Lord Harry Potter and the Whispers of Lady Polixenes - Chapter 15 - lily_winterwood

Chapter Text

Then

There were visitors to the Burrow today.

Ron peered out at the visitors from behind the door to the old ballroom. The ballroom was one of his most favourite hideouts; all the trees growing out of the ground in there made it feel like there was a forest in his own house. Bill and Charlie had once set up a fort for him under the family tree, just like the ones the Muggle boys had in the books Dad brought home from work. Then Fred and George wrecked it during one of their pranks.

Fred and George were very mean to him. Ron didn’t care much for them.

The visitors were old and serious-looking. One of them had a monocle. They must be from where Dad worked, because they had a purple briefcase marked with the Ministry ‘M’.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” said Percy, having come into the entryway from the library. Ron didn’t care much for him, either; he was as strict as Fred and George were troublemakers. He never seemed to have any patience for Ron’s questions when they did Ron’s schoolwork together. As far as Percy was concerned, the moment he got to go to Hogwarts, Ron and Ginny and the twins could learn their reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic all on their own.

(Ron wished he could go to school like the Muggle kids in the village. But Mum thought they’d tell the kids about magic and then break some international wizard law, and then Mum and Dad would have to go to Azkaban so they would never see each other again. So school was out of the question.)

“Good afternoon, lad,” said one of the visitors to Percy. “Which one are you?”

“I’m Percival,” said Percy, drawing himself up importantly. “I’m starting Hogwarts next year. I’m going to be Minister for Magic someday.”

The visitors chuckled, like grown-ups did when kids said things that were too ridiculous to ever be true. Percy puffed up in affront and stalked off to the stairs instead, running into Mum and Ginny on the way.

“Oh, Lord Avery, Lord Yaxley, Lord Greengrass,” said Mum the instant she saw the visitors, sounding a little frazzled already. “The parlour is through the door on your left; I’ll have Lob or Cob fix you a cuppa while I go get my mother-in-law…”

“Of course, Heiress—” began one of them, but the others nudged him. “Mrs Weasley,” he corrected. Mum’s lips flattened, but she didn’t say anything, only pushed Ginny out from behind her skirt.

“Come on, Gin, go outside and play. You, too, Ron,” she added, looking across the hall at where Ron was peeking out from behind the door.

Ron tried to close the door to the ballroom, but Mum flicked her wand and the door flew back open.

“Outside, Ron. You’ve got to look after your sister,” she instructed, in her no-arguing voice.

“Make Fred and George do it,” Ron complained anyway. Fred and George were mean to him, but they would never be mean to Ginny. They always gave her hippogriffy rides when she demanded them.

(No one was ever mean to Ginny, really. She was the baby and the girl. It was unfair.)

“Ron.” Mum’s expression was pleading. Don’t make a fuss. Just be a good boy.

Ron begrudgingly complied. Ginny shoved him over the threshold in her rush to get outside. Ron picked himself up, his knees and pride both smarting, and followed her out to the field where Bill and Charlie were already on their brooms, throwing apples at each other.

“Wait for me!” screamed Ginny the moment she got to the broomshed.

“No girls allowed!” taunted Fred and George as they mounted the old Comets that used to belong to Uncles Gideon and Fabian. That only left the Shooting Star—Ron’s Shooting Star, a rare new present that was his and his alone. Great-Aunt Tessie had bought it for him for his birthday back in March. Ron didn’t want Ginny’s grubby hands anywhere near it.

“Oi, that’s my broom!” he shouted, the moment she reached for the Shooting Star.

“I want to fly!” insisted Ginny, stamping her foot.

“Too bad! You’re too young to fly!” snapped Ron, snatching the broom away from her.

“Am not!” Ginny managed to grab the handle of the Shooting Star, tugging it back towards her. “You never share anything!”

“Nuh-uh, I share everything with you!” snapped Ron as he yanked it out of her hands again. He, Ginny, and the twins all shared one large room that took up most of the third floor. Ginny always stole his blankets in the winter, and the socks without holes, and the few sweets he’d managed to hoard from the rest of them greedy-guts.

Ginny reared up, her brown eyes blazing, and then unleashed her favourite weapon: “MUUUUUUM!” she screamed, taking off back towards the house. “RON WON’T SHARE HIS BROOM WITH ME!”

“Just let Gin have the broom,” said Bill, having touched down again at the first sign of trouble. His ears were still growing back to normal after his Brazilian friend’s cursed hat.

“It’s my broom,” insisted Ron, clutching possessively onto his Shooting Star.

“You’re the big brother,” said Bill flatly. “When you’re the big brother, you’ve got to share. That’s your duty.”

“I don’t remember you being so into sharing when I was his age,” joked Charlie as he landed as well. “Come on, let’s get this settled before Mum comes back out and kills us all for interrupting her and the Ministry visitors.”

“What are they here for?” wondered Ron, frowning. “Mum said Grandma had to be there, too. What do they want to take this time?”

Bill and Charlie exchanged a look, before Bill sighed and held out his Cleansweep. “Look, Ron, if you let Gin borrow your broom, then I’ll let you borrow mine. It’s a real broom, too, it can go super fast—”

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!”

Mum had arrived. Ginny was once again hiding behind her skirt, tear tracks shining on her cheeks. But when no one else was looking, she flashed Ron an evil grin.

Baby sisters were the spawn of Mordred. Ron was absolutely certain of this.

“What am I hearing about you being mean to your sister, Ronald?” demanded Mum, her face flushed with anger. “And right when we’ve got guests, too! Give your sister your broom! Now!”

“It’s my broom!” screamed Ron.

“I told you he was being mean!” wailed Ginny.

Bill quickly launched himself in between the three of them. “It’s all right, Mum, just get back to your guests,” he soothed. “I had a talk with Ron already; he’ll let Ginny borrow his broom if I let him borrow mine.”

Ron hadn’t agreed to that, actually. He didn’t like the idea of Ginny taking something that had been completely his from the start. He clutched the Shooting Star tighter, glowering at Ginny. She held out her hands expectantly, like the evil, spoiled brat that she was.

“C’mon, Ron,” encouraged Bill. “Don’t you want a go on my Cleansweep?”

Ron wanted to walk away. Wanted to hop on his broom and just take off after Fred and George. But everyone was waiting on him, like how they would wait on him to finish dressing for trips to the ever-hated Auntie Muriel, or to finish eating because he hated eating his vegetables. Of course he was the slow one, the Flobberworm, the rotten egg.

Of course he was always last place, second best.

Ron angrily thrust the Shooting Star into Ginny’s hands and—to ruin her victory a little—stomped on her feet. Her screams followed him all the way back to the house, followed by Mum’s own shouting for him to get back outside. But he didn’t listen, only ran faster. She couldn’t send him to bed early if he was already there first.

The door to the parlour was still open when he came clattering inside. Grandma Cedrella was sitting in her wicker wheelchair by the fire, one of Mum’s knit shawls draped across her lap. Lob and Cob were standing beside her, their tiny elfin faces welling up with tears.

“Since the house will not allow the Weasley wardstone to move, other measures… will have to be taken to ensure the full repayment of debts incurred by the late Lord Weasley,” one of the visitors was saying. Ron had no idea what he was talking about, but he did know ‘Lord Weasley’ was Granddad Septimus, who’d died when Ron was three.

Grandma Cedrella sighed, reaching out to take her house-elves’ hands. “Lob and Cob have been good to me,” she said quietly. “I hope where they go next, they will be treated kindly.”

At that, the two elves immediately burst into tears. “Oh, please don’t be letting us go,” wailed Lob, clutching onto Grandma Cedrella’s hand like a child. “We are not wanting to leave!”

“Did we do anything wrong?” added Cob with a plaintive, pleading stare. “If we are being bad elves, we can punish ourselves! But please do not banish us from the Burrow, Lady Cedrella!”

“My poor dears.” Grandma Cedrella’s voice wavered as she squeezed the elves’ hands. “I am so sorry I couldn’t take better care of you…”

The Ministry visitors looked like they’d all got newts down the backs of their robes. “Dowager Lady Weasley, surely that’s enough sentimentality,” muttered the third visitor. “Too much carrying-on and they won’t be able to adjust to their new families.”

“They are splitting us up?” demanded Lob.

“But we are brothers, we are not wanting to be split up!” added Cob, wide-eyed.

“We don’t know that for sure,” insisted Grandma Cedrella. “There might be a possibility of it happening, but I’m sure these kind lords will try to keep you two together…”

The first ‘kind lord’ coughed impatiently. “The clothes, Lady Cedrella, if you please.”

Grandma Cedrella shook her head. “My daughter-in-law has their clothes.”

“We’re really in a hurry, Dowager Lady Weasley,” sighed the second visitor.

There was the sound of Mum storming up the front steps again, so Ron quickly bolted for the door to the stairwell. He had scarcely hidden himself behind it when Mum entered, red-faced and muttering. She took a couple deep breaths before smoothing her expression down and entering the parlour again, closing the door behind her.

“Have they done it yet?” asked Percy’s voice from above, nearly causing Ron to jump out of his skin. He turned and looked up, to see Percy’s speccy face peering out from between the bannisters of the upstairs landing.

“Done what?” he demanded.

“Taken Lob and Cob,” said Percy, his voice still stroppy from the visitors’ earlier snub.

Ron pursed his lips. “Why are they taking Lob and Cob?”

Percy snorted in his usual I-read-lots-of-books-so-I’m-better-than-you way. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s all grown-up stuff.”

“Like why Bill can’t go to Brazil next year?” asked Ron.

Percy made a face at him. “Did Mum give Lob and Cob their clothes yet?”

Ron opened the door to the entryway and peeked out again. Sure enough, Lob and Cob were being dragged out the front door, the two of them now wearing knitted jumpers and Ron’s old trousers instead of maroon-and-orange uniforms. “Lady Cedrella!” screamed Lob, as one of the lords waved his wand and levitated Cob into the air. “Please don’t let them take us!”

Mum had wheeled Grandma Cedrella’s wheelchair out into the entrance. Grandma Cedrella was sitting stiffly in her chair, her face unwavering like in the younger portrait of her in the parlour. But even at this distance, Ron could tell her hands were trembling against her shawl. He could feel her distress trickling down the family bond that they all shared.

He stepped out from behind the door, wanting to go comfort her, but Mum caught sight of him first and rounded on him, her eyes flashing.

“There you are! Go apologise to your sister. We do not step on people’s feet, Ron!”

Ron glowered back. “No, I won’t! She stole my broom like she steals everything I own!”

“She’s your little sister; she doesn’t know any better—”

“She too knows better!” Ron could feel that horrible prickling behind his eyes, that lump in his throat. It wasn’t fair; none of this would’ve happened if Mum had just taken that Un-Ceinte potion after having him!

“And you don’t think your brothers have had this same problem when you came around?” demanded Mum, as she started wheeling Grandma Cedrella back towards the stairs. “We haven’t got much in this family, Ron, and every day, other people will think of ways to take what little we do have away from us. We just lost Lob and Cob, right when your grandma’s health was starting to—”

“Molly,” said Grandma Cedrella sternly.

Mum took a deep breath. “All I’m saying, Ron, is that you’ve got to learn to put others first. We all have had to learn to put each other first.”

“How come Ginny doesn’t have to share her stuff with anyone?” demanded Ron.

“I don’t want to row with you, Ron,” said Mum, her voice rising again in warning. “I haven’t got enough time in the day to row with everyone in this house—”

“You never have time for me, anyway!” snapped Ron.

At that, Mum snapped. “GO TO BED!” she shrieked.

Ron felt grimly satisfied with that, as he stalked past Percy on his way up the stairs. Too often he’d found himself being punished for something that wasn’t even his fault.

At least this time, he’d earned it.

Now

“It’s really fortunate, isn’t it, that Healer Blackridge was able to get the Runespoor antivenom from Ouagadougou in time?” wondered Hermione from the seat next to Ron outside the private room in the Poisoning Department of St Mungo’s. Healers in lime-green robes were hurrying to and fro, sometimes followed by patients exhibiting everything from oddly-coloured boils to ashen bits of skin flaking off of them. The walls were covered in posters proclaiming the importance of clean cauldrons and separating plant- and animal-based potions ingredients.

Ron had been here before, years ago, when he and Ginny and Luna had all got food poisoning from undercooked plimpy soup. Mum and Madam Lovegood had got into a shouting match about it outside their room, and he and Ginny hadn’t been allowed to visit the Lovegoods for several months. Sitting here in this hallway, smelling the sterile hospital air, somehow managed to bring the foul taste of plimpy back to his mouth.

“Are you all right, Ron?” asked Hermione, having cut her monologue short to look at him oddly. “You haven’t said much since we got here.”

“Bad memories,” said Ron shortly, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Harry did look awful that night, from what little I saw of him,” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“Merlin, Hermione, can we not talk about Harry for one cursed minute?” muttered Ron, closing his eyes. “The whole world doesn’t revolve around him, you know.”

Harry had everything Ron didn’t: a mother who doted on him, a title, a Gringotts vault full of money, a stately home that wasn’t falling apart (anymore), a distinct lack of siblings. And apparently the adoration of every bloody girl on the planet, plus Draco sodding Malfoy.

It was unfair.

“He almost lost his mum, Ron.” Hermione’s voice was reproachful. “If it hadn’t been for her being able to figure out what caused it—and Love being able to help her with the ASKE antivenom until the healers got to her—Harry wouldn’t have a mum right now. I mean, imagine if it’d been your mum—”

“No one’s brave or stupid enough to try that,” scoffed Ron.

“Fine, what about your dad? If it’d been your dad, wouldn’t you want some more sympathy?”

Ron glared sidelong at her, crossing his arms. “I’m glad Mrs Potter is all right,” he said flatly. “She’s not who I’ve got a problem with right now.”

Hermione went a little quiet at that. “Oh,” she said, and her cheeks darkened a bit. Ron turned his gaze back to the clean cauldron warning across the hallway, and closed his eyes again.

The door to the room opened, and Healer Blackridge, a pretty, curvy witch who looked to be around Mrs Potter’s age, emerged with her clipboard in hand. “You two can come in now,” she said sweetly, before opening the door a little wider to admit them.

“Thank you, Sylvia,” wheezed Mrs Potter from the bed. Fresh off the Ventilation Charm, apparently.

Ron stepped in, and almost gagged at the overwhelming scent of flowers. Almost every available surface, from the windowsill to the bedside tables, was covered in bouquets from other Most Ancient Houses. He recognised the goldenrods from the Diggorys, the irises and red azaleas from Professor Liu and Lady Jenni, the fir sprigs and Flutterbys from the Longbottoms. Hovering a couple inches above the sea of flowers was a wreath of bluebells and snowdrops, peppered through with small pink camellias—a clear calling-card from the Malfoys.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” wondered Mrs Potter, waving a hand at the tokens from the other Most Ancient Houses. In the vase right next to her was a single white eglantine, but Ron couldn’t tell who that was from. “They’ve all been charmed not to set off allergies, but there’s no helping the smell.”

“We’re all going to need Ventilation Charms before long,” said Ron, as he and Hermione approached Mrs Potter’s sickbed with some trepidation. She looked fairly well, barring the shadows under her eyes and the remnants of a sickly pallor in her cheeks. Harry was sitting on the other side of the bed, clutching a glass of water. He didn’t look at Ron as Ron sat down.

“I have to thank you both,” said Mrs Potter once Ron and Hermione were both seated, “for being there for Harry. It was a bit touch and go for a while; even I wasn’t sure I would survive this.”

Her voice was hoarse, rasping, like she was still getting the hang of breathing on her own. Hermione reached out and took her hand.

“It’s what friends do,” she said decisively.

Mrs Potter smiled. “Then I’m glad Harry has got the two of you as his friends.”

Ron felt a bit guilty about that. Harry was in need, and here he was, still in a strop about everything that had happened before the poisoning.

He swallowed down the feelings with a smile. “Are you feeling better, Mrs Potter?”

“Better than I was last Friday, that’s for sure,” said Mrs Potter with a wry grin. “But I’ve got a question for you, Ron, as someone who’s got a lot of people in their head.”

Ron wasn’t sure what she meant, until a slight tug of irritation from someone—felt a bit like Mum—made him understand. “Oh. You mean…”

Mrs Potter nodded. Harry pursed his lips and offered his mum a drink of water. “She wants to know how you keep the rest of them out,” he explained.

“I know it’s Occlumency,” added Mrs Potter. “I just want to know how you learnt it, growing up.”

Ron frowned. How had he learnt Occlumency? It wasn’t like he’d sat down and had lessons in it—Percy would’ve thrown the chalk at him halfway through if it’d been a subject. No, it was more of a habit—keep your thoughts to yourself, as Mum often said—just like brushing your teeth and putting on your clothes. And it was a necessary habit, too, unless you wanted Fred and George picking your brains for blackmail material.

“I dunno,” he said after a moment. “We kinda had no choice but to learn. Otherwise you’d go mad from all the chatter.”

Mrs Potter hummed at that. “Well, I think it’s high time Harry learnt a bit of Occlumency.”

Ron frowned across the bed at his friend, whose cheeks had darkened considerably at the revelation. “Mate, you don’t know how to…?”

Harry glowered back. “Mum’s the one with the walls up, so I never needed to.”

Must be nice, to never need to learn how to keep private on a familial bond. “I… I dunno how easy it’ll be to learn it now, if you didn’t get into the habit as a kid,” ventured Ron.

“Yes, I’ve tried a little bit of it myself, too,” added Hermione, now looking at Ron as if he’d confessed to making Philosopher’s Stones in his spare time, “but I can never seem to clear my mind properly, there’s so much stuff…”

Ron made a face at her. “Are you saying I’m simple-minded?”

“What? No!” gasped Hermione, affronted. “I’m saying it’s very high-level stuff! I didn’t realise you could learn it as a child, though, Occlumency’s supposed to take incredible force of mind…”

“Yeah, keeping Fred and George out of your head is a pretty good motivator,” retorted Ron.

“Would you be able to help Harry figure it out, though?” wondered Mrs Potter.

Ron blinked at her, and then at Harry, who shrugged. “I dunno, Mrs Potter,” he admitted. “It’s a bit like childhood magic. Mum told us to put walls up, so I just did it.”

“But doesn’t it require intent?” Hermione tilted her head to the side, overthinking as always.

“As much intent as falling asleep,” replied Ron, and hoped they could leave it at that.

Luckily for him, there was a knock at the door at that moment. Healer Blackridge was back, this time with Sirius and Regulus Black in tow. The two of them were festively sporting a furry red hat and a pair of felt antlers, respectively.

“Father Christmas and his reindeer to see you, Lily,” declared Healer Blackridge, her cheeks pink.

“We’ll talk later, won’t we, Sylvia?” teased Sirius, winking at her. “Catch up from the good ol’ Hogwarts days over a cuppa upstairs?”

“Seriously?” wondered Mrs Potter, as Harry started coughing to disguise his laughter. Suitably chastened, Sirius came loping into the room, taking the seat next to Harry. Regulus flashed Healer Blackridge an apologetic smile, before taking her hand and kissing it.

“I do apologise for my brother, Healer Blackridge,” he said kindly. “Do tell your husband I appreciate his kindness—especially with the Runespoor antivenom.”

“Well, it was my duty,” declared Healer Blackridge, bobbing a bow at Mrs Potter. “And I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t do my best for an old friend’s sake.” She flashed a smile at the rest of the room. “Let me know if you need anything!”

And with that, she left the room. Regulus moved to stand behind Harry and Sirius, looking down at Mrs Potter with an apologetic expression.

“I’m really, truly sorry for getting you into such trouble on my behalf, Lily.”

“It was what needed to be done,” replied Mrs Potter, causing Harry to bolt upright, brows furrowing.

“You should’ve stopped it before it got this far,” he growled. “Mum could’ve died.”

“But she didn’t, because she went into the dinner anticipating the poison,” said Regulus levelly. “Thanks to your heads-up, too, might I add. If you hadn’t overheard Severina and Heiress Avery—”

“I thought that meant Mum would avoid wine that night!” snapped Harry.

“It wasn’t the wine, love,” sighed Mrs Potter. “It was the dessert. Poire à la Beaujolaise is poached in wine; that’s why it looked so red.”

“Then don’t eat the dessert!” Harry looked exasperated, which Ron had to admit was completely understandable. What kind of idiot would eat pears in wine knowing they were going to have poison slipped in their wine, for Merlin’s sake?

But Mrs Potter wasn’t an idiot. There had to be some other reason why she’d willingly let herself be poisoned. Ron glanced at the white eglantine, and thought about how he’d once sacrificed himself so that Harry could checkmate the king.

Moves and countermoves. And Harry wasn’t seeing two steps ahead.

“Harry, I think you should take a break,” said Sirius, with a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go with Ron and Hermione to the fifth floor? There’s a nice tea shop up there, plus a lovely rooftop garden—get some fresh air.”

“You just want me out of the room so you can talk about Aunt Sev and Gaunt without me,” snapped Harry.

“We’re going to talk about the campaign, love.” insisted Mrs Potter.

Harry scowled. “What’s the difference? If I’m the one who saved your life, then haven’t I earned the right to know what’s going on?!”

“That’s quite enough, Harry,” growled Regulus, his eyes flashing. For a moment, Ron was reminded of Sirius’ wanted posters—the family resemblance was chilling. “Things out there are too dangerous and delicate for you to go poking around on your own. When you’re up against someone like High Lord—like Gaunt, impulsiveness can have deadly consequences.”

Harry nearly fell out of his chair in indignation. “So if you don’t want me to go poking around,” he hissed, as he picked himself back up in order to meet Regulus face-to-face, “then you tell me what I need to know!”

There was a long, accusatory silence in the wake of that. Ron glanced over at Hermione, grateful to see that she seemed just as uncomfortable as he was at the whole situation. The grown-ups, meanwhile, seemed to be having an entire conversation with just facial expressions, culminating in Sirius shaking his head and rising to take Harry’s shoulder.

“Look,” he said, “I’ll answer your questions, Harry, but not here, and not now.”

“Siri,” warned Regulus, but Sirius waved a hand at him.

“The kid’s right, Reg. After what he’s done, he deserves to know the basics.” Sirius then turned to Harry, clapping his shoulder. “Go take a break, get a cuppa. We’ll talk later; your mum is going to be just fine.”

Harry’s expression grew hopeful again. Yet another thing he had that Ron hadn’t—neither his Mum nor Dad ever seemed to take him seriously. Ginny was apparently so much more trustworthy, because she was a girl…

“You promise you’ll tell me?” asked Harry.

“I swear it,” agreed Sirius, holding up his pinky.

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the offer. “If you don’t tell me, then I get your Zepp vinyls.”

Sirius chuckled at that. “You got yourself a deal, kid,” he said, linking their pinkies briefly. “Now scram.”

The three of them quickly found themselves on the other end of the door. Almost immediately, Harry took out the Extendable Ear that he’d got from Zonko’s and slipped the other end under the door.

After a moment, he made a face. “They’ve put up an Imperturbment,” he complained.

Ron pretended to be shocked. “It’s almost like they knew you were going to try and eavesdrop.”

Harry scoffed, shoved the Ear back into his hoodie pocket, and shuffled off for the lifts. Thankfully, his foul mood didn’t stop him from waiting for Ron and Hermione before he started jabbing at the button for the fifth floor.

“I don’t get it,” he said, once the lift whirred into life. “How is any of this normal? How is it normal for me to be in my mum’s head right when she’s about to die?”

Ron shrugged. “I dunno how it’s normal for Muggles not to have anyone else with them over a bond. I think I’d go mad if things were too quiet.”

“Yeah, but—I could feel her dying, Ron,” snapped Harry. “The way her thoughts just went mad and got stuck on all these random things… and when she was critical it was like something was trying to rip me apart in order to cut her loose…”

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione miserably. “That sounds awful.”

“Yeah, no wonder Qiu’s—” Harry began, but then cut off guiltily, turning back to face the lift doors.

Ron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That was the most infuriating part of all of this: that Harry knew Ron fancied Qiu Zhang, and yet he still had to swoop in and steal her away, just like how Hermione didn’t even like Quidditch and yet still got Viktor Krum to take her to the Yule Ball.

(Not that Ron would’ve ever been noticed by a famous Quidditch star like Krum, but at least with Qiu they’d talked a couple times about League Quidditch, and they both liked chess…)

And what was worse: Harry knew, so of course he was sneaky about it, hiding it under layers of obligation to Cedric, or the DA, or whatever—just so Ron would think he had a chance, and Harry was just helping him out by dropping hints like the Pumpkin Pasties, or letting Ron carry her books…

“I’m never gonna Bond with anyone,” said Harry after a moment. “I don’t want anyone in my head like that, hearing my thoughts and feeling my feelings and all of that. Getting to share other people’s magic isn’t worth being able to feel them dying—”

“If you learn Occlumency, then it wouldn’t be such a huge deal,” Ron offered. “You’d have your own space, but you’d still be connected—”

“Mrs Potter had her shields up, and then she got poisoned!” exclaimed Hermione. “And maybe if Harry had learnt Occlumency before the Candidates’ Dinner he wouldn’t have been affected as badly, but he would still have been affected! Look at what the Bond did to Qiu!”

“Exactly!” Harry gestured vehemently at Hermione. “I can’t do that to anyone—I don’t want to do that to anyone!”

Ron could feel his face heating. Was Harry seriously suggesting that he was going to just steal Qiu away and then not even commit to her? Was he really that much of a git, that the future pain of losing a Bond was worse than the immediate shame of Qiu’s reputation getting destroyed?

Fortunately for Harry, Ron was saved from having to respond by the lift door opening. A wizard with his head covered in bandages stumbled in, while the three of them stumbled out, only to find no sign of the tea shop anywhere.

“Which floor were we supposed to go to?” wondered Harry, looking around wildly.

“The fifth floor,” said Hermione, frowning at a sign posted near the lift. “We’re on the fourth.”

Harry pressed the button to summon the lift again, but at that moment, an exuberant and too-familiar “And just where have you been all my life, you goddess, you?” rang out from behind them. Ron turned, and sure enough: Gilderoy Lockhart, sleazeball fraudster thief of Pureblood family stories galore, was standing just outside the door leading to the Spell Damage ward with a wide, vacant grin.

Hermione looked around wildly, as if hoping he’d been greeting someone else. “P—Professor Lockhart, are you talking about me?”

“Oh, my lady! Divine, sweet maiden with hair as dark as midnight’s wings!” proclaimed Lockhart, flinging himself back against the doors like he was about to, as Grandma Cedrella would’ve put it, have a case of the vapours. “I feel as if my soul had not lived until this very moment, and yet I do not even know your name…”

Ron cleared his throat. A backfiring Memory Charm from his old wand had been the thing that put Lockhart in this very situation. “Er… how are you doing, Professor?” he ventured, stepping in front of Hermione to try and block her from Lockhart’s view.

“Never better!” declared Lockhart blithely. “Now that I have met my soul-heart at last, I think I might have a good chance of achieving my heart’s true desire—”

“There you are, Gilderoy!” interrupted a new voice. A healer came bustling out of the Spell Damage ward, clucking her tongue as she took Lockhart by the arm. “You silly boy, you shouldn’t go wandering off like that…”

“But I found my soul-heart, mamá!” protested Lockhart. The healer—who Ron suspected was not actually Lockhart’s mother—turned to look at the three of them, before breaking into a sympathetic smile.

“I’m terribly sorry about him, dearies,” she said. “He says every single dark-haired witch who comes by to visit is his soul-heart.”

“I know it must be her,” babbled Lockhart. “She said in my dreams that she would be coming back for me very soon.”

“Of course she did, Gilderoy,” sighed the healer, pausing just over the threshold of the ward. “If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps the three of you could come visit for a little bit? It’s almost Christmas, and I’d hate for him to be alone for the third year in a row, you know. But if you’d rather not—”

“Well, he was our professor at Hogwarts,” said Hermione, with the air of someone about to stick their head in a vat of Swamp Solution.

“Just for a little bit,” agreed Harry. Ron hoped it would be shorter than that.

They followed the healer into the Spell Damage ward. “He must’ve slipped out when one of our other patients was being escorted on her daily walk,” she sighed as she ushered Lockhart along. “It’s a closed ward, so usually the doors are locked—but he’s not dangerous, mind you!” she added, having seen Hermione’s expression. “But he is a danger to himself; we’ve had to put Tracking Spells on him to make sure we can find him quicker the next time he makes a vanishing act…”

“Mamá, I want to walk with my soul-heart,” protested Lockhart.

“Now, now, that won’t be proper,” replied the healer without even missing a beat. She sent an apologetic look back at Hermione.

The closed ward in question was, of course, none other than the Janus Thickey Ward, a place that had once wormed its way into Ron’s nightmares after Fred and George had threatened to lock him up in there with ‘all the loonies’. The patients here, though, seemed fairly normal, though it was clear that, based on the personal effects all over their beds and bedside tables, that they had all been here for a very long time.

“Oh, turn that down a little, won’t you, Agnes?” wondered the healer as she passed by a witch—or at least, Ron assumed they were, though it was hard to tell considering that they seemed to be composed entirely of hair—watching a spellcast of what looked to be a duelling tournament. Agnes barked, but waved their hand to lower the volume of their wireless. “That’s a dear. Well, here we are, home sweet home!”

Lockhart immediately took a seat in the armchair beside his bed, beaming. Unsurprisingly, he’d papered the walls behind his bed with photos of himself.

“I’m going to go get your mid-morning potion in a bit,” said the healer as she finished checking him over, “and I’ll also bring some tea and biscuits while I’m at it so that you can entertain your visitors. Will you be on your best behaviour while you wait, Gilderoy?”

“Of course, mamá,” said Lockhart, nodding with boyish enthusiasm.

“You can read her some of your books while you wait,” suggested the healer, gesturing to a stack of books on his bedside table. Ron recognised some of the titles from second year, but there were also a couple of leather-bound journals. In a lower voice, the healer leaned in to him, Harry, and Hermione and added, “he used to be a bestselling author a few years back, and then he had a terrible accident while he was at… but you must know that story, don’t you? You did say he taught you at Hogwarts!”

The three of them exchanged uncomfortable looks. “Yes, we’re aware of what happened to him,” said Ron in a strangled whisper.

“Well, we’ve been encouraging him to write about his day in journals, and we’re starting to see some improvements in his memory now that he can recall things from the day before, as well as plot points from his novels,” said the healer, with a sad little smile. “I’ll leave him with you for a little bit—I’ll just be with other patients, and then I’ll go get him the potions and the tea. How do you take your tea?”

“Er,” said Harry, with a glance up at the ceiling, as if hoping he could get his tea upstairs on the fifth floor, away from their former Customs and Etiquette professor.

“I’ll just bring some milk and sugar,” said the healer briskly, and bustled off. Immediately, Lockhart grabbed the topmost journal and opened it, handing it over to Hermione.

“Look, it’s a dream I had of you, my lady,” he declared.

Hermione tilted the journal to the side, but still couldn’t seem to decipher Lockhart’s disjointed scrawling. “Maybe you should tell me what happens in it,” she offered. Ron groaned and turned back to Agnes’ duelling spellcast. It seemed a lot more entertaining.

“And here we’ve got a clever use of the vine that Santos grew a couple moves back—this time used in defence rather than attack,” the announcer was explaining, as the wizard onscreen batted away a volley of curses from their opponent with a large, poison-green vine. “Absolute control. It’s one thing to use a Shield Charm in times like this, but not all spells are so easily deflected by the Shield Charm, and being able to block those charms with something more solid could be the difference between victory and defeat…”

Agnes barked again, causing Lockhart to perk up from where he’d been trying to read his journal entry aloud to Hermione. “Ooh, is that the British Wizards’ Duelling League Championships?” he called, craning his head to try and get a better look. “I love watching those, you know,” he added to Hermione. “I think maybe I was once quite good at duelling… everyone says that’s how I lost my memory.”

Hermione exchanged an uncomfortable look with both Harry and Ron. “Yes, it was something like that, Professor,” she agreed.

“We all still remember your Duelling Club,” added Ron. “At least, how incompetent it was,” he added in a lower voice. Harry snort-coughed.

“Taught you everything I knew, didn’t I?” Lockhart beamed, reaching over to pat Hermione’s hand. She quickly pulled her hand away as soon as she could. “Oh, soul-heart, don’t be so cruel! I’ve waited for you for so long already…”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, er… now that you’ve found me, what would you like for us to do?”

“I’d like for you to turn me into a mouse,” said Lockhart earnestly, reaching for her hand again. Hermione was too stunned by the response to pull back in time, only flinching when Lockhart kissed her hand. “It’s all in the dream, you know: my soul-heart, a maiden with hair like wild honey and skin like macchiato coffee, shrinking me down so that I can crawl into the wall and free the Mouse Kingdom from the tyrannical rule of the Frogs and… and take my rightful place upon the Cheese Throne as their benevolent Mouse Prince…”

There was a loud cheer from the spellcast at that moment, causing Lockhart to drop Hermione’s hand and scamper over to where Agnes was now howling with joy at Santos having beaten his opponent. Harry and Ron exchanged awkward looks—it was clear Lockhart had really and truly lost it.

“That’s not from the Memory Charm, is it?” wondered Ron. Harry shrugged.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I hope Cousin Itt keeps him distracted for a little while longer,” she said, jerking her head to where Lockhart was trying to convince Agnes that he definitely could have done the same Vine-Summoning Spell that Santos had used. “Maybe now’s our chance to get out of here, before—”

The door to the ward opened. “Right this way, Lady Volumnia,” said a man’s voice. Ron, Harry, and Hermione spun around, just in time to see their other former Customs and Etiquette professor. Half of Volumnia Greengrass’ face was now covered in a cold-looking porcelain mask, but there was no mistaking that sneer, or the familiar disdain in her eyes as she caught sight of them standing in the middle of the ward.

“Professor Greengrass,” said Harry, stunned. “You—you look well.”

Greengrass’ lip curled. No doubt she was also remembering exactly how Harry had put her in here.

“Lady Volumnia, come,” said one of the Aurors, placing a hand on her arm. She quickly threw him off, striding closer to Harry like a snake coiling itself up to strike.

“Harry, let’s go,” said Hermione, but Harry also flinched out of her grasp, taking a step closer to Greengrass like he was under a trance. Ron vaguely wondered how much more awkward it would be if he’d just tackled Harry and dragged him out.

“Our next match-up of the evening!” crowed the duelling spellcast from behind them. “This one’s looking to be a promising match—a student of the great Fabian Prewett himself, against a descendant of Alberta Toothill—”

Ron tuned out the chatter from the spellcast. Greengrass and Harry were now almost toe-to-toe, in spite of Hermione’s attempts to pull Harry back. “Shame to hear about your mother,” said Greengrass after a moment. “Poisonous toadstools never change their spots.”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, sir,” said Harry stiffly.

“Your loyalties blind you.” Greengrass smirked. “The Time of the King is upon us, Lord Potter. There are plans in place… a Betrayer in your midst…”

“Lady Volumnia!” exclaimed the healer, as she exited from a side room with a tea-tray laden with a tea set and a slightly-smoking goblet. “Talking at last? That’s good progress, my dear!”

Greengrass promptly clamped her mouth closed, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have, and briskly strode back to her Auror guard. The healer beamed merrily at her as she made her way back to her room, before offering a sadder smile to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“That lady’s been here for ages, too. It’s no good trying to get her to talk most days; you must’ve come on a good day.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. It seemed more like Greengrass picked and chose who to talk to, which made her decision to say cryptic stuff to Harry seem all the more threatening.

“Anyway,” continued the healer, “are you leaving Gilderoy already? I completely understand, he can be a bit much—oh, I see that he’s watching the Duelling League spellcast with Agnes again. Gilderoy! I’ve got your potion ready for you!”

She made to head over to Lockhart, but then the doors leading to the private rooms swung open again, this time to admit Lady Longbottom and Neville. In between them was a frail-looking woman with wispy white hair gathered at the nape of her neck in a gentle, messy bun. She was dressed in a simple white muslin frock, over which an equally simple evergreen robe had been tied.

“Lady Longbottom!” exclaimed the healer, now definitely surprised. “I was not expecting to see Lady Alice up so soon today…”

“She fancied a walk,” stated Lady Longbottom, the vulture hairpiece in her silver updo bobbing dangerously. Ron didn’t even have the heart to crack a smile at how ridiculous it looked; he was too busy fixating on Lady Alice Longbottom in her evergreen robes, propped up by her son.

Ron remembered the article from their third year, as well as what Harry had told them back in June about the trial for the Lestranges and Heir Crouch. But—just like with Greengrass and her mask—the reality of it hadn’t fully sunk in until now. Perhaps it had been Gaunt relentlessly insisting that the ‘Lying Longbottoms’ had either been paid to pretend to be torture victims, or had deserved to be tortured as retribution for causing his fall from grace, but it was hard, even as someone who knew Neville, to really know what was the truth.

Then

“Muuuuum!” shouted Ron as he ran downstairs. “Muuuuuum, have you seen my bishop?”

The house was so much emptier now that Fred and George and Percy were also at Hogwarts. It was just him and Ginny left, which made Ginny so much more obnoxious because she was concentrating all of her evil little sister energy onto him.

“A missing bishop, is it?” asked the portrait of Lord Aristes as Ron tore across the entryway. “Perhaps you require the assistance of a knight in retrieving said bishop?”

“It’s not a person, Lord Aristes,” said Ron, not even looking back at his great-great-great-so-very-great grandfather. “It’s a chess piece. You know, moves in diagonals.”

He demonstrated by skipping along the diagonals of the cracked chequered marble floor in the entryway. Lord Aristes clapped in delight when he finished.

“I see what you mean, my boy,” he declared. “And where did you last see this skipping clergyman of yours?”

Ron waved a dismissive hand and pushed his way into the living room, where Ginny was sprawled out on the hearth-rug with a fuzzy pink quill, scribbling in an equally fuzzy pink diary. “Have you seen my bishop, Gin?” he asked.

“What’s a bishop?” wondered Ginny.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Never mind,” he said, and ran into the kitchen. He was immediately accosted with the smell of baking pastries, and a line of pies and tarts cooling on the kitchen table.

“Are you hungry, dear?” asked Mum, having just finished shoving another batch of pastries into the oven and latching the door. “You’re welcome to take some to share with Ginny.”

“Is it for Bill?” asked Ron, poking curiously at one of the pies.

“Yes, and a bit extra for his mentor,” said Mum, pink-cheeked. “Poor thing, the way he and Bill talk about the food at the Curse-Breaker headquarters, you’d think the Goblins have no idea what wizards eat…”

Ron had read Bill’s last letter home. There had been horror stories about pungent cheeses, watery gruel, and sausages of dubious provenance. The local Muggle food had been better, though a lot of it was, in Bill’s words, ‘mouth-scorchingly spicy’.

“Have you seen my bishop?” he asked her again.

Mum shrugged, waving her wand. The dough on the big wood board on the other end of the kitchen table started to knead itself. “Do you remember where you last put it?”

“In the chess set, under my bed,” said Ron.

“Maybe you didn’t put it in the correct slot and it walked away,” suggested Mum. “Your granddad’s chess set has an odd sense of humour like that.”

Ron groaned. “But then I’m never gonna find it! And I promised Grandma Cedrella I’d play with her today!”

Mum sighed. “Why don’t you just make do?” she wondered, with a nod at the salt and pepper shakers. Ron groaned again, but he grabbed the pepper shaker anyway and rushed back up to Grandma Cedrella’s room on the first floor, next to Mum and Dad’s.

Grandma Cedrella’s room smelled like a mix of mothballs and perfume, with a faint underlayer of pipe smoke from Granddad Septimus’ pipe. She insisted on burning the pipe every couple of days because she claimed it helped her sleep. Mum hated it, but couldn’t argue—their grandma’s health was failing and there just was no point in making it worse by rowing with her.

Today was a good day, though; she was sitting by the window in her wicker wheelchair, a maroon-and-orange tartan shawl in her lap and a small smile on her face. Her hair was done up all fancy, like she was about to host a Pureblood social ball rather than a chess match with her youngest grandson. “Good afternoon, Ronald,” she said, in a voice that was both strict and kind at the same time.

“Good afternoon, Grandma Cedrella,” said Ron.

“What do we say when we’re greeting a lady, Ronald?” asked Grandma Cedrella, extending her hand to him. There used to be a lot more rings on her fingers; now all that remained was the one Granddad Septimus had given her when he made her Lady Weasley.

Ron took her hand and bowed. “How do you do, my fine lady?” he asked.

“Excellent,” said Grandma Cedrella. “And then…?”

Ron suffered himself to kiss the ring on her hand. There was no point in complaining about manners with Grandma Cedrella.

“I’m afraid I’m missing a black bishop,” he said as he took the seat across from her by the window, setting up the chess set on the table in between them. “Mum says it might have wandered off.”

“Well, you’ll have to lure it back to you somehow,” said Grandma Cedrella as she helped marshal the troops on her side of the board. “What am I going to use in the meantime?”

Ron put the pepper shaker in the spot where the bishop should’ve stood. Grandma Cedrella took one look and burst into laughter.

“Oh, that’s brilliant, Ronald!” she exclaimed. “But I wouldn’t want pepper to get everywhere if it gets captured, so let me just…”

She tapped the pepper shaker with her finger, and the holes in the cap disappeared. “Piertotum locomotor,” she then commanded, and the pepper-shaker bishop immediately started nudging up against the pawn right in front of it, as if trying to get out onto the board to play.

“Blimey,” said Ron, wide-eyed.

“I do believe white starts first,” said Grandma Cedrella, gesturing for him to go.

Ron tapped his chin. “Pawn to E4,” he said.

Grandma Cedrella had tried to teach everyone in the family how to play, but most of Ron’s siblings—except Bill—thought it was too much work. Commanding an army of chess pieces and being responsible for their fates was difficult enough even without needing to learn centuries of theory and tactics. Granted, Granddad Septimus’ set came with a bonus of being seasoned players, which meant they often were able to walk Ron through his games afterwards and tell him where he went wrong.

“King’s Pawn, good choice,” said Grandma Cedrella cheerily. “Let’s have a nice open game. Pawn to E5.”

“Knight to F3,” said Ron. Develop the pieces, secure the centre. But he couldn’t give too much away; he had to also see how his grandma would react. Currently, she seemed to be surveying the field with a thoughtful glint in her eyes.

“Knight to F6,” she said after a moment, mirroring him again. That was unusual. She’d left her pawn undefended. So that meant he could…

“Knight to E5,” he said, and his knight piece took out a mace and slammed it into her pawn. Let’s see Grandma try to mirror that—if she tried to win back her pawn, then he’d move his queen to E2 to put pressure on her king, and then get his knight into position on C6 to take her queen…

Grandma Cedrella, however, didn’t rise to the bait. “Knight to C6,” she said, putting her knight right where Ron had wanted to go.

Ron blinked. Was that a mistake? Was she really sacrificing her pawn right now? What about that E4 pawn threatening her king? But if he exchanged knights with her, then that could buy him some time to defend his pawn…

He watched her for any sign of regret, but she merely nodded for him to continue with his move. So he could take her knight and weaken her defences, or he could move his knight back and run the risk of her attacking the E4 pawn…

“Knight to C6,” he said, and his knight quickly maced the other one right in the face.

“Queen’s Pawn to C6,” announced Grandma Cedrella almost immediately, and the pawn right in front of the queen slid out and sliced his knight into pieces.

Ron had the sudden feeling that he might’ve walked into a trap. Grandma Cedrella might have sacrificed a pawn, but now her queen and her bishops were both free to move. He had to work on his own defence—he had control of the centre; he could move out his queen’s pawn…

“Pawn to D3,” he said.

“Bishop to C5,” said Grandma Cedrella, and the non-pepper-shaker bishop came sliding out.

Ron frowned as he surveyed the board again. There was a clear attack on his F2 pawn waiting in the wings, so he couldn’t move his knight out to C3 because she’d just move her knight to G4 and it’d be curtains for his king. He had to stop her from moving her knight.

“Bishop to G5,” he said, and his own bishop slid out to shake his staff at both her knight and her queen. Now she wouldn’t be able to move that knight without running the risk of him capturing her queen. He’d stopped her advance.

Except he hadn’t, because her next move was to go for the G4 square anyway.

“Are you sure about that?” wondered Ron, frowning at the board. It felt like another trap, leaving her queen wide open for his bishop, but if he took her knight, there’d still be no stopping her bishop from attacking F2, or her queen from taking his queen. It made sense to eliminate the bigger threat: the queen had to go.

Taking the queen, however, proved to be a mistake, because Grandma Cedrella had him checkmated in three moves after that. “How?” demanded Ron, as his king and queen both trembled in fear before the pepper-shaker bishop. “How did you manage to—I thought I got you when I got your queen!”

“You forgot about the pepper shaker, Ronald,” said Grandma Cedrella, her eyes twinkling. “The whole point of the gambit is to punish you for trying to move traditionally. I think if you asked your pieces about it, they would’ve told you they’d seen these moves before.”

Ron made a face. The quickness with which his grandma had given the commands certainly suggested that she was familiar with these moves. “You’ve used it against my granddad, haven’t you?”

“And against William,” agreed Grandma Cedrella. “But yes, the first time I played it was against your grandfather, at a Black-and-Silver Ball during Yuletide.” She took the pepper shaker off the board and cancelled the enchantments on it. “I walked away from that game with more than just a chess victory, Ronald. I walked away with his heart.”

Ron made a face. “Ewwww.” Balls and soulmates and Bonding were for girls, like Ginny and her stupid fuzzy pink diary. She wrote about all her pashes in it, from that Muggle boy from the nearby village (a short-lived affair, after Fred and George stole one of Mum’s spell books and fed the boy enchanted toffees), to the poncy boy slightly older than Fred and George who lived on the other side of the hill…

Grandma Cedrella laughed. “You won’t think it’s so unappealing when you grow up, Ronald, I promise you.”

“But girls are gross,” insisted Ron. “Except you, because you don’t put lipstick on dolls and make them kiss. Why do girls think about kissing and Bonding and all of that stuff all the time?”

“Not all girls think about that stuff,” Grandma Cedrella reminded him. “And there’s plenty of boys who care, too. Otherwise all of that unpleasantness with your dad wouldn’t have…”

She broke off with a sigh. Ron had heard the story before: Granddad Septimus had tried to stop Lord Gaunt from criminalising the Severance Spell; Lord Gaunt had retaliated by accusing Dad of dishonourable behaviour and casting him and the rest of the Weasleys out of the Circle of Avalon. And then the loss of status meant the loss of the Wizengamot seat, meant Lob and Cob getting sent away to repay the family’s debts, meant Dad getting pushed down to the lowest-paying, lowest-priority office at the Ministry…

“Anyway,” said Grandma Cedrella, as she started resetting her side of the board, “your father’s current circ*mstances mean that you’ve got to make your own way, whether that be leaving the country like Bill, or becoming a Quidditch star like Charlie, or rededicating yourself to the Blessed Mother like Percy. It’s never too late for you to think about what you ought to do to make a name for yourself. It’ll help people look past your father’s scandal and accept you for who you are.”

“But I’m just Ron,” said Ron, as he reset his side as well. “I’m not popular like Bill or athletic like Charlie or smart like Percy or funny like Fred and George. And I’m not a girl.”

“Ah, but you play chess,” said Grandma Cedrella with a wink. “Back when Lord Arcturus the Third—my cousin, which makes him your…?”

“First cousin twice removed?” asked Ron.

“Indeed.” Grandma Cedrella smiled. “Back when Lord Arcturus was the one hosting the balls, he would ask me why I preferred to play chess games against my suitors rather than dance with them. And I told him…”

“Chess is a conversation,” finished Ron obediently.

“Indeed. Anyone can play chess: Muggles, Mages, men, women, rich, poor… but the ways in which they play will tell you more about them than dancing ever could. And that, my dear, is going to help you immensely in finding the one who’s meant for you.”

That was easy for someone like her to say. After all, her portrait in the parlour clearly showed that she’d once been a great beauty; it would’ve been easy to convince all the poor sods vying for her hand to play a game of chess with her. Who was going to play against the sixth son of a blood traitor?

“But what if I can’t find anyone willing to play with me?” asked Ron.

“The right one will be,” said Grandma Cedrella seriously, fixing him with her steely grey gaze. “You don’t want the witch who’s in awe of you, Ronald. You don’t want the fancy high-born girl who can preen on command and defers to you as her lord-husband. You want the witch who’s willing to speak her mind, who’s willing to go toe-to-toe with you, who’ll checkmate your king without mercy. Never Bond with someone that you can’t have a good argument with.”

Almost as if on cue, the sound of Mum shouting wafted up from downstairs: “What do you mean, you’ve just sent Errol to Hogwarts? I thought I told you I needed him to fly to Carthage today! We haven’t got the money to fly Bill’s care package to him via post-owl, you know!”

“Is that what you told Dad?” asked Ron dryly, nodding towards the door.

Grandma Cedrella sighed. “Arguments are meant to help you work out problems. If you’re having too many arguments, you’re having too many problems.”

“Errol will be back tomorrow; Bill’s not going to notice a day’s difference if you put the package under a Stasis Charm—”

“We’re not sending Errol out on an international delivery right after a cross-country one! That could kill him!”

“So Mum and Dad have got too many problems?” wondered Ron.

“Your father was raised as Heir Weasley, dear,” said Grandma Cedrella, now enchanting her chair to wheel itself over to where he sat. Together, they watched the little brown-grey thrushes fluttering about in the treeline, plucking mistletoe berries for dinner. “He always loved his freedom more than he loved his status. So when he fell from grace… it was almost a relief for him.”

“Perhaps Mum should’ve played a game of chess with him,” joked Ron. Dad was a lousy player, after all. He was always passive, which, in Ron’s nine-year-old opinion, was the second-worst trait a chess player could have, after ‘incredibly thick’.

Grandma Cedrella chuckled. “And then run the risk of never having you in this world?” she wondered, as she pressed the pepper shaker back into his hands. “Some things are worth sacrificing everything for, Ronald. You are one of them.”

Ron looked up at her, a mixture of warmth and dignity and strength all in one fragile bundle. Her hands were trembling now from where they lingered against his; she seemed to be feeling the cold much more keenly than he. As she looked out the window, a single tear pooled in the corner of her eye, and silently, silently trickled down her cheek.

When the winter passed, so did she, and the room that had once smelt of perfume and mothballs and pipe tobacco soon was filled with the smell of Ginny’s socks and experimental potions. On the day Grandma Cedrella went into the ground, covered in daisies and daffodils and willow sprigs, Ron found his missing black bishop waiting for him on the windowsill of his room, its face covered with kiss marks.

He still held onto the pepper shaker.

Now

The moment they all got back to Grimmauld Place, Regulus scheduled a campaign meeting to take place after dinner. So the moment all the fisherman’s pie and salad and trifle had been eaten—the real feast was being saved for tomorrow afternoon—everyone who was still a Hogwarts student was unceremoniously kicked out of the kitchen.

“Not like a campaign meeting is going to be very interesting,” said Fred, as Harry tried to press himself up against the kitchen door to try and hear what they were saying. “Probably just endless policy planning and making sure people get registered with their local Mages’ Council.”

“If that’s the case, Hermione should be in there, too,” said Harry, with a nod back at where Hermione was sitting on the stairs just below Ron, studiously jotting away at her winter holiday homework.

“You don’t think it’s about the election?” wondered Ginny, as she wandered up to Harry with a bag of Bertie Bott’s. She held it out—a trap that Ron had stopped falling for when he was six, because Ginny would always have eaten all the good beans beforehand.

Harry reached into the bag without even looking. “If it’s just simple campaign strategy, then they wouldn’t have put up an Imperturbable Charm,” he said, backing up a couple paces and tossing a small handful of beans at the door. Sure enough, the beans all bounced away before they even managed to hit the door.

He had a point there. If the grown-ups had just been divvying up Mrs Potter’s campaign manager duties between them while she recuperated, or if they’d been planning out Regulus’ debate strategy for the last campaign event in March, then letting a bunch of kids overhear what was happening wouldn’t be such a big deal. After all, as far as Ron knew, no one crammed into the entryway here with him was inclined to bring this information to any of the rival campaigns.

Sirius had put an Imperturbable Charm on the door to Mrs Potter’s hospital room earlier today. Was this more of the same discussion, but with a wider audience?

Fred, meanwhile, had leaned in closer to Harry, interested. “So then, what d’you think they’re talking about?” he asked Harry.

Harry absentmindedly popped a bean into his mouth, and then immediately spat it back out, grimacing. “Ugh, envelope glue,” he grumbled, before fishing around in Ginny’s bag again. “I dunno. I just think there’s more to the campaign than just getting Uncle Regulus elected. I mean, why else would Sev—Prince have to go spy on Gaunt for us?”

“Maybe Gaunt’s still got some nasty tricks up his sleeve,” suggested George from the doorway to the parlour.

“Gaunt doesn’t need any hidden tricks; he’s already doing a great job out in the open, blaming everything on Dumbledore,” scoffed Harry, grimacing at his next bean, too. “You saw his latest interview with the Prophet, right? Apparently Dumbledore’s the one who orchestrated the poisoning in an attempt to frame Gaunt for trying to take out the competition.”

Ron frowned. Hadn’t Dumbledore been—at least, according to Harry—the last signature on the Recall Petition to sack Fudge? Hadn’t he been the one to push Regulus into standing for Minister, simply because he didn’t like the other options?

Dumbledore might not have been the one to actually poison Mrs Potter, but he did have a hand in creating the current situation. Then again, Mrs Potter was probably already accustomed to having her life in mortal peril thanks to Gaunt.

Sirius was the first one to emerge from the kitchen stairwell once the meeting had ended. “Why all the long faces?” he demanded, looking around at all of them. “Isn’t it Christmas Eve tonight? If you’re all going to be humbugs about it, you should at least do it in the parlour instead of out here in the hallway!”

“We’re hosting a ball tomorrow night, so let’s make sure everyone’s ready to put their best foot forward tomorrow,” added Regulus, already pushing George and Ginny into the parlour. “Ron, you’re the highest on the stairs—why don’t you go get us Sirius’ old record player and some of his vinyls?”

Ron didn’t fancy walking up all those flights of stairs. “I don’t know if I want to go poking around in there,” he protested.

“You’ve got my permission to turn the place upside-down,” said Sirius offhandedly. “And speaking of vinyls, I’ve got a godson with questions I’ve got to answer.”

He pulled Harry with him down into the basem*nt. The rest of Ron’s siblings and Hermione clambered off the stairs and headed into the parlour, while the rest of the campaign meeting attendees—coincidentally all prior Order members—started heading out the front door, or into the Black ancestry room for the Floo. As Ron cleared the first floor landing, he could hear the telltale crash of Tonks knocking over the troll-leg umbrella stand in the hall, followed by the screeches of the previous Lady Black as she hurled abuse at everyone.

As Ron climbed higher, he started noticing signs of the house getting ready for tomorrow’s ball. The first-floor drawing room had had all of its furniture uncovered, and was now sporting a massive Yule Log in its fireplace ready to be lit tomorrow. Several of the portraits lining the stairwell were now decked in black and silver garlands, while all of the chandeliers had been properly dusted and affixed with new black tapers. Even the line of stuffed house-elf heads, which had previously lined the ground floor hallway like a macabre hall of fame, had now been sequestered to a side hallway on the third floor leading to the servants’ quarters.

That was where Kreacher currently was, lighting a candle under the plaque of a withered little elf that Ron suspected might be his mother. A couple paces away stood Dobby, examining a different Black family elf with a rather critical look in his large tennis-ball eyes.

“It would be a great honour if Lord Black’s elf is seen supporting the union,” he said.

Kreacher made a scathing noise at that. “Tea-trays and tongs, what would Kreacher’s poor mistress say if she heard of such a ridiculous thing?” he muttered. “Kreacher is only putting up with Dowager Lady Potter’s hired elf because of the ball tomorrow; Kreacher would not otherwise debase himself with such improper company…”

“But Lord Black says that the Most Ancient Houses are having as much of a duty to support their elves as the elves have a duty to serve their families,” Dobby pointed out. “If Kreacher visits the striking elves on behalf of Lord Black—”

“And how will that be helping Master Regulus?” scoffed Kreacher. “It will only make him an enemy of the Houses with striking elves. Kreacher is not visiting; he will not put Master Regulus in danger!”

Ron quickly crept away before either of the elves caught him listening in. He climbed the last flight of stairs to the fourth floor, where Sirius and Regulus’ childhood bedrooms lay. The furniture in Sirius’ bedroom had been covered up, and most of the Muggle bikini girls and motorbikes had vanished from the walls, but his books and vinyls were still on the bookshelf, alongside his portable record player, plastered with Gryffindor stickers.

Ron grabbed it, as well as the handful of records lying next to it. By the time he made it back downstairs, most of the prior Order members had left. Over in the parlour, Ginny was banging out chords on an upright pianoforte, while Harry and Hermione were conversing in low tones on the sofa, Harry occasionally sending dirty glances at Sirius. The older Black brother was at a side table with Dad, Professor Lupin, Fred, and George, playing a rowdy game of Exploding Snap.

Ron made to enter, but then a pause in Ginny’s playing brought out raised voices from the ancestry room next door, so he leaned back to listen. One of the voices was Mum, of course, but the other one…

“…I’m afraid I can’t do much about what Sirius chooses to do with his own money, Molly,” Regulus was saying. Through a crack in the doorway, Ron could see the younger Black brother bent over the family tapestry with his wand, tinkering with it. “That money comes from our Uncle Alphard, willed directly to him. It doesn’t come from the Black Vault—which he was cut off from when he got blasted off of this tapestry.”

“I know you’re as concerned about your brother’s safety as I am concerned about my sons’,” insisted Mum from somewhere behind the door—probably pacing in front of the fireplace with her hands on her hips, like she would do whenever she was scolding Dad for bringing home yet another broken Muggle knickknack from work. “And I don’t think complacency is going to help any of them if they get into trouble with this business venture of theirs!”

“It’s just harmless pranks,” said Regulus soothingly. “Joke wands, firecrackers, combs that turn your hair different colours—none of that is going to seriously upset anyone. Sirius’ pranks at Hogwarts were so much worse.”

“Yes, and he’s already got into serious trouble with the law because of that reputation of his!” protested Mum. “You’ve seen him at these meetings, practically frothing at the mouth to go out and upset more people. It’s like he’s desperate to get that Betrayer label back on him—desperate to martyr himself for the cause!”

“So then funnelling that energy into a joke shop would be a productive distraction,” replied Regulus.

“I won’t have him enabling my sons, Regulus!” snapped Mum, and the force of her anger managed to slam the door right in Ron’s face.

“There it is!” exclaimed Sirius when Ron finally managed to deliver the record player and vinyls to the parlour. “Come on, everyone,” he added, once he’d put on the first record and the loud opening beats of a rock song began to fill the parlour. “On your feet! Let’s get festive!”

Ginny laughed and closed the pianoforte lid, going over to join Sirius. Fred and George, freshly eliminated from the game of Exploding Snap, quickly followed suit. “Come on, Ronniekins, where’s your Christmas spirit?” shouted George as the two of them came galloping by.

“I’m not dancing with you,” snapped Ron, having learnt that lesson after one too many dance lesson fiascos. He slumped into the seat on the sofa in between Harry and Hermione; Hermione was still doing her homework, while Harry was glowering at the black-and-silver-trimmed tree in the corner like it had personally offended him.

Ron watched him for a moment, noting how Harry would guiltily hunch his shoulders whenever he thought (rightly) that Ron was looking. They hadn’t had it out yet about the whole Qiu-and-Malfoy’s-hair thing. Ron suspected Harry would much rather not talk about it ever, if he could.

Hermione, too, seemed to be watching Harry perform guilt with a rather critical eye. After a moment, she slammed her book closed and grabbed Ron by the hand. “Come on,” she said, leaping to her feet and dragging him out to where the others were dancing along to the fast-paced music. Granted, ‘dancing’ was a rather generous term for what seemed to be mostly stomping along to the beat with a couple twirls tossed in, but Fred and George were shockingly good at staying on-tempo.

Ron turned to Hermione, only for her to startle him by pulling him in closer. “Isn’t it the other way around?” he muttered as they started to bounce along with the song.

“Do you know the steps?” wondered Hermione, arching an eyebrow.

“There are steps?” demanded Ron. Hermione laughed, trying to spin him under her arm. The fact that he had half a foot on her didn’t help matters much.

“I’m pants at it, honestly,” she admitted, now pushing Ron’s arms back and forth as they twisted their steps to the beat. “My dad tried to teach me once, on a camping trip with my uncle.”

“Everything I know about Muggle dancing I learnt at the Yule Ball last year,” admitted Ron. “Like this one—” he turned his hands up, and then crossed his arms over his chest, and then moved his hands to his hips.

Hermione laughed. “The Macarena! I’ll do you one better.” She attempted a pirouette, and only managed to crash into him. He caught her just in time, his hands falling immediately to her waist. He could hear a small gasp just before she steadied herself with a smile. “Told you. That’s from six months of ballet classes when I was six.”

“Didn’t like it, I’m guessing?” Ron asked, as she started twisting her steps again. He followed her this time, the two of them pushing and pulling into one another, their joined hands the one thing keeping the dance from falling apart.

Vaguely, Ron wondered what sort of chess player Hermione was. He couldn’t remember the last time he played against her, if he ever did at all.

They danced in a comfortable silence after that, Ron even managing at one point to twirl Hermione into a regular waltz hold, one hand coming to rest on her waist. “Dad once tried to show us a fill-em about Muggle dancing,” he remarked as they rocked along to the beat, Hermione pressed in tight with her hand on his shoulder. “It was called… Filthy Frolicking or something? And it had music like this, and everyone was dancing so scandalously that Mum had him turn off the telly-fission immediately.”

“Filthy…” began Hermione, and then burst into laughter. “Did you mean Dirty Dancing?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Ron spun her out of his arms and then back in again. “We finished watching it when she was away visiting Great-Aunt Tessie. There was a bit when the bloke lifted the girl, and I always wanted to try…”

Hermione laughed. “You couldn’t lift me,” she teased, squeezing his arms.

Ron knew he was more lanky than muscular, but he was still determined to prove her wrong. He tried to hoist her up, but she was heavier than he expected, which caused the two of them to stumble, laughing, into the side of the pianoforte. Fred, as he came bouncing by, made obnoxious kissing noises at the two of them. Ron gave him the finger in response.

“Sirius didn’t tell Harry very much, I’m afraid,” said Hermione as a new song started up, and they resumed their usual rocking. “Nothing more than what he already was suspecting, anyway.”

“Doesn’t explain why he keeps acting like I’m about to hex him every time I look at him,” said Ron, glancing back at the sofa. Sure enough, when he locked eyes with Harry, the other boy immediately looked away.

“You don’t want to hex him?” wondered Hermione innocently.

“It’s Christmas,” said Ron. “Hexing can wait for at least a couple more days.”

Hermione snorted, her hair flying out as the two of them spun around together. “Ronald, let’s be reasonable about this. Since when has Harry ever owned up to fancying anyone?”

“Didn’t he admit he fancied Rose last year?” wondered Ron dryly.

“But they weren’t going out,” Hermione pointed out. “Or, to be precise, they went out for two weeks in August and then called it quits right before Harry went to the Quidditch World Cup.” Ron blinked, and she quickly added, “I do talk to Rose, you know. That’s the official timeline according to Mrs Potter’s defamation suit.”

Ron frowned. Harry and Rose having actually gone out briefly was a bit of a surprise—though, granted, everything about Harry’s Muggle friends was a bit of a surprise, given how Harry didn’t often talk about them at Hogwarts for obvious, Circle of Gits-related reasons.

“Lav told me that Padma Patil told her that Calliope Vaisey once caught Harry and Qiu returning to the castle without a chaperone,” he grumbled, changing tack.

“And you should know better than to assume the worst just because there isn’t a chaperone on hand,” countered Hermione. “Harry said the hug wasn’t what it looked like. If we, his friends, are the first to jump to conclusions, then aren’t we just as bad as the Circle of Gits?”

Ron winced. She had a point there. Still, it was hard to detangle his own feelings from the general sense of injustice and scandal surrounding the whole thing. “Harry also says his thing with Malfoy is just banter, but now he’s got Malfoy’s hair in his pillow,” he pointed out.

Hermione frowned. “So that just means it’s not banter anymore.”

“But if it’s not banter, then whatever Harry’s doing with Qiu is also going to affect Malfoy.” Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron shook his head. “You can think it’s all rubbish, but Malfoy was raised even more Avalonian than I was, and if I’m offended…”

“And Harry did say he didn’t want to Bond,” mused Hermione. “So if he accepted Draco’s feelings, but isn’t planning to Bond with him…”

“You see gambits like this in chess,” said Ron. “Sacrificing another piece to put pressure on the king, to wear him down. Harry doesn’t want to Bond, but if Malfoy’s arse over teakettle enough to give him his hair…”

“You think Draco’s going to fold,” said Hermione.

“He’s being forced to mate,” corrected Ron. “Folding’s for poker.”

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “You get my point. You think Harry’s got some evil plot to wear Draco down into, what, a less commitment-bound arrangement?”

“Try ‘Muggle dating’,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose. “Impermanent, easily replaced…”

Hermione scoffed. “Not all Muggles are serial daters! Some of them are quite capable of making lasting commitments without being tied down by magic, you know!”

Ron immediately took a step back, putting his hands up in defence. “I didn’t mean it like that—it’s just—Muggle marriages are how some mages keep mistresses, you know, and the whole thing with my dad—”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: I think you’re overthinking it,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “I highly doubt Harry’s thinking that far ahead.”

“Well, we’ll have to see tomorrow, won’t we?” Ron jerked his head towards Harry, still sulking on the sofa. “Malfoy’s coming tomorrow morning and staying the night. You’d think he’d be more pleased about that.”

Another song started up, causing Sirius’ eyes to light up in recognition. He quickly let Fred cut in with Ginny, before heading over to the side table where Lupin and Dad were watching the mayhem with matching glasses of Firewhisky.

“Come on, Moony, dance with me!” he exclaimed, before tugging a protesting Lupin to his feet.

“Pads, you know I don’t—” began Lupin, just as the singer began to croon about being a ‘teenage werewolf’, complete with a brace on their fangs. “Really. Really, Pads?”

Sirius merely grinned. “It’s a song about you, isn’t it?” he teased, before singing along: “And under teen full moon, no one could make me stop—”

Lupin’s response to that was to stomp on his foot, but then the two of them continued to sway along to the beat. Ron thought that was as good a time as any to retire to the sofa again, mostly to give Sirius and Lupin more space to dance.

The door to the parlour opened to admit Mum and Regulus. Mum immediately took the seat that Lupin had vacated, while Regulus opened up the globe next to her chair to pour himself a glass of mead.

“Anyone else fancy a drink?” he called, earning himself a disapproving look from Mum. She then turned the look on Fred and George as they came over to get glasses of ambrosia, and on Ron when he also came by to examine the selection.

“What’ve you got that’s good?” he wondered, a little overwhelmed by all the fancy-looking labels. The Burrow’s cellar only had a couple old bottles of elf-made wine, as well as sherry for cooking and potion-making.

“My father was a connoisseur of fine liquors, so everything in here is good,” said Regulus, gesturing to the globe. “I would say ‘pick your poison’, but given recent events, that might be a bit out of order…”

“If you like brandies, there’s a Château de la Veillée and a Travers Hors d’Âge in there somewhere,” added Lupin from where Sirius was trying to dip him.

“I think I’ve had the Travers one before,” said Ron, remembering the heady taste of the Armagnac he’d had back in third year during the Christmas party at Godric’s Hollow. “It was decent. Tasted a bit like extra-strength vanilla, to be honest.”

Regulus chuckled. “Don’t tell Lord Travers that, if you ever meet him,” he teased, before examining the almost-empty bottle of Firewhisky. “Would you like to polish this off, Mr Ronald?”

And that was how Ron found himself back on the sofa, nursing a glass of Firewhisky. It tasted like liquid fire, and caused steam to blow out of his nose. Hermione tried a sip, too, immediately declared it foul, and went off to dance with Ginny instead.

That left Ron on the sofa next to Harry, who was tracing the damask patterns on the sofa cushions while looking the very picture of misery. Every so often he would sneak a glance back at Ron, as if trying to tell him that yes, the latest injustice to have happened in the life of Lord Harry Potter was the fact that his best friend Ron was cross with him.

So Ron finally took pity on him. “Come on, Lord Humbug,” he said, reaching over and prodding Harry’s side. “If you’re not in a Christmas mood by tomorrow morning, then we might as well tell the Malfoys not to show up at all.”

Harry flinched, turning back to Ron with a pout. “Over my dead body.”

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” said Ron dryly.

Harry sighed, before shifting closer to Ron, fixing him with those wide green eyes. “I’m sorry about Qiu.”

That was the problem: no matter how prickish Harry could get, it was impossible to stay a hundred percent mad at him when he had his kicked-cruppy eyes on. Ron took another swig of Firewhisky to delay his response, letting the liquor burn through him for extra courage.

“I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that she would pick you,” he said after a moment. “I mean, if it were me, I wouldn’t fancy someone so close to my dead lord-husband, but I’m not the heiress to an ancient Chinese dynasty of wandmakers, so…”

“I kept thinking about how she should’ve hugged you instead,” said Harry miserably, hugging the pillow tighter. “Maybe if you’d tried talking to her about Cedric or her family while playing chess—”

Ron held up his hand. “Don’t,” he said, resigned. “Don’t do that to either of us. It’s not fair. I might not like her choices, but I can’t do anything about it.”

“Of course you can do something about it,” retorted Harry. “I mean, you got Lavender to go to the Yule Ball with you; just work up some of that nerve and try again with Qiu—”

“No amount of nerve is going to help me if I’m barking up the wrong tree,” interrupted Ron with a sigh. “Let’s face it: Hermione was right, like she always is. I never had a chance; it’s always been you—”

He was cut off by Harry grabbing him by the shoulders. “Stop talking about this stuff like it’s an inevitability,” his friend insisted, his eyes blazing with indignation. “You’re brilliant. You’re the one who beat McGonagall’s chess set in first year—the one who saved Hermione’s life down in the Chamber with that Shield Charm—the one who researched Ministry corruption for Buckbeak’s case! You came up with my First Task strategy last year, and—and you sent a Howler to your Mum for Hermione! And the letter to Percy to get the Quidditch team back!”

The numbness burned in the back of Ron’s throat, turning back into anger. “Yeah? So?” he demanded, pushing Harry’s hands aside. “All of that was to help you and Hermione—and I don’t regret it, I really don’t, but it’s not like it made anyone notice me, did it? And the one time I got to do something for myself—making Keeper—and you and McLaggen had to go and make it about yourselves!”

The music had quieted down. Ron was dimly aware of other people watching—of Fred and George watching, which was a special kind of awfulness all on its own. He wasn’t three anymore, and there wasn’t a baby Acromantula in his arms. He would not cry.

Instead, he tipped back the rest of his Firewhisky, and rose to his feet.

“I’m going to bed,” he declared. “The sooner we get tomorrow over with, the better.”

They’d laid out a camp bed for him in Harry’s room on the second floor. On the way up, he passed by the drawing room again, just in time to catch Kreacher and Dobby trimming the last few portraits with black-and-silver garlands while bickering over the setlist for the ball.

Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.

Then

“One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—Ronald, stop stepping on your brother’s foot!”

Ron immediately dropped Fred’s arms. “I’m tired of being the girl, Uncle Gideon,” he complained. “Make Fred be the girl for once.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but we haven’t got that many girls to work with here,” replied Uncle Gideon, gesturing to the rest of the overgrown ballroom. It was just Ron, Fred, George, and Percy here for dancing lessons, so the only girl in the ballroom was Uncle Gideon’s intended, Mary.

“How come Ginny doesn’t have to be here?” grumbled Ron, as the gramophone started up again and Percy began leading Mary in a perfect foxtrot.

“She’s not starting Hogwarts until next year.” Uncle Gideon shrugged, ruffling Ron’s hair. “So she gets a little reprieve today. We’ll probably start teaching her once you lot are all up north.”

“But I’m too young to go to the school dances,” said Ron petulantly, as he shuffled back into position with George leading him this time. “Shouldn’t I get a reprieve until, say, fourth year?”

Uncle Gideon laughed. “Nice try,” he said. “You’re going to learn dancing in Customs and Etiquette class anyway, so you might as well get a head start. Now—” he began to count the beats, and Ron resigned himself once again to letting one of his brothers lead him.

Being the youngest brother was dragonsh*t.

After the dance lesson was over, they all went outside into Mum’s garden for lunch. She’d made a casserole and piles upon piles of sandwiches, as well as an enormous jug of elderflower pressé. Ginny and Luna had also been called back from the stream, and Ron found himself relegated to their end of the table, trying to block Ginny from giving him all of her pickles.

“Just give them to Luna,” he hissed at her as he dropped the pickle slices back onto her plate. “She eats Gurydroots; she’ll eat pickles, too.”

“Pickle juice is supposed to improve your concentration,” said Luna dreamily from the seat across from them. She still had the black-and-ivory mourning comb in her hair from last year. Ron wondered if she knew she was allowed to take it out now.

“Poor thing must still miss her mam,” said Mary, once Luna had finished picking at her food and was now picking flowers with Ginny. “I should drop by for tea and see how Xeno’s doing. I hear he’s continuing Pandora’s research.”

“Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for Luna to delay such a crucial aspect of her growth,” fretted Mum. “It could affect her ability to Bond, you know.”

Ron had no idea what they were talking about. He was more interested in finishing his cup of boom berry sorbet before it completely melted on him.

Mary frowned. “I don’t think a potion that needs to be retaken every month is going to do lasting damage to someone’s ability to Bond, Molly.”

“But why not just go for a full change, or just have Luna take the cuff? Why delay it?”

“My guess with the cuff is that Luna wants to keep magic in her hair, and the rest is none of our business.” Mary shook her head, as she turned to watch Luna and Ginny weave necklaces out of their flowers. “In any case, you’re not the only doubter. I heard from Lady Brown that the Selwyns are refusing to support Xeno and Luna because of this.”

Mum gasped. “Well, that’s a step too far!”

“Really makes you appreciate ol’ Muriel, eh, Moll?” wondered Uncle Gideon.

“Oh, absolutely. And how is the Grandlady treating your little situation with Mary here, I wonder?” Mum shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Five years of courtship, and still no betrothal hairpin? Are we all going to be withered old crones by the time you two finally reach an understanding?”

“Well, we can’t all Bond in haste and repent at leisure, sister dear,” teased Uncle Gideon, flashing Mum a wink.

“No, you’d much rather just live together in the Muggle fashion,” scoffed Mum. “You’re setting a bad example for your nephews and niece, you know.”

“Wait,” said Fred suddenly, pointing his spoon at Mary. “You two aren’t Bonded already?”

“How can two people be living together and in love and still not Bonded?” added George incredulously. “I mean, unless Uncle Gideon’s got bollocks of steel—”

“Or they’re using Muggle protection,” mused Fred.

“Fred! George!” scolded Mum, raising a hand as if threatening to box their ears. “We don’t talk about such vulgar things in polite company!”

Mary laughed, her cheeks darkening as she leaned her head against Uncle Gideon’s shoulder. “Bonding isn’t for everyone, you know. That’s the whole point of A Bond Is a Choice.”

“I’ll put a Galleon on you two singing a different tune when Fabian finally finds his soulmate,” sniffed Mum. Ron had no idea why she was so obsessed with getting them new cousins. Baby cousins were just as bad as baby sisters.

“Your brood are all the children we need,” joked Uncle Gideon. “Raising seven kids on Arthur’s salary and the Grandlady’s monthly pittance—I’ve got no idea how you manage.”

Mum rolled her eyes and waved her wand. Immediately, all of the unused plates and cups and cutlery started queuing up, floating in perfect single file back through the kitchen window.

Uncle Gideon’s expression dimmed at that. “You should never have had to learn housekeeping spells, my dear,” he lamented.

“Well, we make do,” replied Mum stiffly. “And one of the good things about the Hogwarts supply list not changing much is that Ron can still use Bill’s old robes and books. So it’s really just the wand left—”

Ron perked up, looking at Uncle Gideon with a hopeful expression. Mum had said nothing about a trip to Diagon Alley, because there was no point in going shopping if there was no money to spend, but—if Uncle Gideon wanted to get him an early Yuletide present—

“—Luckily for us, though, Charlie got a new wand before he went to Romania,” continued Mum before Uncle Gideon could say anything. “The old one’s almost worn to the core, but I reckon it’s still got a year or two left in it—enough for us to save up for him and Ginny—”

The unfairness of it all forced Ron’s mouth open before he could catch himself: “But I can’t use Charlie’s old wand; it hasn’t chosen me!”

“That’s just what Lord Ollivander tells everyone in order to make people buy his wands, dear,” said Mum in her no-arguing voice. “Plenty of people inherit wands with no trouble at all.”

“But it’s not fair! Everyone else gets new wands and I’ve got to use Charlie’s lousy old one?!” demanded Ron.

“Well, it’s either Charlie’s lousy old one, or no wand at all,” Mum said shortly. “We’ve also got Ginny to think of for next year, and there just isn’t enough money to go around for two new wands and Ginny’s robes!”

“It’s a shame the girls’ robes got updated again,” agreed Mary. “I’d have offered my old ones if they hadn’t. But I could give you my old school skirts and petticoats, and I think I’ve also still got the gloves and boots, too…”

Ron slumped back in his seat, no longer interested in his sorbet or anything else. As if having secondhand robes and books wasn’t bad enough, now he was also going to Hogwarts with a secondhand wand.

The one thing that he’d hoped could be his very own, and it had already chosen someone else.

A couple weeks later, as Ron was morosely packing his (or, to be precise, Uncle Bilius’) trunk for Hogwarts, Percy came in with a bundle of grey fur. “I know you’re not getting a pet to take to Hogwarts, so I thought I’d give you Scabbers,” he said.

Ron paused in his examination of which Martina Miggs comic to bring for the train, and frowned up at his older brother. “Why?”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m worried Hermes might eat him,” replied Percy pompously. “And secondly, well, you’ve always liked him.”

“When I was five,” scoffed Ron.

“Do you want him or not?” countered Percy. “Because if you don’t want him, I’ll give him to Ginny.”

He’d said the magic word. “No, I’ll take him,” said Ron immediately, holding his hand out for the snoozing old rat. Scabbers only briefly woke up when the transfer happened, and then immediately crawled into the pocket of Ron’s hoodie and fell back asleep.

“See, he still likes you,” said Percy. “He’ll eat anything you don’t want, but don’t give him too many Fudge Flies, he’s getting a bit fat.”

Ron held onto the pocket of his hoodie, feeling the tiny ball of warmth—the tiny heartbeat of a creature that had chosen to trust him. His throat felt tight with a feeling that he couldn’t describe.

“Thank you, Perce,” he managed after a moment.

Percy sighed, putting one hand against the doorframe. “If anyone at Hogwarts gives you grief for what Dad or Granddad did, you come and tell me, all right? Fred and George’ll just make it worse, and we don’t need any more shame on the Weasley name.”

Ron made a face. “But what if I bring shame to the Weasley name?”

“You won’t,” said Percy. “You’re not like those two idiots. Keep your head down, join Chess Club, and come with me to Friday Circle rituals. If we work hard enough, one of us’ll be able to pull the family out of the muck that Dad and Granddad mired us in.”

Keep your head down. Don’t make a fuss. Just be a good boy. Those words echoed in Ron’s head all the way onto the Hogwarts Express, with his hand-me-down robes in his hand-me-down trunk, and his hand-me-down wand in his hand-me-down bag. They echoed in his head as he found himself an empty compartment, as he chased Fred and George away for scaring both him and Scabbers with Lee Jordan’s tarantula.

And then:

“Can I sit here?” asked a brown-skinned boy with tousled hair and bright green eyes, poking his head into Ron’s compartment. “Everywhere else is full.”

“Suit yourself,” Ron told him, and the boy tugged his trunk inside, hauling it—with Ron’s help—up onto the luggage rack. Once that was done, the boy pushed up his big round glasses and extended his hand.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he said.

And when Harry shared his Muggle food, and didn’t care about what happened to Ron’s dad, and even refused Draco Malfoy’s friendship, Ron realised that something wonderful was happening to him.

For the first time in his life, someone had chosen him. For the first time in his life, he’d made a friend who hadn’t come to him second-hand through one of his siblings.

And that friend was Lord Harry Potter.

Now

Ron woke up on Christmas morning to the sound of someone thundering down the stairs. A glance across the room told him that it was probably Harry, because the bed was empty.

For a moment, all he could do was lie in the camp bed. It was fine—there were Cushioning Charms helping with the comfort—but it wasn’t the big bed in the room, either. Harry had offered to share the bed on the first night here, but Ron had been too cross with him to entertain the idea. Now it felt like the gulf in between them was growing wider, even though on the surface everything seemed just as it ever was.

Today, the Malfoys were coming. The opening was set, and Harry was getting ready to play his gambit. With some luck (or at least, no major blunders), by the end of the Black-and-Silver ball tonight, Regulus’ campaign would gain a powerful (read: rich) donor, and it would be socially acceptable for Harry and Malfoy to be mates again. In all senses of the term.

Maybe Fred and George could give him a spot of Puking Pastille so that he could get out of the day’s events?

But then who would trounce the Malfoys at chess? They might be winning tonight, but they couldn’t win everything, after all. And that sort of spite was exactly the thing Ron needed to get himself out of bed.

By the time he got downstairs, the cause of Harry’s boisterousness was already picking himself up off the hearth-rug in the ancestry room, brushing soot off his grey, expensive-looking jumper. “Oh, Weasley,” he remarked, upon seeing Ron. “Though that’s a bit vague for today, isn’t it, since the whole weasel nest is here?”

“And where are your fer-rents?” countered Ron, before wincing. Not his best comeback.

Malfoy snorted. “Joyous Yule, Weaselbee.” With a loud crack, a vaguely-familiar house-elf in blue-and-white livery appeared out of nowhere with a stack of presents almost as tall as themselves.

“Winky has delivered the presents, Master Draco, sir!” declared the house-elf proudly, before nearly toppling backwards onto the hearth-rug.

Ron blinked. “Winky?” he echoed, with an incredulous look at Malfoy. “Your family took in the Crouch house-elf?”

“Well, she didn’t want to stay with the Potters or go to Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, picking up a couple of the presents that had fallen out of Winky’s pile. “Where do these go, anyway—”

“Draco!” shouted Harry’s voice from the doorway. Malfoy turned, and it was like the clouds pulling back on a warm spring morning.

“Harry,” he breathed.

Harry, in turn, was already dashing across the ancestry room, his eyes a brilliant, blazing green. A couple paces away from Malfoy, however, he tripped over one of Winky’s dropped presents, and promptly slammed face-first into the rug right at Malfoy’s feet.

Malfoy snorted again. “Flawless execution, Potter,” he taunted, looking down at Harry with a wide smirk.

Harry groaned, careful not to get onto his knees as he scrabbled blindly for his glasses around Malfoy’s ankles. When he managed to get them back on, he then rolled over onto his back and flashed Malfoy a thumbs-up. “I know you like looking down on me, Draco, so there you go.”

Ron rolled his eyes. Harry going out of his way to avoid proposal pitfalls was only made even more obnoxious by his blatant flirting.

Malfoy cleared his throat, now pretending to ignore the Lord of a Most Ancient House currently wrapped around his ankles. “So, where do we put the presents?”

Ron jerked his thumb towards the wall in between the ancestry room and the parlour. “Next door. There’s a tree and everything.”

“Great.” Malfoy smiled tightly. “Winky, put the presents under the tree in the room next door. Then you can go find Dobby and Kreacher and see what else they need help with.”

“And there’s now honeyed milk and buns for the elves in the kitchen,” added Hermione brightly, as she poked her head into the ancestry room. “I just got done making them with Mrs Weasley, so they’re still nice and fresh.”

“Yes, help yourself to whatever is offered,” agreed Malfoy. “But not Butterbeer.”

The precarious tower of presents nodded, and a tiny arm stuck out the side and saluted him. “Winky understands, Master Draco, sir! And Winky is most grateful to Master Draco for his thoughtfulness and generosity—”

“Thank Hermione and Mrs Weasley,” said Malfoy shortly.

Winky toddled over to the doorway, where Hermione was standing. She tried to bow to Hermione, but found it difficult to do so without causing the presents to topple, so she settled for a brief nod and a salute instead before wandering off to the parlour.

Once Winky was gone, Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, and then nodded towards Harry, still lying on the ground. “And why exactly are you on the floor, Harry?” she wondered.

Harry looked up at her with a dazed smile. “I live here now.”

“What, at Draco’s feet?” Hermione giggled. “How romantic.”

Harry made a face at her. “Shut up.”

Ron had the feeling that the Abraxans had long since flown the barn on that one already, but he didn’t say that aloud. Meanwhile, Malfoy grabbed the presents that his house-elf had dropped, before extending a hand to help Harry to his feet. Once Harry was upright again, he pulled Malfoy in for a hug, only pulling back to look at him with an expression of stark wonder.

“You made it,” he murmured, every inch of his face joyous in a way that Ron had never seen directed at himself or Hermione. It squeezed at his heart a little, even though he knew that if Harry ever actually looked at him like that, he’d probably run screaming for the hills.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “So… are we going to open presents sometime this century?”

“Oh, yeah, we should…” Harry gestured vaguely towards the door, his gaze still fixed on Malfoy’s pointy mug like it was a priceless work of art or something. Ron rolled his eyes, before grabbing Harry by the arm and dragging him off to the parlour.

Fred, George, and Ginny were already working their way through their presents by the time the four of them arrived. “Morning, Malfoy,” said George, barely looking up from the book he’d got (possibly from Hermione). “Your parents ditched you for the day, eh?”

Malfoy made a face. “They’re coming. It just takes them a while.”

“As the heiress said to Merlin,” said Fred immediately, causing Ginny to cackle. Malfoy looked dismayed—though Ron suspected it was less because of the foul mental images, but more because it might actually be true.

Ron, on the other hand, decided to focus on his presents. Mum had, of course, knitted him the usual jumper and paired it with some of his favourite fudge. Dad had got him a cube puzzle with several different colours that he could spin around in several directions. Malfoy had got him a chess set made entirely out of chocolate, while Regulus and Sirius had got him a box of mementos that had once belonged to Grandma Cedrella.

“Kreacher and I found these while cleaning out the second-floor girls’ bedroom,” said Regulus, having shown up in the parlour in his festive deer antlers and nursing a mug of coffee. Ron vaguely wondered when he made the switch over from tea, though it certainly made sense, given the campaign. “Your grandmother used to stay there with her sisters when she came to visit Grimmauld Place.”

Ron opened the box and inhaled sharply as he took in its contents: letters written in his grandma’s familiar sprawling script, a small, simple ivory comb with the Black family crest carved into it, a locket containing a small forelock of hair and a photograph of Granddad, and, finally, a silver bracelet adorned with little chess piece charms.

“I dunno what Molly will say about you getting these instead of Ginny, but I hope she’s understanding about it,” continued Regulus. “Bill mentioned that you were the closest to her, so…” he trailed off helplessly, “voilá.”

Ron bit his lip, his throat suddenly tight with emotion. “I thought Bill was spending Christmas in France,” he remarked. Mum had been very emotional about it in her last letter, after all.

“We’ve been holding onto these for a while,” replied Regulus.

Ron swallowed hard, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper. He put the box aside very carefully, before returning to the rest of the parcels. Hagrid had got him a box of misshapen cakes, Lavender a box of Chocolate Frogs, and Harry a broom compass. The last parcel was from Hermione, and contained a large and slightly lumpy woolly bladder.

“What is it?” wondered Ron, holding up the monstrosity to the light. To his amusem*nt, it appeared that she had also made matching bladders for Harry and Malfoy. Harry’s was in Potter-Crimson, while Malfoy’s was in Slytherin green. Ron’s was, thankfully, in black.

“I’ve been knitting things for Dobby’s house-elf union,” said Hermione happily. “Sashes for the picket lines that double as scarves, blankets for the cold, and hats for Dobby and the other freed elves. So I had a bit of yarn left over and made some hats for us, too!”

Saying that, she took out the magenta one she’d made for herself and pulled it on with a flourish. The brim of the hat, when turned up, flashed ‘G.R.U.E.L.’ in bold white letters.

Malfoy examined the silver letters on his woolly bladder hat. “I can’t go running around wearing the word ‘gruel’ on my head, Hermione; I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Then turn down the brim, genius,” retorted Ron as he pulled on his own hat.

“Hey, where’re our hats, Hermione?” demanded Fred, from where he was now unwrapping what looked like a small cloth-covered bookmark.

“Yeah, we’ll pay you to knit us a pair of hats that say ‘up yours Umbridge’ on them,” added George, already smacking his own bookmark over his wrist and getting it to roll into a bracelet. Ron suspected that Dad must’ve snuck these out from his work, just like his own puzzle cube, and the floppy-looking stuffed rabbit that Ginny was tossing around.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “I’m not going to put anything rude on them.”

“I want a hat, too,” said Ginny. “I haven’t got anything to pay for it, but—”

“Maybe next Christmas,” said Hermione, looking a little surprised by the sudden demand. “And I won’t put anything on the brim, if you’d like.”

“No, I want to wear ‘gruel’ on my head,” insisted Ginny, before reaching out and stealing Harry’s hat. The darker Potter-Crimson didn’t clash with the Weasley hair as badly as Gryffindor red tended to do, and the golden ‘G.R.U.E.L.’ also helped offset the effect.

Harry grinned and crawled over his pile of presents towards Malfoy, who immediately tried to hide his hat behind his back. That did nothing to deter Harry, because he quickly lunged forward and reached around behind the Slytherin, snatching the hat out of his hand and pulling it down over his head.

“No! My hair!” wailed Malfoy, scrabbling for the brim of the hat. Ron couldn’t stop laughing as Malfoy finally managed to free himself from the hat, his blond hair now sticking out at all sorts of angles.

“Aw, our hairstyles finally match,” taunted Harry.

“You’ll pay for that, Potter!” declared Malfoy, and tackled him onto the parlour floor, trying to force the hat onto Harry’s head. Harry put up a terrific struggle, but just as Malfoy finally managed to pull the brim down over his eyes, there was a loud thud, like the sound of a stick hitting the floor, and Malfoy was immediately flung off of Harry like a rag doll getting hit with a Bludger.

An awkward, slightly chilly silence fell over the room. Lord Malfoy was standing there in the doorway, looking down his nose at all of them. Ron immediately felt underdressed in his jumper-and-jeans outfit, sitting there amid a pile of presents and wrapping paper scraps.

“Lucius!” exclaimed Regulus cheerily from the sofa. “Joyous Yule! How good of you to show up!”

“We appear to have got here just in time,” replied Lord Malfoy, his grey eyes glittering. “Draco, your hair.”

“I know, father,” muttered Malfoy sullenly, running a hand through his hair. Lady Malfoy, who had also just arrived, rushed to his rescue with a comb already at the ready. Ron snickered at the sight of her coddling Malfoy, and earned himself the finger in response.

Once Malfoy had been given his mother’s mark of approval (through a very obnoxious smooch to the top of his head), Regulus rose to his feet with his mug in hand and nodded towards the parlour door. “Shall we all get breakfast?” he asked pleasantly.

“One word of what just happened to anyone else at Hogwarts, and I will shove Lord Black’s coffeepot so far up your arses that you’ll be awake for weeks,” threatened Malfoy to the rest of them.

“At least put some cream and sugar in it,” retorted Fred, while Ginny made kissing noises at Malfoy on her way to the door.

They had breakfast in the dining room, a room that Ron had only briefly been in during the summer when Mum had enlisted all of them to help Lupin and Bonnefoy clear out all the Dark artefacts still lurking at Grimmauld Place. The dining room, which led off from the ancestry room, had an entire china cabinet stuffed full of biting teacups and poisonous chalices; Ron had immediately flagged it for Lupin and Bonnefoy the moment he opened one of the silverware drawers and found a spider the size of a saucer living inside. Naturally, he took great care now to sit himself as far as possible from the china cabinet, just in case there were more of those spiders lurking around.

Just like at Hogwarts, the dining room at Grimmauld Place was directly above the kitchen, which meant that their breakfast appeared in the middle of the table right when Regulus told them to tuck in. There were fluffy pancakes loaded with syrup and whipped cream, eggs and sausages of all kinds, cheese and tomato drizzled in Hollandaise sauce atop lightly-toasted crumpets, and freshly baked brioche buns in which butter seemed to melt immediately. As they ate, one of the Black family teapots flew around the table, refilling people’s teacups even when they didn’t ask for it.

“So,” said Regulus pleasantly, with a nod at both Dad and Lord Malfoy, who were wearing almost similar expressions of displeasure at having to sit at the same table this morning. “I do believe we’ve found ourselves about to embark on a rather historic day.”

Ron hid a snort as a cough into his cloth napkin. Across the table, Sirius winked at him.

“For the first time since their ousting from the Circle of Avalon, the Affable and Most Ancient House of Weasley has been invited to a Pureblood social event,” continued Regulus solemnly, as if this was someone’s Bonding breakfast instead of the opening event of the Weasley-Malfoy Games Showdown Part Two. “I hope that today, we’ll all be able to put our differences aside and work together, in a spirit of cooperation and harmony…”

“Wow, no wonder he’s the one standing for Minister,” muttered Ron to Hermione. “He could give Percy a run for his money in pompousness.”

“You didn’t realise that during the Soapbox Speech?” muttered Hermione back at him, and then shushed him when he tried to respond.

“None of this would be possible, of course, without the friendships between the children at this table today,” continued Regulus, holding his mug up. Ron was not used to toasting at breakfast. Was that a Circle of Gits thing? “So—to a day of games and fun and friendship!”

“Cheers!” chorused Fred and George, with matching dangerous grins at Lady Malfoy, who seemed determined to pretend neither of them existed.

Sirius, who’d raised his glass of pumpkin juice for the toast, now set the glass down again and clapped his hands. “Right,” he declared. “So, er, this is the second Weasley-Malfoy Games Showdown, I’ve been told?”

Several nods around the table. “Last time was in our third year,” explained Harry. “We played Exploding Snap and Chess, and we were about to play a round of skittles when…”

He trailed off. Ron remembered what had happened, too. Somehow, Peter Pettigrew, who’d infiltrated the Potters’ ancestral home in his Scabbers form, had poisoned Professor Prince’s chai. The irony of her being responsible for poisoning Mrs Potter this year was not lost on him.

“How many Weasleys are playing this year?” wondered Sirius, to raised hands from Ron himself, as well as Fred, George, Ginny, Mum, and Dad. “Okay, six Weasleys. Is Bill here, make it a round seven?”

Mum pursed her lips, clearly put-out, while Dad explained, “Bill’s spending the holidays this year with his, er…”

“—with the Delacours,” finished Ginny in a horrible French accent. Ron knew she detested Fleur Delacour for some unknown reason, but the vehemence with which she’d said that was a bit shocking.

At the other end of the table, Malfoy nearly missed his mouth with his fork. “Wait, really?” he demanded, before frowning. “Was Bill the Curse-Breaker or the dragonologist?”

“The Curse-Breaker,” was the prompt reply from half the people in the room.

“Right, with the hair and the earring,” said Malfoy. “Him and Fleur Delacour, really? I thought she and Neville were—”

“Neville’s gran threatened him with a unicorn horn ring before you could say ‘veela’,” said Ginny viciously. Malfoy glanced down at the ring on his own finger and made a face. “And Bill met her at Gringotts’ London HQ, from what I’ve heard.”

Lady Malfoy looked as if she was trying very hard not to be interested in the details. “And are they courting?”

“Wish they wouldn’t,” was Ginny’s ensuing grumble, as she helped herself to some gooseberry and cinnamon yoghurt from a bowl next to the pancake toppings.

“I’ve heard that your third, Mr Percival, has reached an understanding with Miss Audrey Shafiq,” continued Lady Malfoy with a slight smile at Mum. “You must be so proud—it’s quite an advantageous match for a young man of his station.”

Ron vaguely wondered if he was imagining the thinly-veiled insult, given how Audrey was only a cadet-line Shafiq, and Percy was the only one in the family who’d managed to smarm his way into some amount of status with the Circle of Gits. Dad, too, looked offended, but said nothing. Probably not wanting to be the first to trade actual barbs with the Malfoys.

Typical Dad, always playing passive.

“So I’m guessing we won’t be expecting Mr Percival, then,” finished Sirius. “Six Weasleys and three Malfoys—not the fairest in terms of numbers, I reckon.”

“Last time, I had Cousin Dora and her mum helping,” said Malfoy.

“Well, Siri and I won’t mind helping out our cousins again this time, won’t we?” asked Regulus innocently. Sirius made a face, probably not wanting to deal with prissy toffs like the Malfoys, but shrugged and agreed nonetheless.

“That’d bring us to five, which, if I’m getting the maths right, is still one short,” said Malfoy.

Ron snorted. “Very difficult maths there,” he joked, causing Malfoy to stick his tongue out at him. “But it’s obvious, innit? It’s gotta be either Harry or Hermione.”

“Well, since Harry is my godson, I guess that’d put him on Team Malfoy-Black,” declared Sirius. “Unless Hermione has any objections to refereeing?”

“I was going to offer, actually,” said Hermione, while Harry flashed a grin at Malfoy, clearly excited to be playing with his pash against his best mate, the filthy traitor.

“Perfect.” Sirius clapped his hands. “Order of the games for today, then: Exploding Snap, then lawn skittles—the house made us an entire back garden for tonight, with enough green for that and a round of pall-mall before Christmas dinner.”

“We’ll have dinner out there, too,” added Regulus. “You won’t even be able to tell it’s the dead of winter, that’s how strong our Climate-Control Charms are.”

“And after all the figgy pudding’s been eaten, we’ll conclude the day with chess,” continued Sirius. “Team who wins the most games will win the showdown itself, along with bragging rights forevermore—”

“Or at least until the next time we do this,” George pointed out.

“And the losers will wallow in eternal shame for about the same amount of time.”

“Perhaps we should add a little more incentive than a temporary sense of glory,” remarked Lord Malfoy, already taking out his purse. “I propose a pool, with winner takes all.”

This was clearly Lord Malfoy’s excuse to flaunt his wealth. Everyone knew the Weasleys wouldn’t be able to match whatever amount of money he put into the pool. Especially if it was his entire purse.

“We’ll contribute some of our Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products,” said George quickly. “A couple Snackboxes, some Extendable Ears, and a Basic Blaze Box of our Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs.”

“We’d add a Portable Swamp to that list, but that one’s still in testing,” added Fred.

Lord Malfoy’s lip curled, but Malfoy quickly chipped in, “Throw in some of your mum’s chocolate-caramel apples, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“So that’s… Exploding Snap, skittles, pall-mall, and chess, yes?” asked Hermione. At Sirius’ nod, she continued, “shouldn’t we make it an odd number of games, though, to ensure there is no tie?”

“Quidditch?” wondered Ginny hopefully.

“Absolutely not,” said Lady Malfoy.

“You don’t think us old farts can take on a bunch of teenagers, Cissy?” countered Sirius. “Haven’t we got the best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in decades on our team?”

“Why, thank you,” said Malfoy dryly, with a hand to his chest.

Harry snorted. “Would be a lot easier to play Quidditch if my broomstick wasn’t locked up in Umbridge’s office.”

“Perhaps a game of Bakudan-isshu, then?” wondered Regulus. “We’ve got the 1894 English version that uses The Predictions of Tycho Dodonus—”

“But that favours the old farts who’ve got nothing better to do than to sit around memorising explosive poetry cards,” complained Fred. “How about Pendragon Castle?”

“Pendragon Castle?” queried Harry, glancing over at an equally quizzical Hermione. “What’s that?”

Ron was tempted to explain, but Malfoy was already on the Quaffle. “Excellent idea. Only one caveat: we play the Dodderidge Variation.”

A groan from Fred, George, and Ginny. “Only if the Clagg subclause is revoked,” insisted Ginny. “No going around in circles.”

“Fair enough. No circuitous plays,” declared Malfoy. “I’ll start: The Whispering Marsh.”

“Bold opening manoeuvre,” said Fred. “But we see your bald-faced attempt at the Mopsus Gambit, and we won’t stand for it. The Labyrinthine Caves.”

“Oh, putting pressure on the lateral,” remarked Sirius, through a bite of his bun. “Everdark Vale it is, then.”

“The Misty Isles,” said Ginny quickly.

“The Opal Mines!” shouted Regulus, and then cleared his throat. “Sorry. Got excited there.”

“Why?” asked George, narrowing his eyes. “Seems like you’re a bit too familiar with this play, Reg.”

“We’d better dodge that,” added Ron. “The Silver Isle.”

The other half of the table groaned. “See, this is what happens when you blunder the Opal Mines six moves in,” rebuked Lord Malfoy, much to Ron’s surprise. “The Blood Moors it is.”

“Can I play ‘The Eternal Eyrie’?” asked Hermione, raising her hand.

“Hermione, what’re you—” began Harry, bless him, but Hermione was already steamrolling ahead.

“I mean, it’s the only natural continuation from the Blood Moors, isn’t it? As another subsidiary title of the Potters as listed in the Tome of Avalon?”

“It’s places in Avalon, Hermione, do keep up,” said Malfoy impatiently. “Also, aren’t you supposed to be neutral? Who goes next, then?”

“I answered for Harry,” said Hermione quickly.

“Well, you can’t have two answers from the same side,” protested Fred. “So now you’ve put Harry in Chudley, and he can’t move for three turns!”

“I think I’d prefer that, thanks,” said Harry, looking hopelessly lost.

“Are we continuing from Blood Moors or Eternal Eyrie?” asked Ron, trying to get them back on track.

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair to accept the move, given that it was a technical foul,” reasoned Regulus.

“Whose side are you on, Reggie?” scoffed Lady Malfoy.

“Continuing from Blood Moors, then,” said George. “The Infinite Crypt.”

“That’s above the Oligarchy line, you filthy cheater!” exclaimed Malfoy.

“Who cheated first by going twice, then?”

“Not us; we didn’t ask for Hermione to hex Harry in the foot like that!”

“The Fae Meadow,” called Lady Malfoy, causing another storm of protests. We must be nearing the endgame, Ron mused, as Fred, George, and Ginny started arguing with the Malfoys about the legality of a lateral move from an Oligarchy position to a Fae one.

“Caerfyrddin!” shouted Mum all of a sudden, causing the bickering to stop. “There,” she added, as everyone turned to stare at her. “We’re back on track, now, aren’t we? I thought we agreed, no circuitous routes!”

“We had to; Hermione put Harry in Chudley for saying the best possible move from the Blood Moors out of turn,” protested Ginny.

“The Avalon Royal Racetrack,” said Lord Malfoy, with a loud scrape of his butter knife.

“The Avalon Royal Library and Archives,” replied Dad quickly.

“The Avalon Royal Winged Horse Sanctuary and Apple Orchard,” said Lord Malfoy, now viciously stabbing his sausage.

“The Avalon Central Post Office,” retorted Dad.

“Since when has Avalon got something so pedestrian and Muggle as a post office?” sneered Lady Malfoy.

“Since they realised that the post-owls needed a place to get used to the time difference,” said Mum quickly, coming to Dad’s rescue. “Next move.”

Lord Malfoy’s lip curled. “The Avalon Royal Opera House.”

“Castle Anthrax,” declared Dad.

“Castle Astolat.”

“Royal Arboretum of the Knights Who Say Ni.”

“Excalibur Lake.”

“The Castle of Aaargh.”

“Pendragon Castle!” declared Sirius, and then ran around the table giving everyone on Team Malfoy-Black high-fives.

“It’s only a model,” scoffed Fred and George together, crossing their arms.

Only then did Harry speak up again. “Wait. Castle Anthrax, the Arboretum—these places are all made up!”

At that, the twins laughed. “How would you know, Harry? Have you been?” taunted Fred.

“No, because it doesn’t exist,” said Harry stubbornly.

“Well, Muggle heaven doesn’t exist, either,” Lady Malfoy pointed out. “How can we prove it, one way or the other? The Muggles have their faith, and so do we.”

After breakfast, the games began in earnest back in the parlour. Ron was completely unsurprised to see Malfoy drag Harry into teaming up against Fred, George, and Ginny in Exploding Snap. Lady Malfoy also joined, and—just like Malfoy had warned in their third year—took the game as seriously as a broom pile-up.

“Lady Malfoy, how do you get your hair to look so luscious and smooth?” asked Fred as he tapped a pair of cards with his wand and swept them into his hands.

“You’re not pulling this trick again,” warned Malfoy. “That’s my mother you’re talking to. Show some respect.”

“I can handle myself, Draco dearest,” said Lady Malfoy with a disdainful look at Fred. “A little boyish coquetry as a tactic to get under my skin is nothing.”

“Oh, no, you’ve found out my evil plan,” deadpanned Fred, looking through the cards he’d collected. “And here I was, asking a question out of genuine curiosity, while you simply chose to assume the worst—”

“I use a hair care potion from Premier that is exclusively accessible to ladies of Most Ancient Houses in good standing with the Tome of Avalon, Mr Frederick Weasley,” declared Lady Malfoy, as she tapped the next pair that had just appeared. The cards obediently flew into her hands.

“And do your high-quality hair care potions use swallow droppings and lizard tallow?” asked George, with an innocent look.

“If they do, I do not smell it,” replied Lady Malfoy stiffly, tapping another pair of cards.

(Ron personally thought maybe she did, because she hadn’t let up looking as if all of them had just rolled in hippogriff sh*t right before she got here.)

Fred, undaunted, continued with their pitch. “See, the thing is—a lot of hair care potions on the market use such outdated recipes from the twelfth century, because, well, why fix what isn’t broken, right? But what if I could tell you that we here at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, in conjunction with some Scandinavian friends, have been developing a new hair-care recipe that utilises only the best herbal ingredients to make your hair soft and smooth—and better-smelling, to boot?”

“No need to add an additional layer of hair powder, or perfume!” added George.

“Scandinavian friends?” echoed Lady Malfoy. “No doubt you are referring to the new arrival in Diagon Alley, then?”

“Who else? You’ve met the owner’s kid, right? Lovely person, and I’m not just saying that because they helped save Dowager Lady Potter’s life. I’m surprised, though, given that you’ve got your heir in a courtship with theirs, that you haven’t heard of their plans to blow Sleekeazy and all other hair-related potions from Premier out of the water.”

“Draco’s only friends with Serrander,” said Harry vehemently.

“Ooh, competition.” Fred’s eyes twinkled. “Would you be interested in trying out our new formula, though, Lady Malfoy? We’ve already had Ginny try it, and we’re hoping to formulate something for Hermione’s hair texture, too, but maybe if someone as well-connected as yourself—”

“Mind your cards, Mr Frederick,” cut in Lady Malfoy, shortly before slapping down the Exploding Snap. All of Fred’s cards promptly blew up in his face, singeing his eyebrows.

“Well done, Mother!” exclaimed Malfoy, and the corner of Lady Malfoy’s mouth twitched into the first real smile that Ron had seen on her this morning.

The rounds continued. Harry was eliminated next, followed by Ginny managing to eliminate Lady Malfoy—causing an upset amongst Team Malfoy-Black. George was eliminated after that, meaning the final round was the fateful rematch between Malfoy and Ginny.

“Hope you’re ready to lose again, Malfoy,” taunted Ginny as the cards began to shuffle themselves on the table between them.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of it, Weaselette,” countered Malfoy, with a smirk. The cards landed face-up, and he immediately slammed his wand onto the first pair. “I’ve been practising.”

“Against whom, Crabbe and Goyle?” Ginny matched his smirk, seizing the next pair.

“That’s not very nice of you,” scolded Malfoy. “Vince is rather good at this game, I’ll have you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Ginny snatched another two pairs on the next round, causing Malfoy to scramble to equalise their cards.

That was, of course, when Harry decided to rejoin Malfoy on the sofa, armed with a cup of gooseberry and cinnamon yoghurt. “Open up, Draco,” he said, holding out a spoonful.

Malfoy glanced down at the yoghurt as if it had been poisoned. “I’m not eating anything off a spoon that you’ve used,” he grumbled. “Who knows where your mouth has been.”

Harry had the audacity to pout. “Don’t you trust me?”

“About as far as I can throw you,” countered Malfoy, so Harry leaned over and offered the spoon to Ginny instead, who took it with a smug grin at Malfoy.

“See, Ginny trusts me,” said Harry, winking at her.

“I don’t; I just wanted to get under Malfoy’s skin,” joked Ginny, slamming her wand down on two more pairs. “Think we’re getting close to the Exploding Snap, Ferret-face; you ready to lose again?”

“Only your brother gets to call me Ferret-face,” said Malfoy, his eyes already glittering in the way it did when he was about to unleash the worst taunts Ron had ever heard. “And I hope you know how to cast a Shield Charm, Weaselette, because—”

He slammed down the Exploding Snap, causing Ginny to fling her cards at him so that they could blow up in his face instead of hers. The ensuing explosion managed to cover both of them in ash.

Much to Ron’s chagrin, Team Malfoy-Black’s winning streak continued. Lady Malfoy, true to form, decimated everyone at skittles out on the field of honour—or, rather, the climate-controlled lawn that had been erected in the back garden of Grimmauld Place. It was times like these that Ron wished the whole family was here to help. Even Percy, who had the best aim at bowls and skittles alike, would have at least delayed their humiliation.

“We’re already down three-nil today, Weasleys,” said Fred, as Hermione, Lord Malfoy, and Dad cleared the skittles and started setting up hoops for pall-mall. “I can’t believe you let Princess Malfoy win Exploding Snap, Gin, we’re never going to let you live that down.”

“Oh, excuse me, who was the one who got themselves eliminated first?” retorted Ginny, pretending to swing the pink mallet right at his head.

“Yes, don’t be a sore loser,” taunted Malfoy, waggling the handle of the green mallet at Fred with a grin. Fred pretended to dig around in his pockets, and then surfaced with the finger.

“Us Blacks do take our games very seriously,” said Sirius, leaning thoughtfully on his black mallet. “It’s nothing personal, really. I thought Draco told you that Prissy Cissy takes no hostages.”

“We didn’t believe him,” admitted Ron, watching as Dad and Lord Malfoy started passive-aggressively pushing one of the hoops back and forth. Meanwhile, Hermione was handing Kreacher a handful of hoops and nodding towards the house.

“I haven’t played croquet since I was eight,” said Harry, as he made a couple practice swings with his red mallet. “Dudley got a set for his birthday and then promptly tried to beat the stuffing out of me with it. I gave as good as I got, though; he ended up going to hospital with a chipped tooth.”

“How promptly did he jump from hitting the ball to hitting you?” wondered Ginny, with a knowing look at Ron. Ron could feel his face heating. Their childhood games (using Uncle Fabian’s set) weren’t exactly his best moments.

“Right after I hit his ball out of the garden,” said Harry, grinning unrepentantly, “so maybe I had it coming, a little.”

“And how badly did you get punished for that?”

“Mum didn’t let me see Gary and Rose for all of July,” said Harry. “And I got disinvited from the August trip to Majorca with my aunt and uncle, but that was the opposite of a punishment.”

Soon, Hermione had made her way back to them, followed shortly by a pair of disgruntled fathers. “Since neither Lord Malfoy nor Mr Weasley could agree on the appropriate distance between the hoops for a game of wizard croquet—”

“Pall-mall,” corrected the twins and Malfoy together.

“—I’ve taken the liberty of creating an irregular course for all of you,” continued Hermione, and drew up a map of the back garden for them with a wave of her wand. “X marks the spots where I’ve placed your hoops.”

“Er… Hermione,” said Regulus, raising a hand from where he was standing next to Lady Malfoy, “some of those hoops appear to be located within the house itself?”

“Oh, not to worry; I’ve asked Kreacher to reinforce the house so that nothing too valuable gets broken,” replied Hermione brightly. “So, is everyone ready to play?”

“George, give me your mallet,” said Dad abruptly, with a narrow glare at Lord Malfoy.

“You, too, Sirius,” added Lord Malfoy, holding his hand out for the black mallet.

“Aw, I wanted to—” began Sirius, but then caught sight of Lord Malfoy’s expression, and sighed and held the mallet out. “Fine. But if you put Arthur in hospital, you’re the one going to Azkaban.”

“See if you can aim a ball right at the Malfoy family jewels,” suggested George as he handed Dad the orange mallet.

After a game of Stone Cloak Wand to determine playing order, the two teams headed back out to the playing field. Within a couple hoops, chaos quickly descended: Fred and Ginny kept ‘accidentally’ hitting Harry and Malfoy’s balls out of the way on their moves, while Lord Malfoy and Dad had swiftly given up any pretence of hitting their own balls and were trying to knock each other’s out of the garden entirely. Ron himself would’ve been fine just trying to get through the game—that is, until Malfoy sent his ball flying right into a rosebush.

From there on, all bets were off… or at least they would be, as soon as Ron could get his ball out of the rosebush.

“Need a little help with that?” asked Hermione as she came over to watch Ron try to free his ball. It was a lot harder than it should be, given how his mallet kept folding in on him every time he tried to stick it into the bush.

“Aren’t you supposed to be neutral?” he muttered, smacking at the mallet head to try and get it to cooperate.

“I just thought you could use some help.” Hermione shrugged. The other players were already heading into the house, with the promise of property damage heavy in the air.

Ron sighed, and let Hermione levitate the ball out for him. “Well, it was already an irregular course,” he said, as he sent the ball through the last outdoor hoop before following everyone else back up to the house. Over at the edge of the field, Mum, the house-elves, and the Black brothers were already spreading out a large black-and-silver carpet for their Christmas picnic, alongside a low table and several black-and-silver cushions and throws.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit frustrating, how hard he’s courting the Malfoys?” asked Hermione as Ron whacked his yellow ball through the open garden door.

Ron grimaced. “Yeah, tell me about it. And after making such a fuss about not wanting to court anyone, too.”

“Not Harry.” Hermione shook her head. “Regulus Black. I’ve just… look, he’s our best option in this current climate, I know, but… why d’you think he’s going to all this effort hosting the Malfoys? It’s not just because he’s cousins with Lady Malfoy, and it’s not just because of the potential campaign donations.”

“And it’s not because of Harry?” finished Ron wryly, as up ahead, Malfoy’s ball bounced off the hoop and landed in the troll-leg umbrella stand.

“Okay, step aside, Gryffindor Beater here to show you how it’s done,” declared Fred, lining up his shot. It went even wider than Malfoy’s, soaring into the ancestry room instead.

“Pathetic,” jeered Ginny, clapping her hands. Fred sketched a bow, gesturing for Harry to follow.

Hermione jerked her head towards Lady Malfoy impassively watching Harry take his shot. “Remember who her sister is?”

“Tonks’ mum?” countered Ron, earning himself an unamused look. “It’s true, though. Crazy ol’ Bellatrix isn’t her only sister.”

“But it’s clear Lady Malfoy’s place on the scale is closer to Lady Gaunt than Lady Andromeda,” Hermione whispered. “Courting that sort of support will undermine Regulus’ position as the one standing up for all Muggleborns. But he won’t hear my concerns.”

“And Harry wants the Malfoy from his birthday party back and thinks this is his best way to get him,” concluded Ron, as Harry sent his ball sailing down the hallway to join Malfoy’s by the umbrella stand. The two of them promptly strode off together, the heads of their mallets interlocked. Who needed bouquets of intent and ritual athames on pillows when you had this sort of tripe to look at?

“Come on, Ron, are you going to hit your ball or are you going to flirt with Hermione all day?” demanded Ginny from farther down the hall. Ron felt his face colouring. He tried to aim his ball at her instead of the hoop, but unfortunately she was very good at dodging.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked, once they’d all managed to get their balls up to the first floor. “And Lord Malfoy, too, I think he also hasn’t made it into the house?”

“I think they’re still outside, whacking each other’s balls,” said Harry.

“As the heiress said to Merlin,” said Fred, snickering.

The next hoop was in the first-floor drawing room. Garlands of fir and holly tied with ribbons of black and silver criss-crossed the ceiling, while Dobby was gleefully tying festoons of mistletoe onto all the available windows.

“Oi, Dobby,” called Ron, when it was his turn. “Get the window open.”

“Yes, of course, Mr Ronald,” said Dobby, opening the window. “But whatever for?”

Ron’s response to that was to whack Malfoy’s ball right out the window, causing the Slytherin to swear loudly and Dobby to squeak in surprise.

“But that was Master Draco’s ball!” exclaimed the former Malfoy elf, his bulging green eyes growing even wider with betrayal. “Why would you be hitting Master Draco’s ball out the window?”

“Because he hit mine into a rosebush,” said Ron, sticking two fingers up at Malfoy, who returned the gesture with a finger of his own.

“Dobby did not know he would be used to sabotage Master Draco!” protested Dobby, already clutching onto the hem of Malfoy’s jumper for forgiveness. “Dobby has offended Master Draco most grievously!”

“It’s all right,” said Malfoy, and then whacked Harry’s ball out the window as well. “Come on, Prickhead. Let’s go find our balls.”

“As the heiress said to Merlin!” shouted Fred after their retreating backs, to matching rude gestures from both Harry and Malfoy.

Lady Malfoy shook her head, before advancing her own ball up the stairs. “Who is this eminently quotable heiress of yours, Mr Frederick?”

Fred coughed, his face suddenly clashing with his hair. “No one,” he said, and nearly sent his ball flying back into his face on his next turn.

The last hoop was up on the roof, accessible through a secret door on the fourth-floor landing hidden in a portrait of a witch in a black-and-silver dress. From here, Fred and Ginny both managed to hit their balls off the roof rather than through the hoop, while Ron’s got caught in the gutter. Still, he managed to finish at a respectable second place behind Lady Malfoy, and the smell of that Christmas dinner reward coming from the garden was enough to take the edge off of Team Weasley having lost every single game thus far.

Also, he’d got his revenge on Malfoy, and that was what mattered more.

Both Dad and Lord Malfoy showed up to Christmas dinner covered in mud and sleet. “Don’t even ask,” said Dad wearily as Mum opened her mouth.

“I’m going to assume you had it coming, then,” said Mum, with her hands on her hips.

“Darling, what ever am I going to do with you?” sighed Lady Malfoy as she blasted all the mud off of her lord-husband with a wave of her wand.

“I managed to get Weasley’s ball over the fence,” said Lord Malfoy sulkily.

“Well, while you and Arthur Weasley were busy measuring the lengths of your hoops, I actually won the game.” Lady Malfoy held up her blue-coloured ball, and then promptly and carelessly dropped it on the carpet at Lord Malfoy’s feet. “What do I always say, Draco dearest?”

“Do not stop until victory is yours,” answered Malfoy.

“Precisely.” Lady Malfoy adjusted her lord-husband’s cravat. He kissed her hand in reply, looking at her with the exact same glazed-over expression that Malfoy got whenever he stared at Harry for too long. “A member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black would never stoop to arguing over such petty things as hoop placements.”

“Bella would,” said Sirius loudly, from where he and Regulus were carving up the Christmas goose.

“And so would Sirius,” added Regulus.

“Says the one who nearly took my head off with the mallet once,” accused Sirius.

“That was an accident!” protested Regulus, which would have been a lot more convincing if he hadn’t been waving a knife around like a maniac whilst saying that.

The Christmas dinner was just as magnificent as breakfast had been. In addition to the goose—and its accompanying pear and cranberry stuffing—there was duck and pork terrine and fig chutney, a creamy yet light soup that tasted of mushrooms and chives, parsnip and carrot salad, shallot mash with gravy, and loads of spiced mulled wine. On top of that, everyone had a black-and-silver cracker to pull with the person next to them, which meant that Ron managed to pull one with both Harry and Hermione. The cracker he pulled with Hermione contained a wax seal set and a flower crown, both of which he let Hermione take. The cracker he pulled with Harry contained a kingly-looking crown and a rubber duck, the latter of which he quickly gave to Dad.

“Aw, it’s a tiara,” said Harry, as Malfoy examined the coronet from the cracker he’d pulled with Lady Malfoy. “I’ll trade you, if you don’t want to wear it.”

Malfoy raised a disdainful eyebrow at the pirate hat in Harry’s hands. “No, I think I’ll look better in this,” he said, and donned the coronet. Ron had to grudgingly admit he was right.

Harry tucked a bit of Malfoy’s hair behind his ear, happily oblivious to Lord Malfoy glaring daggers at him from two cushions away. “You look stunning, Your Highness,” he teased.

Malfoy scoffed. “With this on, I think I warrant at least a ‘Your Majesty’, you impudent rogue.”

“Whatever you say, Your Majesty.” Harry’s eyes glittered with mischief. “But if you’re the queen, and Ron’s got the king’s crown, then—”

“Ronnie is our King!” exclaimed the twins from the other side of the table.

“Especially if he manages to beat you lot at chess,” added George.

“We’ll never make fun of him again if he manages to save what’s left of our family honour!” declared Fred.

Ron highly doubted they would make good on such promises, but it did make the pressure from the impending after-dinner chess match a whole lot worse. They were, after all, now four-nil in this year’s showdown. Him winning at chess wouldn’t amount to much against the grand total, but at least it would prevent total and utter humiliation.

He suddenly found himself unable to eat another bite.

After dinner came a magnificent flaming Christmas pudding, which Ron could barely taste. “Are you all right, Ron?” asked Hermione, as he prodded listlessly at the pudding. “You look unwell—have you eaten something dodgy?”

Ron shook his head, unwilling to open his mouth lest his nerves betray him like they had the morning of the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. He focused, instead, on the other conversations going around the table: Sirius apologising to Draco—Fred and George bent over something with Ginny—Lord Malfoy still glowering at Harry even as Regulus remarked on how happy Draco looked…

“I wouldn’t dream of knowing what’s best for my cousin, though,” Regulus continued, as he sipped thoughtfully at his mulled wine. “But I do remember how the rules and pressures shattered all of us. Cissa,” he continued, with a nod at Lady Malfoy, “don’t you think it’ll be better to let him be a boy for a little bit longer?”

Lord Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “Draco is aware of his duty,” he said shortly.

“And you and I both know how easily passion can cause us to betray our duties,” Regulus pointed out. Ron had no idea what he was alluding to—Regulus didn’t seem like the sort who liked to be overcome by passion for anyone—but it certainly made an interesting, unreadable expression cross Lord Malfoy’s face. “We don’t need to force the next generation to make the same mistakes we made. There are better ways to protect the Malfoy family magic.”

“And what of the Black family magic, then?” wondered Lord Malfoy dryly. “Have you found a way to pull yourself out of the fire, Regulus?”

Regulus’ eyes flashed, but then his face grew pensive. “I’m working on it,” he replied, to a dissatisfied hum from Lord Malfoy.

After lunch, they all retired back to the house so that the house-elves could take down the picnic and set up the back garden for the evening ball. Ron’s nerves, however, only grew worse when he saw the chessboard set up in the parlour. The pieces were in silver and gold overlaid respectively with ebony and ivory. The board itself was marble, mounted on a silver box inlaid with gems.

Granddad Septimus’ chessboard was simple ivory and wood; the Potter heirloom chess set was different shades of wood. This, on the other hand…

This was a lavish waste of money. An ostentatious status symbol. These pieces looked like they only got moved around for show, like Pansy Parkinson’s squash-faced crup. Or even Pansy Parkinson herself.

“Do you need a Stomach-Settling Draught, Weasley?” wondered Malfoy as Ron shakily took his seat on the black side of the board. “I’m suddenly finding myself a bit worried about the mess you might cause if you vom all over the board.”

Ron managed a weak laugh. “We could call it the Ronald Weasley Gambit,” he joked, picking up one of the pawns and examining it. It slashed its sword at him uselessly. “Who—who am I playing today?”

“My father,” said Malfoy. “And he’s willing to let you play white, if it’s easier on your nerves.”

Ron looked up at Lord Malfoy’s imposing grey stare, and then closed his hands around the pawn. “I’ll be fine,” he said, and so Lord Malfoy took the seat across from him, steepling his fingers in thought.

“I’ve heard about your chess abilities, Mr Ronald,” he said after a moment. “Lord Black mentioned that you beat him a couple years back with a brilliant setup of Gagwilde’s Defence and a mage-castle-queen triple sacrifice.”

Ron couldn’t tell if he was trying to comfort or goad him. Knowing Lord Malfoy, probably the latter. “So my reputation precedes me, huh?”

“I expect great things out of today’s game, Mr Ronald,” replied Lord Malfoy. “Nothing but high-level strategy from the wizard who defeated Professor McGonagall at the age of eleven.”

“Father, you’re going to make him play the Ronald Weasley Gambit if you keep teasing him,” warned Draco.

Ron cleared his throat. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Yes, let’s.” Lord Malfoy cleared his throat. “Pawn to E4.”

The King’s Pawn. Classic opening. Ron wasn’t too surprised—Regulus had played that, too. “Pawn to D6,” he replied, inching his queen’s pawn forward just one square.

Lord Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “A Beauxbatons Defence? Well. Pawn to D4, then.”

There would be no taking the centre. If Ron tried to push forward, he’d lose his pawn. He had to defend it with: “Knight to F6.”

“Knight to C3,” replied Lord Malfoy.

“Weasley here was a knight in the game against Professor McGonagall,” said Draco brightly, as he hovered over his dad’s shoulder. “Weren’t you playing black that time, too?”

“I like playing black,” said Ron, as he pushed a pawn onto G6. He was right; these pieces moved like petulant children. “I like seeing what the other side does and planning accordingly.”

“Mage to E2,” said Lord Malfoy. The white-robed figure in the bishop’s spot slid forward. Ron hadn’t even noticed that the bishops were dressed differently, with a pointed hat and wand instead of the bishop hat and crook.

“I’ve never seen a mage piece before,” remarked Hermione from his other side—she must’ve pulled up a chair when he hadn’t been looking. Ron nearly jumped out of his skin, and then pretended that he hadn’t. “Most of those sets must be extremely old, right?”

“The Black family set is, I believe, from the turn of the eighteenth century,” confirmed Lord Malfoy. “During the early years of the Statute of Secrecy, the leaders of the Circle of Avalon believed that us mages should not have to play a piece representing an institution responsible for our persecution.”

“But they’ve fallen out of style since then,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Both the Potter set and Ron’s set have got bishops. Ditto for McGonagall’s giant set—Harry played a bishop during that game.”

“We’ve also got a bishop set in the Malfoy Vault somewhere,” said Draco.

“Draco.” Lord Malfoy’s tone was weary. “There’s no need to dig up ancient history.”

Ron moved his mage out to G7. Commanding the piece with ‘mage’ instead of ‘bishop’ felt like putting a shoe onto the wrong foot.

Lord Malfoy continued to advance, pressing another pawn out to the centre line. He was playing boldly, aggressively, nothing like Regulus’ calculated positions or Grandma Cedrella’s traps and gambits. His pieces were flourishing their weapons, ready for bloodshed.

Control the centre. Develop your pieces.

But now Ron was trying to defend his dark-squared mage from a potential future capture from Lord Malfoy’s pawn. He could preemptively take it with his knight, but Lord Malfoy’s mage would easily take his knight in return. He could offer up a pawn on H5, but Lord Malfoy would take that, too, and leave him wide open kingside.

“Pawn to H6,” he said instead. It was cautious, passive. He was becoming the sort of chess player he hated to play.

“You know, we had quite a row over who would get to go against you,” remarked Draco, as he accepted a glass of mulled wine from Harry. “Sirius hates the game, so he was out, and Father said that Mother’s tactics weren’t suitable for polite company, and Prickhead knows better than to go against you—”

“He once checkmated me in four moves,” said Harry sullenly.

“The schoolboy’s mate?” Lord Malfoy actually looked amused. “Goodness gracious, Lord Potter.”

“Well, if you need a Snitch to be found, then I’m your man,” said Harry, clapping Ron on the back. “But if you need a mate in four, then go ask Ron.”

“Not helping,” muttered Ron, resisting the urge to hide his face in his hands.

Lord Malfoy pushed a pawn to H3. “It came down to Lord Black and myself, and since Lord Black had already played you, the honour naturally fell to me.”

“I wanted to play, too!” insisted Draco, with a pout.

“You could’ve asked at Hogwarts,” Ron pointed out.

Lord Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “My son has a long way to go before he can be considered a worthy opponent of Lady Cedrella Black’s protégé.”

Draco’s cheeks flushed. “I only blundered my queen that one time!”

“Every move in chess has meaning, Draco,” retorted Lord Malfoy, pushing another pawn onto D5. “If you cannot explain your reasoning for each move that you make, then you have blundered. Which means that you have blundered your queen several more times than you would care to admit.”

Draco’s cheeks flushed even harder at that. Ron, in turn, felt a bit bad for him—at least his dad would never throw him to the wolves like this.

Now, Lord Malfoy’s pawns were overtaking the centre, so Ron had decided it was high time to get his king out of the way. “Castle short-side,” he instructed them, watching as the ostentatiously-attired black king swaggered off to switch places with his castle. A couple more pawn moves, and their forces were practically lined up against one another, black facing down white, testing each other’s boundaries.

Then Lord Malfoy moved his pawn to G5, pressing down on Ron’s kingside flank, and Ron immediately launched his H6 pawn out to take it. The ebony-and-silver soldier drove his sword into the other pawn’s chest and flung him off the board, only to then be decapitated by Lord Malfoy’s H4 pawn.

“Very violent pieces,” remarked Hermione, looking a bit unsettled.

“That’s wizard’s chess,” said Ron, moving his knight back to the first rank in order to get it out of the way of Lord Malfoy’s pawn. This was bad. His king was down in the corner, completely exposed to Lord Malfoy’s castle. Any attempt to fill the gap with another piece would result in the castle swooping down to crush it. He had to get the king back towards the centre.

He shouldn’t have castled. But he’d been responding to an attack on the centre at the time. He should’ve been working on developing the queenside pieces, but now here he was playing defence—

“Queen to D3,” said Lord Malfoy, and the golden-haired white queen strolled out to her spot, flipping a sheet of long golden hair over her ivory shoulder. On the other side of the board, Ron’s own queen crossed her arms and tossed her head like she was rolling her eyes.

“Wow, that queen acts just like you, Draco,” joked Harry.

“I would never flip my hair over my shoulder like some brazen hussy!” protested Draco. “I haven’t even got the length to do it anymore!”

Ron knew what was coming. Lord Malfoy had the H-file, and Ron’s king was just a sitting duck down on the other end. He was going to get the queen down there to attack; it was just a question of how, and how quickly it would happen.

He took Lord Malfoy’s pawn; Lord Malfoy’s knight took back. He reinforced the position with his own knight, hoping to stop the knight from getting to E7 to try and force his king into check. But none of that stopped Lord Malfoy’s queen from sliding over to G7—close enough to signal her intentions, and yet far enough to maintain plausible deniability.

The Ronald Weasley Gambit was actually looking like a very feasible option right now.

“Come on, Ronnie,” said Fred from behind him, and Ron felt the hard metal circle of his Christmas cracker crown sliding onto his head. “You can do it! Ronnie can win anything, he’ll take your king and mate your queen—”

“That’s not how it works,” grumbled Ron.

“Our family’s honour he will bring: Ronnie is our king!” finished George.

Ron couldn’t move his bishop—no, his mage—out to block Lord Malfoy’s queen; either his pawn or the queen herself would take it. But he still had to get some protection down there for his king, so he cleared F7 in order to give his king an escape hatch, guarded by his mage—

And not a moment too soon, because the next thing he knew, the white queen was down on H7, her ivory raiment glistening malevolently. His king promptly backed up behind his mage, peering out fearfully from behind the mage’s shoulder.

Ron knew the end was near. The queen would take the pawn right beside the mage, forcing his king to take her. That would clear the way for Lord Malfoy’s mages, or his castle, or even the pawn that had already been conveniently placed there.

All it would take was the white queen’s sacrifice, and the Weasleys’ Christmas humiliation would be complete.

“So if Ron’s our king… then does that make Draco his queen?” wondered Harry suddenly.

“Oh, please, don’t,” groaned Ron, rubbing gingerly at his temples. “That’d mean that Malfoy and I got Bonded.”

“It’s clearly a political arrangement for maintaining peace between our kingdoms,” said Draco, perched on the armrest of Lord Malfoy’s chair with a smirk. “Everyone in the castle knows I’m actually having an affair with one of your mage advisors.”

Ron snorted. This match was as good as lost; he might as well lean into annoying Lord Malfoy on the way out. “Oi, no affairs until we’ve got an heir to the throne!”

“Exactly,” said Draco, his smirk broadening into a grin. “Why else would I be having an affair with your mage advisor? You know I’d do anything for the prosperity of our dual nations, King Weasel. Even if it means obtaining the gift of Morgana,” he started snickering, “and then promptly trying to pass off your best friend’s child as yours—”

“Wait, am I the bishop again?” asked Harry brightly.

“It’s mage advisor now, Harry,” teased Hermione. “You know, Queen Draco, we could get you one of those potions that Luna rejected—you know, the Mother Magic-approved hocus pocus that turns your pregnant belly into the moon or whatever—”

Lord Malfoy’s jaw twitched. “I think I’ve heard enough,” he snapped.

“But Father, I thought you were bemoaning just the other day that my predilections would mark the end of the Malfoy bloodline,” cackled Draco.

“I do not need to hear about your sordid fantasies, Draco,” retorted Lord Malfoy.

“It’s just banter, Lord Malfoy,” soothed Harry, and then reached out and adjusted the coronet on Draco’s head. “There. And how else may I be of service, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, gentle advisor, you’re my only hope!” gushed Draco, practically swooning off of the armchair before striking a pose down on the parlour carpet. “King Weasley wants to take me, but you’re the one who’s claimed my heart! What ever shall I do?!”

“Enough!” hissed Lord Malfoy, slamming a hand down on the table. “I am not letting my queen get taken!”

Almost as if on cue, the white queen on the board slipped back to H4. Ron immediately seized his chance, bringing out his castle to H8 for a potential counterattack on the white queen. She quickly backed into the neighbouring file, enabling Ron to launch his castle up the board to take out Lord Malfoy’s.

And then, from there, his fortunes began to turn.

It was clear now: Lord Malfoy was not going to let Ron take the white queen. All he had to do was put her in as much danger as possible without losing too many of his own pieces. Slowly, his forces began to advance, cutting down swathes of pawns in the process. On the other hand, the sudden loss of what had previously been a surefire victory was causing Lord Malfoy to flounder. When one of Ron’s knights took a pawn and put his king in check, he didn’t even send his queen after it in revenge.

Soon, he’d whittled down Lord Malfoy’s pieces to just three pawns, a castle, the light-squared mage, and the queen. One of his own castles then took the mage, causing the white queen to take the castle in revenge—

—and walking right into Ron’s trap.

“Castle to H1,” said Ron, watching the ebony-and-silver tower piece slide itself to the top of the board. The white queen began backing up from the ruins of the other castle that she had just smashed into pieces, her ivory face paling even further in fear.

“Get back here,” commanded Lord Malfoy.

“Take her,” Ron told the castle.

The white queen began to sprint across the board, with the castle rolling just behind. She was fast, but the castle was like one of those giant rolling boulder traps in those old adventurer fill-ems that Dad liked to watch. It was unstoppable. It was destructive.

It ran over the queen just as she reached the white king.

What little colour there was in Lord Malfoy’s face rapidly drained. “Kill that castle,” he told his king, watching impassively as the king took out a mace from seemingly nowhere and whacked the castle off the board.

Ron could already see the checkmate patterns. He could put the king in check with his knight, move the queen up to prevent any escape, bring his mage up to take the last pawns in between them and the king. But he didn’t get to act out any of the moves, because Lord Malfoy reached out and tipped his king over, and the golden crown fell off the piece’s head and rolled right to a stop at the foot of Ron’s queen.

“Congratulations, Mr Ronald,” said Lord Malfoy stiffly, holding out his hand. The handshake was quick, as if he was scared he’d catch something if he had to touch a blood traitor for too long. Ron would be more offended, if he wasn’t so busy being patted on the back by Dad and smooched on the head by Mum.

“Victory right out of the jaws of defeat! That’s our Ronnie!” chortled Fred, as he and George dragged Ron out of his chair to carry him around the parlour for a victory lap. “Ronnie can win anything; he’ll take your king and mate your queen—”

“Our family’s honour he will bring: Ronnie is our king!” sang everyone else on Team Weasley, plus Harry and Hermione. Back on the chessboard, the pieces were also reenacting the very end of the game, with the black castle coming up with increasingly gruesome ways to slaughter the white queen.

“What a way to end the second Weasley-Malfoy Games Showdown!” exclaimed Regulus, as Mum started yelling for Fred and George to put Ron back down. Ron found himself swiftly deposited onto the sofa, his crown askew and his face on fire. “Well done, Mr Ronald. You had us all on the edge of our seats for a moment there!”

Ron knew he was just saying it to be polite. Everyone had seen Lord Malfoy about to beat him; it was Draco himself who had caused his father to blunder his queen and give Ron the victory.

But no one seemed to care. Fred, George, and Ginny were now stomping around chanting a second stanza of their song—when did they get around to rewriting McLaggen’s song, anyway?—while Lord Malfoy was getting consolation hugs from his wife. Well, ‘hug’ was a mild term; Ron was pretty sure Lady Malfoy’s hands were not supposed to go that low in polite company.

“A victory drink for the defending chess champion,” declared Regulus, holding out a glass of Armagnac to Ron. “And I do believe this puts our final score at four-one, doesn’t it, Hermione?”

Hermione, who’d been looking at Ron with the strangest expression on her face, quickly jolted back to herself and ducked her head. “Yes! I believe that means the winners of this year’s showdown are Team Malfoy-Black!”

Lord Malfoy took back his purse, while Fred and George apparated back upstairs and returned with several brightly-coloured boxes, which they handed to each of the members of the other team. The look on Mum’s face was priceless, matched only by Regulus’ helpless shrug when she turned her glare on him.

They were all saved from the impending Mum-ster by the ringing of the doorbell, and a loud shriek from a different overbearing mother:

“Blood traitors and Mudbloods, wrecking the house of my ancestors! Woe betide me, that I should have lived to see the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black fall into such disrepute—”

Regulus turned to Sirius. “Lock her curtains, Siri.”

“With pleasure, my lord,” declared Sirius, and marched off down the hallway with a manic glint in his eyes. Ron had a feeling that that was probably the best Christmas present he had ever received.

“Master, there are guests in the Floo,” announced Kreacher the moment Sirius had left, poking his head in. “Should Kreacher let them in?”

“Of course!” exclaimed Regulus, grabbing the bottle of Armagnac from the globe and a handful of glasses. He filled some for Mum and Dad, as well as Lord and Lady Malfoy. “What sort of host would we be to keep our guests waiting on the hearth-step? Let them in, and get the door, Kreacher—let’s have a round of drinks to loosen our limbs for dancing!”

“You’re going to spring your guests on me when I haven’t even changed into my dress robes, Reggie?” protested Lady Malfoy.

Regulus waved a hand towards the stairs. “Then hurry into your glad-rags, everyone, go on!”

There was a stampede for the stairs, nearly trampling Sirius in the process. Ron found himself in the lead, with both Harry and Draco hot on his heels.

“Where’re you staying for the night?” wondered Harry to Draco as they hit the second-floor landing. Draco’s response was to grab the doorknob for the bedroom across the hall from Harry and Ron’s. “Come on, grab your robes and come meet us in our room.”

Draco made a face. “What for?”

“You’re sharing with your parents, right? You want to be in the same room as them when they’re getting ready?”

Draco’s expression immediately crinkled. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a jiff,” he muttered, and rushed into his room.

Harry got the door to their room, and was tugging off his jumper (the new Potter-Crimson one Mum had knitted for him this year) and kicking off his shoes at the same time. Ron closed the door behind them, still feeling a bit wrong-footed.

“Thanks, mate,” he managed, as he sat down on the camp bed to tug off his trainers, “for what you did back there during the game. Lord Malfoy would’ve checkmated me in seven moves if you hadn’t distracted him so badly.”

Harry paused in tugging off his shirt. “You were losing?”

Ron raised an eyebrow. Harry laughed, before turning back to his wardrobe, tossing aside his shirt for the long plain white one he usually wore under the traditional Potter achkan.

“Okay,” he sighed, “maybe it did look a bit bad for you there at the beginning, but I really did think you were going to pull out some brilliant move at the last minute, like you did in first year.”

Ron snorted. “The hard part of the first-year game was starting the game down a bishop and a castle.” At Harry’s quizzical look, he clarified, “I couldn’t let you or Hermione get hurt, so I had to keep you two away from any positions where you could risk getting taken.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Just like how Lord Malfoy couldn’t let his queen get hurt.”

“Yeah.” Ron tugged off his sock. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a git all week.”

Harry merely smiled back, and before Ron knew it, they were hugging, and the jealous six-year-old still lurking inside his heart finally gave up its tantrum and lay down to take a nap.

People weren’t things to hand down, or hand over; choosing one person didn’t mean they gave up the right to choose someone else. A best mate and a Bonded were just two different ways out of all the different ways in which someone could be chosen.

In any case, Qiu Zhang was totally barking up the wrong tree. If she’d taken Ron up on his offer to spend Christmas at Grimmauld Place, she’d have seen that as clear as the nose on her face.

Oh well, her loss.

Harry pulled back from the hug, green eyes sparkling behind round glasses just like they had on that first fateful ride on the Hogwarts Express. “Hey,” he suggested, “maybe you should try some of Lady Malfoy’s tactics to get Qiu to notice you during your next game of chess—”

Ron threw a sock at him.

Lord Harry Potter and the Whispers of Lady Polixenes - Chapter 15 - lily_winterwood - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter Text

Then

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Then

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References