Weasley is Our King

“Is it true?” The pale boy’s voice carried an unmistakable arrogance. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

Harry looked up, eyeing the boy carefully. His pale face was sharp, his expression laced with confidence. But Harry’s attention drifted to the two hulking figures standing on either side of him. Thickset, broad-shouldered, and looking as if they had just discovered the ability to walk upright.

“Oh, this is Crabbe, and this is Goyle,” the boy added carelessly, noticing Harry’s gaze. “And my name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Ron made a sound—somewhere between a cough and a suppressed snigger. Harry didn’t know if Ron was trying to hold back laughter or if he was just choking on his own existence.

Malfoy’s sharp eyes snapped toward him. “Think my name’s funny, do you?” His voice held the irritation of someone who had heard the same joke in his head a hundred times and still wasn’t ready to laugh. “No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

Ron, rather than looking insulted, perked up as if Malfoy had just given him an invitation to be a complete nuisance.

“Oh, brilliant! You must be psychic! What else did your father tell you? Can you guess what I had for breakfast?” Ron leaned forward, eyes wide with mock interest. “Go on, impress me. I’ll give you a hint—it was something we could afford!”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Malfoy’s lip curled. “I wouldn’t waste my time guessing the slop you lot eat.”

Ron gasped dramatically. “That’s it! You got it in one! Slop! Blimey, Harry, we’ve got a real seer here. Maybe he should teach Divination.”

Crabbe and Goyle, looking as though they were still trying to work out whether Ron was insulting them or not, remained silent.

Malfoy, clearly unimpressed, ignored Ron entirely and turned back to Harry. “You’ll find out soon enough, Potter. Some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, too late for that, mate. Harry’s already friends with me. Tragic, isn’t it? Now he’s doomed to a life of hand-me-downs and knowing what it’s like to eat real food instead of caviar and... whatever it is you lot eat. Gold-plated toast?”

Harry, at this point, wasn’t sure if Ron was deliberately trying to confuse Malfoy or if this was just how he normally spoke.

Malfoy sneered. “I can help you there, Potter. You don’t have to be stuck with him.”

Ron gasped again, clutching his chest. “Harry! Are you hearing this? He wants to steal you away! I knew it. He fancies you.”

Crabbe and Goyle blinked at each other, clearly lost.

Malfoy’s face twisted in horror. “What?! I do not—”

“Oh, don’t be shy about it, Malfoy,” Ron said, patting the seat beside him. “Come on, sit down. Let’s bond over our tragic backstories. I’m poor, you’re emotionally neglected. We have so much in common.”

Malfoy looked disgusted. Without another word, he turned and stormed off, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.

As the compartment door slammed shut, Ron stretched out lazily. “Well, that went well. I think I made a new friend.”

Harry just shook his head, grinning. “I think you traumatized him.”

Ron shrugged. “Even better.”