Falsus Vates

Weaselby, Weaselby Not:

All 11 year-old Ron wanted to do when he got on the Hogwarts Express was to sit and befriend Harry Potter.

Instead, he finds himself stuck in a cabin at the very back of the train, with the strangest Malfoy he had ever met. (The First also, but the strangeness was the important part.)

Surprisingly, he finds he’s all for it. 

Ron had a plan.

Well. He had had a plan.

He sat with his arms crossed, trying and failing to look casual in the corner of the surprisingly empty cabin they were in. He could feel every bump of the Hogwarts Express as they rattled along the tracks, but his mind was fixed on the same thought that had carried him through this entire morning—perhaps even the whole summer: he was supposed to meet Harry Potter today.

That had been his entire plan. It was so simple, it had practically been fool proof!—Find the boy-who-lived, introduce himself, and, somehow, strike up a friendship. It hadn’t seemed like an impossible goal back at King’s Cross, when he’d first caught sight of that tiny, bespectacled boy looking a bit lost among the bustling witches and wizards on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

He tried to imagine how it would play out. He’d casually stumble on Harry in the corridor, say something casual like, “Hello, mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.” That was what he’d practiced telling himself: natural, normal, as though he hadn’t been waiting for this moment ever since he had heard THE Harry Potter was going to join in his year at Hogwarts. Maybe they’d talk about Quidditch—Harry might like Quidditch, right? Basically everyone did. Harry’s Dad had even been part of the Gryffindor team when he’d been in school, so of course his son would have to be interested in Quidditch.

Oh it had come to him oh so clearly: Harry Potter, alone and looking around for some friendly face—only to spot him, Ronald Weasley, offering up a seat. It would be effortless and natural. Then, once they got to chatting, maybe Harry would be impressed that Ron actually had five older brothers and knew all about Hogwarts already. Ron would crack a joke or two (Fred and George always said he had potential), and Harry would laugh. Then, before Ron would know it, they’d be close friends—just like that.

It all made perfect sense!

But, given how things had panned out at that moment, Ron’s scheme had hit a bit of a snag. First of all, from what he could tell, the train was ridiculously overcrowded. Students—some older, some younger—were streaming up and down the corridors, every cabin jammed with ever excitable witches and wizards. Ron had felt as if he had spent the better part of the morning popping his head into compartment after compartment, each time hoping to see a familiar head of scruffy black hair and a pair of thin round spectacles. But the boy-who-lived had been nowhere to be found.

Ron had tried not to panic. He’d wandered down carriage after carriage, bag slung over his shoulder, ignoring the twin pangs of hunger and nerves rolling around in his stomach. Fred and George had vanished somewhere toward the front, probably off having a laugh or practicing some new trick on unsuspecting first years. Percy had sniffed something about “prefect duties” and disappeared straight away.

So Ron had been left to search for Harry on his own. But that was fine. That was good even! It certainly wasn’t as if he had told anyone else of his plan, so all the better he went at it alone. He had promised himself he would find Harry, and he wasn’t about to let a little lack of incidental support stand in his way.

Besides, if Ron were honest, there was another reason he was so eager to make friends with Harry. The bigger, more important one that he refused to tell anyone, even his mum. Even when she would ask him, ‘what was wrong’, with that little quiver in her lip. Being the youngest Weasley boy meant he was always trailing behind his brothers in one way or another. Bill had been Head Boy, Charlie had been the star Gryffindor Seeker and Quidditch Captain, Percy was now a Prefect, and Fred and George had enough charm and wit for two entire families.

And Ron loved them all, he did! But sometimes it felt like there wasn’t much room left for him to stand out—especially when Ginny was born. He loved her, of course—how could he not? But then he had stopped being the baby of the family. Suddenly all the attention Ron had himself been getting at the time was then redirected at his sister, who was not only the youngest now but the only girl between the kids. And Ron wouldn’t lie to himself and say it didn’t hurt a little to be just shuffled off to the side like that.

Harry Potter, Ron had decided, might just be his chance to change that. If he could become friends with the Boy-Who-Lived, maybe people would finally see Ron Weasley again, and not just another lackluster redheaded copy trailing after five successful older brothers.

Unfortunately, the train had seemed determined to thwart him. Each new section had turned out to be just absolutely jam-packed with students, luggage, and the occasional squawking pet. His stomach gurgled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten much since breakfast (he’d been too nervous to manage more than a few bites). He had just resigned himself to the idea of buying a snack from the Honeydukes trolley when a stern-looking train employee bustled past him and stopped short.

“You there,” she had said, eyeing Ron’s hand-me-down robes with a hint of impatience. “Why are you still wandering about? All the compartments are nearly full. Best find yourself a seat before we pick up any more speed.”

Ron opened his mouth to explain that he was looking for Harry Potter, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Cabins are crammed to the rafters, I’m afraid,” she went on briskly. “There’s only one left with a free seat—at the very back. Follow me.”

Ron’s heart sank. He cast one last, desperate look over his shoulder, but the corridor was empty and all the seats filled only with students and trunks. With a defeated shrug, he had trailed after the employee as she marched down the train.

When they finally reached the rear of the train, she slid open the compartment door and gestured inside. “This is it,” she said, sounding relieved that she’d found somewhere to stow him. “In you go.”

Ron peered around her shoulder and tried not to let his disappointment show. There was only one other person inside. A boy, pale and pointed-faced, looked up from where he lounged against the window. He was dressed in impeccably neat robes—certainly not a secondhand thread in sight. The moment Ron’s eyes landed on him, he felt his stomach twist in a new sort of apprehension. He knew who this was. Practically everyone knew who this boy was given how his name had been plastered all over the Prophet during the summer after he had collapsed.

Draco Malfoy, the Malfoy seer.  

“Right,” Ron had mumbled, forcing a polite nod as the train employee ushered him inside and slid the door shut behind her. “Er—sorry, but all the other cabins were full.”

It wasn’t the line Ron had practiced in his head. It certainly wasn’t being delivered to Harry. And it definitely wasn’t effortless or natural. Still, there was no getting around it—he was stuck here.

He had placed his tattered suitcase on the luggage rack above, then settled into the seat as diametrically opposed as possible to the Malfoy. Trying not to fidget, Ron thought wistfully of how different this journey was supposed to have gone. By now, he should have been laughing with Harry over Chocolate Frogs and Exploding Snap, perhaps even sharing stories about Hogwarts. 

Instead, he found himself face to face with a currently open mouthed blond who was actively staring at him like had just swallowed a toad. 

“Merlin’s balls, you have got to be kidding me.” He heard the other boy mumble to himself, before continuing on just soft enough for Ron not to hear the rest. “I’m late by 15 minutes and in a different compartment and WEASLEY shows up!? So much for fucking RIPPLES.”

“Hey! I’m not exactly the happiest about this either.” Ron immediately huffed in response, feeling his ears starting to go hot at the sound of the other boy’s judgemental tone. “Being stuck in a cabin with a ruddy Malfoy was definitely not what I was hoping my first ride to Hogwarts would be like. I can’t believe how bad this day has gone.” 

And out of all the responses he could have expected to come out of the pointy-faced twat across from him, a deep belly shaking chuckle that seemed to bring tears to the other boy’s eyes was most definitely not it. Malfoy was practically falling over himself with how hard he was trying to keep the cackles in and if Ron had been peeved initially, he was bloody well seeing red now, with how the other boy was just laughing at him. 

He had to physically fight the urge to leap out of his seat and wrap his hands around Malfoy’s perfectly pressed collar. Was the prat actually laughing at him?

Right here? Right now?

Right to his ruddy face?

He was seconds away from planting himself nose-to-nose with the blond git—his fists already twitching against his sides—when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy’s hand dip into a small pocket of his robe. Before Ron could even make sense of it, something bright and golden-hued came flying toward him. Startled, he jerked back, his fingers knocking the object airborne before he managed to close his hands around the shape. He heard long before he saw a sweets-wrapper crinkle beneath his grip.

“Chocolate?” Malfoy asked, as if the sudden offering out of nowhere was the most natural thing in the world. Ron blinked, ears still pounding and chest beating to a hum, his whole body practically vibrating as he glanced at the foil-wrapped sweet, uncertain whether to hurl it back or tear it open. 

“What—?” He began, still half-ready for a fight. Despite himself, his voice cracked on the single syllable. How was he supposed to respond to - to this??

Malfoy straightened in his seat, smoothing down the front of his robes in that infuriatingly prim way. His eyes were still dancing with amusement, but now he looked more composed—almost like a bored and noble  aristocrat holding court. Ron bristled at that, but he could already feel the full strength of his indignation ebbing away, caught entirely off guard by the unexpected kindness. He glanced again at the chocolate in his hand and scowled.

He was hungry…

“It’s not poisoned,” Malfoy said dryly, as though reading Ron’s mind. He gave a low chuckle, softer this time, and shook his head. “Honestly, Weasley, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just—” He paused for a moment, expression flickering with something Ron couldn’t quite pin down. “It’s just…ridiculous, isn’t it?” Malfoy finished quietly, his lips tilting in a self-deprecating sort of grin. “Us. In the same cabin. I was laughing at the situation.”

Ron’s frustration twisted into confusion. “So you…weren’t laughing at me?” He was well aware that Malfoys and Weasleys weren’t exactly on friendly terms, but he certainly hadn’t expected Malfoy to just start cackling at him in such an openly mocking way. Then again, he hadn’t exactly anticipated being half-pacified by chocolate or being stuck in the same cabin as him either. It left him feeling unsteady, like when someone had dispelled the charm on his floaty board when he had been learning how to swim…

Malfoy let out a short huff that Ron supposed, he might have mistaken for another laugh if he were still in a prickly mood. “No, Weasley. I wasn’t laughing at you, promise.” A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth, though his gaze wasn’t as icy as Ron would’ve expected. “It’s just ironic, that’s all. You were cross about your day going wrong. Trust me, mine hasn’t exactly been ideal either.”

Ron eyed him warily. “I—” He cleared his throat, feeling sheepish. He was still clutching the chocolate, and his ears were undoubtedly pink. “Fine. Thanks…I guess.” The words came out awkward, but he forced them through regardless.

A beat of silence stretched. Then, slowly, Ron unwrapped the sweet. The scent of melted sugar and chocolate made his stomach rumble, and he very quickly felt more than a bit foolish for nearly charging across the cabin a second ago. He popped the chocolate in his mouth, hoping to mask his discomfort. The treat melted on his tongue, and Ron hated to admit it tasted just heavenly.

Across from him, Malfoy let out a noise somewhere between amusement and relief. “There we go. Much better.” He shoved his hands into his robes, that smirk still hovering around his lips. “Look, you don’t want to be here, and I sure as—well, I didn’t expect to be here either. But if we’re stuck together until Hogwarts, we might as well try to not hex each other the entire time. Deal?”

Ron’s eyebrows furrowed. “Deal?” He repeated, uncertain. Then, feeling awkward, caught himself and nodded stiffly, forcing out a rough, “Yeah—fine.”

“Excellent.” Malfoy drew the word out in a silky, too-adult tone that nearly had Ron bristling all over again. “See? Now we can chat like civilized people instead of trying to throw punches. Not that I’d blame you,” he added under his breath, almost too quiet for Ron to catch. Ron wasn’t sure what to make of that, or the faintly rueful look that flashed in Malfoy’s eyes for a heartbeat before vanishing.

“I wasn’t going to punch you,” Ron muttered, though he felt his ears burn again. He fiddled with the empty wrapper, feeling downright ridiculous.

“Certainly looked like you were tempted,” Malfoy countered, but his tone was oddly teasing. “I have the strangest sensation I wasn’t exactly who you’d been hoping to share a cabin with today.” 

Ron huffed, instantly not wanting to discuss Harry Potter with Draco Malfoy, of all people. Still, the question prickled at him, and he was suddenly too worn-out to concoct anything halfway convincing. “I just—had somewhere else I wanted to be,” Ron said lamely.

He expected Malfoy to pry, like the way the twins and Ginny did at home, but Malfoy merely nodded as though it was the most natural admission in the world. “Figures,” Malfoy said. Then, with a sort of theatrical flourish, he pulled out another sweet—this time, a small, individually wrapped sugar quill—and flicked it lightly in Ron’s direction. Ron caught it more smoothly this time, scowling faintly at the quirk of Malfoy’s lips.

“Let’s call it a truce then, Weasleby,” Malfoy said with a bemused sort of smile that made him look older than his eleven years. “You let me laugh from time to time during the ride without threatening to jump me, and I’ll keep you supplied with enough sugar to last until Hogwarts.”

“That’s…mental,” Ron mumbled. But despite his scowl, he didn’t toss the sugar quill back. 

“Probably,” Malfoy conceded, turning his gaze out the window. Farmland and rolling green hills blurred past, sunlight streaking through the glass. “But maybe our day won’t turn out as terrible as we both thought. Stranger things have happened.”

Ron wasn’t sure what to say to that. He certainly hadn’t anticipated making any kind of arrangement with Draco ruddy Malfoy, of all people, on the first day of term. But there was something about the twist of Malfoy’s mouth, the way he held himself, that stopped Ron from launching another jab at the other boy. Instead, he slowly shifted in his seat, resting his back against the cushioned wall. The sugar quill rustled in his grasp.

It wasn’t long before he got bored.

Though at least he wasn’t hungry anymore after Malloy had basically just tossed a handful of Galleons at the Honeydukes carts and requested all the heartier things. Sweet breads and scones and sandwiches even. Exactly the kind of things his mum and dad would order for them on the rare occasion they went out for treats, because everything else would ruin their appetite and stunt their growth.

Malfoy had since devoured two Treacle Tarts and was currently nibbling away at the white chocolate and caramel scone, when honestly Ron just couldn’t take the quiet anymore. He shifted in his seat, arms draped loosely over his knees. He eyed Malfoy polishing off the last crumb of that caramel scone, and wondered if he should break the silence or keep quiet. Eventually, Malfoy finished licking a stray bit of sugar off his thumb and seemed to sense Ron’s restlessness.

“You play Quidditch?” The other boy asked, tone almost casual. 

Ron felt his ears prick up. Quidditch—now there was a topic he actually liked discussing. 

“Course I do,” he said. “Well, I follow it. All my brothers do. Charlie was the best flyer in our family—played Seeker back in his day. Fred and George keep trying to break every school rule to practice trick shots, and they think they’ll be Beaters one day.” He paused, warming to the topic. “You ever watch the World Cup or any international matches?”

Malfoy gave a light shrug that didn’t quite hide his interest. “I’ve been to a few international matches,” he replied, voice nonchalant. “Father traveled for business once or twice—took me along. Saw a match in France, years ago. Montrose Magpies faced the Pride of Portree in an exhibition, but there was a Bulgarian team there as well. They had a new Seeker—a kid with raw talent. I think he was only fourteen or so.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Blimey, fourteen? That’s—that’s incredible! A Seeker that young playing internationally?”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched in a half-smile, looking oddly pleased by Ron’s reaction. “People do get scouted early,” he said. “But it still takes real skill to stand out. Though I suspect Hogwarts has a few shining Quidditch stars in the making, too.”

“Definitely,” Ron agreed, feeling a bolt of excitement at the thought of stepping onto the school pitch himself—maybe not this year, but eventually. “Charlie said the Gryffindor team’s decent, but the Slytherins’ve got—” He hesitated, remembering who he was talking to. “Er…you’d know better, I guess,” he finished awkwardly.

Malfoy tilted his head and replied with a shrug. “Gryffindor or Slytherin—makes no difference if you can’t hold your own. Which position would you want, Weasley?”

Ron blinked at the question. He’d always thought about being a Chaser or maybe a Beater like the twins hoped to be. 

“Dunno,” he admitted. “Chaser’s big—scoring loads of goals, super flashy. Beaters…they’re all wild swinging and whacking Bludgers at people. Seeker’s glamorous, but I’m not sure I’ve got the reflexes for it.”

Malfoy regarded him with a thoughtful air. “You might do well as a Keeper,” he suggested without looking at him. “Requires strategy and nerve. No need to be the flashiest flyer, just someone who can see the bigger picture—and defend the hoops.”

Ron tried not to look too surprised. The idea of being a Keeper hadn’t crossed his mind much. It certainly wasn’t the most popular role, because while a good Keeper could keep a team afloat, a bad one would sink a game faster than any seeker catching a snitch would. There was a lot of pressure to the role and you couldn’t even be the front man for photos. Those went to Chasers.

Still, now that Malfoy mentioned it… “Keeper, huh?” he echoed, feeling a faint spark of curiosity. “Might be worth a shot. If I make the team.”

Malfoy shrugged lightly. “You never know. Hogwarts is full of surprises.”

Ron nodded, a curious warmth growing in his chest. “Yeah…that’s what I’ve heard. My brothers go on about secret passageways, trick staircases, the feasts in the Great Hall. They say the Sorting’s not so bad, but I—I guess I’m just…nervous.”

Malfoy’s pale gaze seemed to look right through him. He didn’t prod or tease. Instead, his lips curved in a knowing sort of smile. “First year jitters,” he said lightly. “Everyone has them.”

Ron supposed that was true, but hearing it from Malfoy was still bizarre. After a beat, he lifted his eyes to the deserted corridor, half-hoping someone might appear with news of Harry Potter. But the hallway remained empty.

Tragic.

A moment later, Malfoy spoke again, drawing Ron’s attention. “Weasley,” he said, with that same measured calm, “I recall you mentioned wizard’s chess. You said you have a set, right?”

Ron perked up again. “Yeah!” he replied, perhaps a little too zealously, he thought with a grimace. “It’s in my trunk—my old set. Actually belonged to my granddad first…hang on.” He stood, pulling down his battered suitcase from the luggage rack. After a minute of rummaging, he found a scuffed wooden box bound with a fraying leather strap. The paint on the lid was chipped, and the corners looked like they’d been repaired with Spellotape more than once. “Here,” he said, a little self-conscious, “it’s ancient, but it still works great.”

He set the box on the small table in the cabin. When he flipped it open, the pieces slowly stirred to life. Ron’s white king yawned and clutched its tiny scepter, while the pawns hopped to the edge, blinking about as if peering at Malfoy suspiciously. Ron wondered if Malfoy would scoff at the tattered edges or the chipped paint, but the other boy merely ran a careful fingertip along a knight’s dented helmet, eyes oddly soft.

“It’s…nice,” Malfoy said, voice quiet. Then he reached out to pick up the white queen, who shifted in his hand with a tiny, uncertain shiver. After a moment, she relaxed, apparently satisfied with the gentleness of his touch. “This will do nicely.”

Ron swallowed, unsure of how to respond to Malfoy’s handling of the pieces. “Er—yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “All right.”

They set the board up, each placing the chess pieces in neat formation. The weathered black and white figures clacked and shifted restlessly, clearly eager to start. Once everything was arranged, Malfoy tapped the edge of the box.

“White goes first,” Malfoy said, shooting Ron a faint smirk and let out a drawl. “Any day now.”

Ron pulled the white king upright, nodded to his pawns, and made his first move. Immediately, the pieces came alive in a cacophony of shouts and cheers as they clashed. Ron found himself quickly engrossed, eyes flicking over the board for weaknesses in Malfoy’s formation.

“Knight to C3,” Ron muttered, sliding a piece forward. His battered knight lowered its lance and made a jaunty salute before taking its position.

Malfoy responded smoothly, capturing a white bishop a moment later. “I imagine all those brothers have helped you practice,” he remarked, tone neutral as he studied Ron’s expression. “You’re not bad.”

Ron set his jaw with a mix of pride and discomfort. “I’m better than any of them, actually,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “They just…never think much of it. It’s ‘only chess,’ right?” He advanced a rook to threaten one of Malfoy’s knights. “But honestly, it’s one of the few things I’m really good at. I like it.”

He hadn’t meant to reveal that last part so plainly, but there it was, hanging in the air. Malfoy made a small hum in the back of his throat.

“And what about other things?” Malfoy asked. “Surely Chess isn’t all you have Weaselby.’”

Ron gave a short, tense laugh. “Sometimes according to my brothers it is. Percy for example, he’s always doing everything right. Top marks, following rules to the letter. Meanwhile, beating him at chess is the one thing I can count on—and even though they know I’m good, no one really cares.” He huffed, moving his bishop. The bishop—who had a chipped staff from decades of play—emitted a proud little trumpet call, then took up its new position. “It’s not like I’m flying or taming dragons like Charlie. Who pays attention to some board game?”

Without looking up from the board, Malfoy lightly said, “Check.”

Ron realized too late that Malfoy’s rook had cornered his king. He cursed under his breath, quickly shifting his queen over. “Narrow escape,” he muttered, feeling his ears burn. “You nearly got me.”

Malfoy smirked, though it didn’t really reach his eyes. “Indeed.” He paused, tapping his fingers against the table. “So… Bill and Charlie. Fred and George. Percy. All big shoes then, in your mind?”

Ron placed his rook, ignoring the rush of heat in his ears. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “They’ve all got something…big. Me, I’m just me. Ron - Decent at a game nobody thinks is important.”

Malfoy regarded him for a quiet moment before moving his knight forward. “Check again, Weasley.”

Ron gave a start and hurried to block, muttering an apology to his queen, who shrieked indignantly at being shoved in front of the king once more. His heart thumped uncomfortably. He was losing pieces faster than he liked—and losing them to a Malfoy, of all people. It was unsettling to find that Malfoy was clearly just as skilled, if not more so.

He waited for some mocking remark, but Malfoy said nothing of the sort. Instead, he merely settled back in his seat and gave Ron a level look.

“You’re better than you realize,” Malfoy stated bluntly. “At chess, sure…but at everything else, too. Perhaps you haven’t noticed because you’re too busy comparing yourself to your brothers.”

Ron blinked, not entirely sure he’d heard right. “I—I’m what?” he managed, gaze darting between Malfoy’s face and the board.

Malfoy looked faintly amused and his eyes had narrowed in a strange sort of way. “You’re pretty impressive yourself,” he repeated, tapping a black pawn that saluted him before shifting it into position. “If you applied for the chess club at Hogwarts—assuming there is one—you’d probably do well. And if there isn’t one…you could start one.”

Ron’s jaw dropped slightly. He felt an odd rush of something surge into his chest, mingled with confusion. “You’re—are you—serious?” he finally choked out. “I didn’t…I mean, nobody’s ever told me it was worth much.”

Malfoy gave a small roll of his shoulders, expression almost dismissive, but his eyes lingered on Ron’s. “Well, consider it said. Besides didn’t you know there’s just as many Galleons in chess as there are in Quidditch?”

“No way!”

“But of course.”

They lapsed into silence again as the train rattled along, but Ron’s cheeks stayed flushed. He kept sneaking glances at Malfoy, who appeared to be patiently waiting for him to continue the game. After a few moments, Ron cleared his throat, focused on the board, and slid his bishop forward.

“There,” he mumbled. “Your knight’s pinned.”

Malfoy’s brow arched, a proper smile pulling at his mouth. “Nicely played,” he said, and there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. “As expected.”

Ron wasn’t entirely sure what Malfoy meant by that, but he couldn’t help noticing how easily Malfoy responded to every move—like he’d studied strategy for years. Ron had seldom lost more than a handful of times back home, yet here, he was already on the defensive again. With every match, Malfoy seemed to adapt, forcing Ron into corners he’d never expected. But despite all of that, Ron hadn’t felt anywhere near as alive today than he did right now, even when he had nervously been looking for Harry Potter. 

By the time the train had rocked on for what felt like another hour, they’d finished two rounds—both ended with Malfoy’s victory. Ron’s old board quivered each time the black king declared checkmate, as though stunned at seeing its familiar master lose. Ron swallowed his frustration and asked for another go, determined not to end up so thoroughly beaten. He managed to snag one win, but then Malfoy took the next two.

Eventually, Ron sat back, massaging a pain in his neck, newly aware that Malfoy might just be the toughest opponent he’d ever faced. “You’re…really good,” he finally admitted, cheeks warm in the glow of defeat.

Malfoy gave a short, nonchalant nod. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he said, deftly returning the last black piece to its place in the box. “Reckon you’re the first person who’s managed to beat me in ages.”

Ron fumbled for words, still reeling from the string of defeats. “Yeah?” he blurted at last. 

“Definitely, and believe me, I know how unfair this matchup was. Soon enough you may just flip the script on our tally.”

Ron swallowed. “If we keep playing.”

Malfoy paused in closing the lid, eyes flicking to Ron’s face. For a moment, Ron half-expected a dismissive scoff, but then Malfoy merely inclined his head. “If we keep playing.”

Ron felt a strange swirl of anxiety and anticipation. “Would,” he muttered nervously, awkwardly. “Would you join? If I uh-if I….” He trailed off.

The blond just hummed in response. “Probably.”

And Ron felt a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding slip free from his lips. They packed up the old set together, Malfoy placing each piece with surprising gentleness so the pawns and knights settled quietly into their grooves. Even the most battered ones seemed to trust him now by the end of their long string of games. By the time the Hogwarts Express began to slow, signaling they were nearly at their destination, both boys had lost track of how many matches they’d played.

He rose and glanced out the compartment window. Dusk was settling over the rolling hills, and a thrill of excitement shot through him at the realization that they were almost there.

Malfoy smoothed his robes. “You probably would’ve won more if we’d had all day,” he said, snapping the worn box shut. He handed it back to Ron. “You adapt quickly. Who knows of all the things that’d be useful for.”

Ron reddened, unsure if that was another compliment, but it sure felt like one. He didn’t think anyone ever had been this generous with the compliments with him before, except maybe his distant Aunts, but they didn’t count because they gushed about everyone. And to be fair, most of them were just about Chess.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, placing the box safely into his trunk just as the train jolted. Outside, the sky was turning a deeper purple. He could feel his heart picking up speed again, that nervous excitement returning. In just a few minutes, they’d be stepping off the train to start their lives at Hogwarts.

He shot a sidelong look at Malfoy, still not entirely sure what to make of their time together. But despite all the unexpected twists of the day, Ron couldn’t help feeling just a little bit more confident than when he’d first boarded. Maybe even a little more content? Was that the right word?

The train gave one final shudder before coming to a stop. Malfoy gathered his things and straightened his robes, giving Ron a quick glance. “Ready Weaselby?”

Ron let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said, echoing that quiet confidence. He hoisted his battered trunk down from the rack. “Let’s, uh…go to Hogwarts.”

They slid open the compartment door, the noise of eager voices and scraping trunks flooding in. Ron wondered if he’d see Harry among the sea of new faces—but for once, it didn’t sting quite as much that he hadn’t. He hefted his belongings, stepping aside to let Malfoy pass.

In the hurry of students and trunks and yelling and excitement, it was rather quick that Ron lost sight of the other boy in question.

“Hmmmmmm. Very brave indeed. Very stubborn. Determined. Certainly a little lazy, but you’ve also a strong will, when the situation calls for it, alongside a mighty sense of justice and fair play. My, my, there’s quite a lot going on beneath that ginger mop, isn’t there Ronald Weasley? Interesting—very interesting indeed…”

“P-Please just get it over with, all right? I— I know I’m supposed to be in Gryffindor.”

“‘Supposed to be,’ you say? Mmm, but there’s no shortage of qualities in here that might take you elsewhere. Bravery, yes. And loyalty—strong as an oak. But do you think that’s all that defines you?”

“I— I don’t know. I never thought about it. My whole family has been in Gryffindor. My parents’ll expect it. Everyone will.”

“Families and their expectations. True, you’ve got plenty of courage. But what’s this? A certain knack for cunning, a thirst to stand out, a strong desire not to be overlooked—”

“I don’t want to be in Slytherin! That’s—That’s the house Evil wizards go to.”

“Evil is found everywhere, child. You sound fearful of the Serpent House, yet I see something else here. That Malfoy boy on the train—he is not precisely what the rumors suggest of his family, nor are you as simple as your own lineage. You gleaned some of that insight yourself, didn’t you?”

“He was… He was decent to me. Sure. Doesn’t mean— I mean, that doesn’t automatically mean I’m… Slytherin material.”

“Oh, but I see more than just one conversation. You’ve cunning to spare, my boy. Look at the ways you’ve maneuvered to keep up with so many older siblings—scrambling to be seen, to matter. You know how to plot and plan, if given the chance. You tried to plot today, and though unsuccessful, you still came away with something in the end no?”

“I— It’s just… I have to do something, right? Otherwise I’m… invisible. But my brothers… they’re all heroes in their own way. I’m just… me.”

“You are indeed ‘just you,’ Ronald Weasley, and that’s precisely the point. You’ve a certain hunger—an ambition to prove you’re not simply ‘another Weasley.’ I can place you in Gryffindor with the rest, but you’d forever worry about the shadows you know you will find there, wouldn’t you? And yet, you’re also bound for… more. There’s a thread here. Yes, yes… I see many twists in your path. And that Malfoy—he may surprise the world, too.”

“Maybe. But it’s what I know, and— and I’m not ready for everything to change. Don’t I belong where my family is?”

“Belong? You tell me—where do you want to belong? For belonging is not about comfort alone; it’s about where your true self can flourish. I see it, your potential for greatness. The question is: do you dare step from the old path?”

“I’m scared... I never thought I’d… Malfoy and I, we got on… not bad, actually. And I liked that he— that he saw me, you know? Not just ‘Percy’s little brother’ or ‘Fred and George’s tag-along.’ But Slytherin’s meant to be all about pure-blood nonsense and— and everything my dad complains about.”

“Slytherin is far more than that, if you make it so. There’s ambition, resourcefulness, cleverness. A will to rise above circumstance. You’ve hidden those qualities in yourself for years. Do you really want to keep hiding them?”

“…”

“…”

“You’re better than you realize…”

“You’re pretty impressive yourself…”

“Ready Weaselby?”

Late by 15 bloody minutes, and trying to hide from the goons that had essentially stalked him as a child (Not actually, he loved Greg and Vinny) for some piece and quiet. And what does he get?

A little drop? A couple Ripples?

How about a FUCKING TIDAL WAVE! 

Nervous blue eyes peered down towards his own, cheeks as red as his hair and his ears a bright scarlet. A tentative, terrified smile crawling its way up his lips, as the bloody fucking dolt literally walked right up to him. 

“Erm,” Weasley started awkwardly, pointing at the single open space directly beside Draco,  in the suddenly deathly quiet hall. “Sorry, but all the other spaces were full.”