual, Harry looked uneasy, but Ron couldn't bring himself to be annoyed. Just seeing Colin all excited and unaware of his fate gave Ron his second pang of guilt of the day.

It won't happen. Time has already changed. And I'll make sure it goes the right way. Roger, Colin, Fred… None of those losses will happen.

"Got yourself a photographer now, Potter? Are you signing pictures too?"

Draco Malfoy walked across the courtyard to reach them, with his cronies two steps behind.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry shot back.

"What are you signing pictures for anyway? Hasn't Weasel been doing everything for you lately?"

Harry frowned, but it was Colin who stepped up. "Leave him alone! Harry has done plenty! Haven't you read the book? He defeated You-Know-Who."

"Haven't I— ? Don't tell me, you're some Muggle baker's son who suddenly thinks he's one of us?" Malfoy sneered.

Ron's fist clenched. He stepped forward to stand in front of Colin. "Why do you care? You have your own father to please. Better hurry, he might be waiting for you down in the dungeons."

Crabbe and Goyle burst into laughter, while Malfoy's face turned a deep shade of red. Last year, the twins had pulled a prank on Malfoy, making him believe he was Snape's long-lost son. A scene the git was yet to live down.

"Shut it, Weasel," he snapped, "How dare you talk like that to your betters? Your family was already a pitiful bunch before you started mixing with the wrong crowd. It's starting to rub off on you."

Malfoy nudged in Hermione's direction and Ron frowned. If he gripped his wand any tighter it might snap, and then he'd need spellotape for sure. Just say it. Give me a fucking reason. Put a single toe out of line, and I swear…

A part of Ron told him that Malfoy was still a kid, and that there wasn't much to gain in making him eat slugs to the end of his days. But the git had earned it. Especially since his little prank with the Forgetfulness Potion last year had put Hermione in danger.

"Watch your mouth, ferret. I'm warning you," Ron said, his voice low.

Before Malfoy could make another mistake, Percy showed up. "What's going on here? Don't you have classes?"

Malfoy huffed. "Anyway, my father—" he started, but Crabbe and Goyle's chuckles cut him off. He glared at them, then turned to Ron. "My father has told me that soon, their kind will get what they deserve. And I know he's right."

Percy sent the Slytherins on their way, and ushered Ron and his friends to their own class. Ron was disappointed about letting Draco go unscathed, but the prick's words had left him with something more to think about.

Does he know? Did his father tell him?

Ron needed to give him a check. Make sure Malfoy didn't have the diary hidden somewhere.

"Hey, Perce, hold on!" Ron called out before they split.

Percy turned. "Yes, Ronald?"

"Just wanted to check. We're good, right? About the summer. I can't even remember what we were so cross about."

That was a fib, of course. But Percy wouldn't respond well to being told he was wrong again.

Percy sighed. "Yes, we're fine. Just stay out of trouble and focus on your studies. I'm watching you."

After a begrudging nod, Ron took off after his friends, remembering his next lesson was the one he was most curious about.

o0o0o

The Defence classroom was packed when Ron walked in. The Gryffindors were already seated, looking expectantly towards the front. Professor Locklear was absent, but a hard-looking hawk perched on the desk held their attention.

"Is there something off with that bird?" Ron asked, taking a seat.

Dean shrugged. "Seamus said it might be a test. That she's an Animagus, like McGonagall."

The hawk, seemingly unperturbed, turned its head occasionally. Students narrowed their eyes, searching for anything amiss. They were so focused that Professor Locklear's voice behind them made them all jump.

"My apologies for the delay," she said, walking briskly to the front. "I had some questions for your headmaster, and— Is there something wrong?"

She was younger than Ron expected, late thirties perhaps. Her brown clothing looked warm and unconventional, with discreet lilac patterns along the hems.

"It's nothing, Professor. We were told you might be an Animagus," Sally-Anne said, glaring at Seamus.

Locklear followed her gaze to the hawk, and understanding dawned. "Oh, this is Ganolegi. She delivers my mail."

"Just a bird, then? We couldn't have known," Seamus said.

Parvati rolled her eyes.

"There's a spell to reveal such things. Though I don't expect you to know it yet," the professor said.

Ron's eyes widened, an opportunity presenting itself. "There is? Can we learn it?" he blurted.

The woman looked curiously at Ron. "It's not in my plan. But it's not difficult, and your library should have information on it."

The plan to free Sirius was finally taking shape inside Ron's mind. "And, ehm, is it dangerous to practice on animals?"

"Perfectly safe."

Locklear cast the Animagus reveal spell on her hawk. As expected, nothing happened. The bird chirped casually.

"She's pretty. Does she really deliver your mail?" Alice asked. "Don't you use owls in America?"

"Some do. I have Ganolegi." She smiled at the curious attention her hawk was getting, then she cleared her throat. "I believe I've delayed introductions long enough. As you know, I'm Professor Sequoia Locklear, your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this year."

Ron tried to focus on the conversation. This woman was a mystery, and he was supposed to be gathering information. However, he couldn't help but feel a daft joy. He could now 'practice' the Animagus reveal spell on Scabbers without raising Harry or Hermione's suspicions.

"You don't look like other Americans I've met," Lavender interrupted Ron's train of thought.

"We come in all shapes and colors," the professor said, clasping her hands together. "I, like many others, have native heritage—Cherokee, in my case. We live in houses and cities, but also value our roots. Our ancestors' beliefs, and their teachings on nature and virtue, are a big part of who I am, and why I'm here."

Ron remained uncertain, but the others, even Hermione, were captivated. Professor Locklear answered questions about her life back in America, several were asked by Hermione.

"It's been a good introduction, but we have work to do," the professor said after a while. "I know you're a bit behind in your curriculum, but I don't believe in dwelling on that. You know what you know, and I'm here to help you move forward."

Pushing his plans to free Sirius for later, Ron leaned forward with interest.

They opened their books, but Locklear quickly stopped them. "We won't be following the program in order, so close those for now," she said, gesturing for them to stand. With a flick of her wand, the desks and chairs were pushed against the wall, and she walked to the centre of the room. "Before any strike, before any offense, there must be a shield. Many wizards, in their eagerness for power, forget this simple truth. And Defence is ingrained in our very subject's name."

"Blimey!" Dean exclaimed, and Lavender gasped. Professor Locklear had conjured a ring of dummies around them and cast unfamiliar spells upon them.

Locklear looked chuffed at the reaction. "This drill was inspired by pitching machines and paintball. Ever heard of those?"

Very few nodded. Ron's eyebrows rose. Could it be a trap? What were the dummies hexed with?

As Professor Locklear explained, the dummies would be shooting paint-filled projectiles at them—not exactly reassuring. The paint, she told them, was bewitched to be repelled by simple shields.

"You do know the incantation, don't you?" the professor asked.

"Protego?" Parvati asked, her voice laced with doubt.

Locklear, seeing the uncertain looks, gave a quick refresher on the spell. A few minutes later, she stepped back, leaving the students surrounded by the paint-shooting dummies.

There was an amused glint in her smile.

Is she an enemy? Or just mad?

"Wait! What do we do now?" Seamus asked.

"Dodge if you can. Use your wand, if not," Locklear said.

And then, chaos erupted.

Balls of multicolored paint flew from every direction. The first hit Seamus's shoulder, knocking him off balance. When he stood, Ron sighed. At least it was just paint.

"Is this leaving a stain?" Lavender cried, a blue spot on her arm.

Alice Tolipan shrieked nearby, and Parvati stopped two hits before a third got her. Even when Ron was doing fine, he saw Harry struggling, and Hermione was even worse. He managed to block a shot coming directly at her.

"Backs to me," Ron shouted at Harry and Hermione.

Within seconds, they formed a tight circle, backs together, covering all angles. Ron intercepted projectiles when needed, but Harry and Hermione held their own.

By the end of the drill, most of the students looked like abstract art, especially Neville, whose eyes barely peeked through the paint. Ganolegi, the hawk, had watched from the corner the whole practice unbothered, and didn't seem to find anything odd with the paint-soaked students.

Ron and his friends were by far the cleanest. Harry had a green spot on his leg, Hermione a yellow smudge in her frizzy hair. Ron was spotless.

Professor Locklear looked pleased. "Fine work, all of you. Even the paint-splattered. Every hit was a lesson, valuable for the future," she said. "That includes you… ehm…?"

"Neville," he mumbled.

"Yes, excellent, Neville. I saw you block a high shot."

"Just one," Neville lamented. "Got hit by everything else."

"That one could've been the lethal one in a fight. Well done," she said, nodding to a blushing Neville. Then, she turned to Ron. "Not a single hit. Ronald Weasley. The stories I've heard about you seem to be true. Your reflexes are impressive, but your strategy to protect your friends is even more so for someone your age."

Ron nodded as everyone turned to him. He had to admit, the drill had turned out to be actually good and enjoyable. And as with Plank, he didn't know what to make of the new professor.

With a swift wand movement, Locklear scoured the classroom clean. Then, did the same with their robes. "Remember, defense is not about physical reflexes. It's also about choosing when to fight, and when to walk away." Her gaze softened slightly. "Choices we make ripple through time and affect not only ourselves, but also those around us. This is why defense is so important. It's not just about protecting yourself, but about protecting the web of life… It's our choices that define us, more than any magic."

A wide smile later, the class was dismissed. Ron walked out uneasily, wondering if the woman knew more than she let on.

Next Chapter: Purebloods and Parchments