Threads of fate

Chapter 1: The One Who Did Not Attack

The night was filled with the rustling of countless legs and the chittering of fangs clicking against one another. The air was thick with tension as the great Aragog declared the laws of the Forbidden Forest. Humans were prey. Humans were not to be trusted.

But she—his daughter—did not move with the rest. Her many eyes remained fixed upon one of the intruders, his brilliant red hair a fiery contrast to the dark surroundings.

A feeling she did not understand wove itself into her mind. Not hunger. Not fear. Something else entirely. Fascination.

Ronald Weasley.

The others lunged, but she stayed back, frozen in place as her father ordered them away. She had spent all her life listening to the stories of men, the warnings of treachery, and the danger they posed. And yet… the way Ronald had stood, trembling but unyielding beside his friend, stirred something within her.

She was smitten.

Her name was Lysara. At least, that was the name she chose for herself, for she would not remain a nameless daughter of Aragog. Not when she had a purpose.

She began by listening. Watching. The small spiders that scurried through the castle and the grounds became her eyes and ears. She learned the ways of wizards, of Hogwarts, of Ron Weasley.

She learned of his fear.

It pained her. Ached in a way she had never known. How could he fear her kind when she longed only to be near him?

But she did not despair. She wove her determination into silk and began the work that would change her fate.

Lysara was not like the others. She had inherited magic, something deep and primal from the forest itself. And through endless trials, she learned to weave her silk into something beyond simple webbing.

She shaped it. Molded it. Layer by layer, she built the vessel that would allow her to walk among humans. A body of woven silk, mimicking the form she had so carefully studied.

Pale skin like the morning mist. Hair spun from the finest golden silk, styled in the ways he seemed to admire. Eyes as bright as a spider’s but softened, human-like.

She did not stop at the form.

Human magic. She would need it. And so she studied, listening to the whispers of the wands that the children carried. She learned the words, the gestures, the intentions that bent reality to their will.

By the time a year had passed, she was no longer simply Lysara, daughter of Aragog.

She was Lysara, a witch in her own right.

And she was ready.

She had miscalculated.

Just as she had completed her transformation, just as she had prepared to finally step forward and introduce herself to the one who had unknowingly captured her heart—he was gone.

The train had taken him away.

Her fury nearly unraveled the delicate magic that held her together. But she did not let it.

Patience.

The Triwizard Tournament. She had learned of it from the conversations in the castle, the excited whispers of students. Foreign schools would arrive. There would be attention, new faces, new opportunities.

The perfect moment to make her entrance.

She would wait no longer.

Ronald Weasley would know her.

And he would love her.

The arrival of the foreign students was a spectacle, exactly as she had predicted.

Durmstrang with its imposing figures, Beauxbatons with their ethereal grace. Eyes turned to them, admirers whispering in awe.

No one noticed her arrival.

That suited her just fine.

She walked the halls as though she had always belonged, weaving herself into the background, unnoticed but ever-present.

Ron was here. So close.

Her minions had whispered to her of his life, his likes, his dislikes. She knew what food he favored, what jokes made him laugh, what dreams he carried in his heart.

All that remained was the moment.

The moment when she would step forward and introduce herself.

When she would show him what she had done.

For him.

The Yule Ball.

A night of wonder and magic. A night of pairings and partners.

A night where he would need a date.

Lysara smiled, her silk-soft lips curling in satisfaction.

This would be the night.

The night where Ronald Weasley would finally see her.

And when he did…

He would never fear spiders again.

Lysara had spent months preparing for this. Every thread woven into her form, every step taken within the halls of Hogwarts, every word whispered into the ears of her spies—it all led to this moment.

The Yule Ball.

The night where she would finally step into the light and take what she desired.

Ronald Weasley.

He had no date yet. She knew this because her minions had relayed his every frustrated sigh, every grumble about his lack of options. She had watched from the shadows as he and Harry spoke in hushed tones, lamenting how difficult it was to ask a girl out.

It made her heart—new and fragile as it was—ache. It was time.

She adjusted the flowing gown she had woven for herself, deep crimson, the color of warmth, of Gryffindor, of him. Her golden silk hair cascaded down her shoulders, woven with tiny strands of enchantment to shimmer under the candlelight.

Taking a breath, she stepped forward.

Ron sat in the common room, slumped in one of the armchairs by the fire, a frustrated scowl on his face.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "No one’s gonna go with me, are they?"

"Perhaps," a voice purred, smooth as silk.

Ron jolted upright. He hadn’t heard anyone approach.

Before him stood a girl he didn’t recognize. That was odd, wasn’t it? He knew almost everyone at Hogwarts.

She was tall, graceful, with golden hair and a knowing smile. Her eyes—something about them felt strange, yet familiar.

He swallowed hard. "Uh sorry, do I know you?"

She tilted her head, studying him like a predator studying prey, but her expression was… soft. Amused.

"You do not. Not yet," she said, voice laced with something almost hypnotic. "But I have known you for a long time, Ronald Weasley."

His mouth went dry. "Right. Uh. That’s… good?"

She stepped closer, her movements unnaturally smooth. "You need a date to the Yule Ball. I offer myself."

Ron’s brain shut down.

This had to be a prank, right? A joke? But she didn’t sound like she was joking.

She sounded serious.

And maybe it was desperation or maybe it was the way she was looking at him, but he found himself croaking out, "You sure? I mean—uh, yeah, great! That’d be great!"

A smile spread across her lips, slow and knowing. "Then it is decided."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, leaving Ron to wonder what in Merlin’s name had just happened.

The Yule Ball was a spectacle.

Lysara had watched from the shadows for so long, but now she was part of the light. She felt the magic in the air, the way the chandeliers gleamed, the way the students twirled in their finest robes.

But none of it mattered.

Only Ron.

He had cleaned up nicely, in deep red dress robes that clashed slightly with his hair but still made him look… wonderful.

"Uh—Lysara, right?" he asked, fidgeting. "That’s your name?"

She smiled. "Yes."

"Cool. Uh. Yeah. You look—" He cleared his throat. "You look brilliant."

If she had a heart, it would have burst.

She held out her hand. "Shall we dance?"

Ron hesitated. "Er—bit rubbish at dancing."

"I will guide you."

She took his hand, and though he was stiff at first, he slowly eased into it. They moved across the floor, and for the first time in her existence, she felt truly human.

Lysara was content.

For the first time, she was not just a silent observer. Ron laughed at her jokes, he smiled at her, he enjoyed her company.

And yet… something gnawed at her.

A deception.

She was not truly human. Not like him.

She had woven this body for him. She had learned magic for him. She had become something new for him. But if he knew—if he saw what she truly was—would he still look at her with warmth?

She knew what she had to do.

After the ball, as they walked along the castle grounds, she paused.

"Ronald," she said softly, "I must tell you something."

He blinked. "Yeah?"

She hesitated. Then, slowly, she reached up and touched her cheek.

A single thread unraveled.

Her skin shimmered, then rippled, revealing the fine, silken webbing underneath. Her hair, golden and flowing, dissolved into fine, glowing threads of spun magic.

She braced herself for his reaction.

Ron went white. "Bloody… bloody hell!"

She flinched. "Ronald—"

"You’re—you’re a spider?!"

She closed her eyes. "I was born one. I am something else now. Something new. I have woven myself into what I am. For you."

"For me?" He stumbled back. "Merlin’s beard—you tricked me!"

"No," she pleaded, stepping forward. "I have watched you. Admired you. I only wished to be near you!"

Ron ran a shaking hand through his hair, face pale. "You—you’re one of Aragog’s lot?"

"Not anymore." Her voice trembled. "I have left them behind. I have built this—my body, my magic—for you."

Ron’s breath was uneven. "But—why me?"

She looked at him, her many-layered eyes shining. "Because the first time I saw you, my heart—" She placed a delicate hand on her chest. "—it wove itself around you."

Silence stretched between them.

Ron opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then rubbed his face. "I—I don’t know how to deal with this."

Lysara lowered her head. "I understand."

He hesitated. "You—don’t want to eat me, do you?"

She laughed, a soft, almost sorrowful sound. "No, Ronald."

"...Right. Good."

He swallowed. Looked at her again. "So… you’re really a spider?"

She nodded.

He exhaled sharply. "Bloody hell."

And then—against all odds—he laughed.

Lysara froze. "Why do you laugh?"

"Because this is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me!" he said, still breathless. "And that’s saying something!"

She blinked. "You… do not despise me?"

He ran a hand through his hair again. "I—I don’t know how I feel about this. You’re—you’re not human. But you—" He looked at her, really looked at her. "You did all of this for me?"

She nodded.

He swallowed hard. "That’s… well, it’s mental, but it’s also kind of… sweet? In a really really weird way?"

Her many-threaded heart lifted. "Then… you do not hate me?"

Ron sighed. "Hate? No. Completely freaked out? Absolutely." He exhaled. "But I—uh. I guess we could try being friends first?"

Lysara’s woven heart soared.

"Yes," she whispered. "That would be enough."

For now.

Lysara did not sleep. Not in the way humans did. Instead, she spent the night weaving over the conversation, replaying every word, every flicker of Ron’s expression.

He had not rejected her outright.

He was afraid, yes. Confused, certainly. But not disgusted.

And now, she had a chance.

Friendship.

A delicate web, spun with care.

Ron did not tell anyone about her.

At first, she thought it was out of shame. But as days passed, she realized—he was trying to understand.

He still flinched when she moved too quickly, when the light caught the strands of silk that made up her body.

But he was trying.

One afternoon, she found him sitting outside by the lake, absently throwing stones into the water.

She approached silently, but he stiffened before she spoke.

"You feel different," he muttered. "Not like normal people."

She hesitated. "Would you prefer I remain at a distance?"

Ron sighed. "I dunno. Maybe?" Then, after a pause, he groaned. "No, that’d be stupid. Look—I don’t want to be scared of you. It’s just—bloody hell, Lysara. You’re a spider."

"I was." She sat beside him, folding her hands. "Now, I am something new."

Ron glanced at her. "Why me?"

She tilted her head. "Why not you?"

He huffed. "I mean—you could've chosen anyone to... y’know. Fixate on."

She smiled. "Perhaps. But it was you. Your fire. Your laughter. The way you faced your fears, even when they threatened to consume you."

Ron flushed. "Well—yeah, but I was terrified that day in the forest!"

"And yet, you stood. Even as you trembled."

Silence.

Ron picked at the hem of his sleeve, then muttered, "Still kinda weird."

"Would you like me to be less so?"

"...Nah. You’d probably still be weird even if you were human."

Lysara’s woven heart warmed.

Progress.

Days turned into weeks, and while Ron was still wary, he slowly stopped flinching.

She tested small things first. Sitting next to him at meals. Asking about his day. Watching Quidditch matches with him.

It wasn’t easy. Others noticed her presence now—Harry, Hermione, even the twins gave Ron odd looks.

"Oi, Ronniekins, who's your mysterious new friend?"

Ron nearly choked on his food. "N-not now, Fred!"

Lysara merely smiled.

Hermione, however, was more skeptical.

"I don’t remember you from last year," she said one evening, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Lysara met her gaze calmly. "I kept to myself."

Hermione frowned. "But where are you from?"

Lysara hesitated. Lying would be foolish—Hermione would find inconsistencies.

"I was… born in the Forbidden Forest," she admitted.

Ron stiffened beside her.

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Oi, wait—what?" Fred and George leaned forward, intrigued.

Lysara merely sipped her pumpkin juice. "My father was a great ruler there. But I sought a different path."

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror. "Wait a second—your father—"

Ron waved his hands frantically. "Let’s not talk about that right now!"

Lysara chuckled softly.

Months passed, and Ron grew… comfortable.

Not completely—he still stiffened when he caught a shimmer of silk in her movements, still grumbled about how strange everything was.

But he no longer avoided her.

One night, after a particularly exhausting Quidditch match, he plopped onto the couch beside her and groaned.

"Merlin, my arms feel like jelly."

"Would you like assistance?" she offered.

He cracked an eye open. "What, you know some fancy massage charm or somethin'?"

Lysara did not answer. Instead, she wove delicate strands of magic-infused silk between her fingers.

And then—gently—she pressed them against his aching muscles.

Ron melted.

"Holy—that’s amazing."

She smiled, pleased. "I am glad."

For the first time, he leaned into her touch instead of away from it.

And Lysara knew: the web was tightening.

It happened on a cold night in February.

They had gone for a walk by the lake when Ron suddenly stopped, rubbing his arms.

She noticed it instantly—the slight tremble, the furrow of his brow.

"You are cold," she observed.

"Yeah, well, winter and all that," he muttered.

Without hesitation, she wove a new strand of silk between her fingers—one infused with warmth, shimmering faintly under the moonlight.

Before he could react, she draped it over his shoulders.

Ron inhaled sharply. The warmth seeped into his skin, gentle and comforting.

"You—" He turned to her, expression unreadable. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I wanted to."

Ron swallowed, shifting. His ears were red now, but not from the cold.

"I, uh… I guess I should thank you."

"You need not. But if you insist, I will accept it."

Ron snorted. "Always so weird."

And yet—his voice was fond.

Lysara dared to hope.

It was slow.

Ron still called her weird, still had moments where his instincts screamed at him to run.

But more and more, he chose to stay.

They sat together in classes. They shared meals. They laughed.

And then—one evening, as they walked toward the common room, Ron hesitated.

Lysara tilted her head. "Something troubles you?"

Ron exhaled. "Nah, just… thinking."

He rubbed his neck awkwardly.

Then, without warning, he reached out.

For a brief moment, his fingers brushed over hers.

Not silk. Not webbing. Just warmth.

He quickly pulled away, ears burning. "Uh—right, good night then!"

And then he practically sprinted into the common room.

Lysara stared at her hand.

The web had tightened.

And one day soon…

It would catch him.

Ron avoided her for three days.

Lysara had seen it happen before—humans pulling away when something confused or frightened them. But she had hoped… hoped that he had moved beyond that.

Clearly, she had overestimated his readiness.

She let him run, let him tangle himself in his own uncertainty.

And when the moment was right, she approached.

It was late, the Gryffindor common room mostly empty. Ron sat by the fire, absently flipping through a book, though he clearly wasn’t reading.

Lysara moved with practiced grace, her silk-woven form soundless as she settled beside him.

"You have been avoiding me," she said softly.

Ron jumped, nearly dropping his book. "Bloody hell!" He ran a hand through his hair. "You gotta stop sneaking up on people like that!"

She tilted her head. "I do not sneak. I simply move as I always have."

"Yeah, well—" He stopped, sighing. "Look, I wasn’t avoiding you, exactly."

Lysara remained silent.

Ron fidgeted. "Alright, maybe a little."

Her many-layered eyes studied him. "Why?"

He groaned, slumping into his seat. "Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about all this!"

Lysara waited.

Ron exhaled sharply. "You’re you, and you’re not human, and that should freak me out! But it doesn’t! At least, not in the way it used to." He ran his hands through his hair. "You’re weird, and yeah, still kinda terrifying sometimes, but also—" He stopped. "Merlin’s beard, I don’t even know what I’m saying."

"You are saying that you no longer fear me as you once did."

He huffed. "Yeah, I guess."

Lysara reached out—slowly, carefully.

This time, when her fingers brushed his, he did not pull away.

"Then I am pleased," she murmured.

Ron didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, with a sigh, he laced his fingers just slightly between hers.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "Guess I’m caught in your web, aren’t I?"

Lysara smiled.

"Yes," she whispered.

Their relationship—if it could be called that—was not normal.

Ron didn’t know how to define it.

Lysara was not human. That much was clear. But she was herself, and that—somehow—was enough.

He still caught himself staring sometimes. The way her hair shimmered in the light, the way her fingers moved so precisely, as if she were always weaving something unseen.

And sometimes, he forgot entirely.

Like now, as they sat beneath a tree near the lake, Ron absentmindedly rambling about Quidditch while Lysara listened, a small smile on her lips.

He gestured wildly. "And then, Harry pulled off this mental dive—almost went headfirst into the stands, I swear! And I was just standing there thinking, ‘Welp, guess that’s the end of the Boy Who Lived!’"

Lysara chuckled. "Your passion for this game is… intoxicating."

Ron blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

She studied him, something unreadable in her gaze. "You are happiest when you speak of it."

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yeah. I mean, it’s Quidditch."

Lysara shifted slightly closer. "Then, if it brings you joy… I would like to learn."

Ron nearly choked. "You? Play Quidditch?"

"Why not?" she asked, tilting her head. "I am faster than most, and my balance is unparalleled."

He snorted. "Yeah, but—no offense—you weren’t exactly born for a broomstick."

She smirked. "Perhaps. But I was also not born to be human, and yet…" She spread her fingers, the silk-threaded magic humming beneath them. "I have woven myself into something new before."

Ron stared.

Then—against all reason—he laughed.

"You really are somethin’ else," he muttered.

Lysara’s expression softened. "And yet, you remain by my side."

Ron swallowed, shifting. His fingers twitched where they rested beside hers.

Lysara watched the movement with silent amusement.

Ron groaned, running a hand over his face. "Merlin, this is so weird."

"And yet?"

He exhaled. "And yet."

And just like that, his fingers brushed over hers again.

Lysara did not press, did not push.

But she knew, without doubt—

She had him.

And soon…

He would accept that he had her too.

The others noticed.

Harry, for one, kept giving Ron suspicious glances.

Hermione was worse.

"Ron, who is she?" she demanded one evening.

Ron winced. "Er—"

Lysara merely smiled, her eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "I am Lysara."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Yes, we know that. But where did you come from?"

Ron stiffened.

Lysara, however, remained unbothered.

"I was born in the Forbidden Forest," she admitted.

Hermione paled. "What?"

Ron groaned. "Here we go—"

"You knew?" Hermione hissed at Ron. "You knew she was from there?"

Ron raised his hands defensively. "Look, it’s not—"

"Do you have any idea what that means?" Hermione continued, voice sharp. "There are only two creatures in that forest who could possibly—"

She stopped.

Her face drained of color.

She turned slowly to Lysara. "You’re an Acromantula."

Ron grimaced. "Er—were."

Hermione gaped. "This isn’t possible. Acromantulas
can’t do human magic—"

"They cannot," Lysara agreed. "But I am not simply an Acromantula anymore."

Hermione’s brain visibly struggled.

"But—but how—?"

Ron sighed. "Magic, Hermione. Magic."

She shot him a look. "This isn’t just magic—this is something else entirely!"

Lysara merely smiled. "Perhaps."

Hermione’s gaze flickered between the two of them.

Then, suddenly, she narrowed her eyes at Ron.

"Are you dating her?"

Ron choked. "What?"

Lysara blinked. "Are we?"

Ron turned scarlet. "No! I mean—no! We’re—we’re just—"

Hermione stared.

Lysara tilted her head.

Ron buried his face in his hands. "Bloody hell."

That night, as they sat together near the fire, Ron muttered, "You liked watching me suffer back there, didn’t you?"

Lysara’s lips curled. "I found it… entertaining."

Ron groaned. "You’re evil."

She chuckled. "I have been called worse."

Ron huffed. Then, after a pause, he mumbled, "She’s right, though."

Lysara arched a brow. "About?"

Ron fidgeted. "Are we dating?"

Lysara considered.

Then, gently, she took his hand.

"If you wish it," she murmured, "we are."

Ron swallowed hard.

The silence stretched.

Then—hesitantly—he squeezed her fingers.

"Yeah," he muttered, ears burning. "Alright."

Lysara smiled.

The web was complete.