What if

The next day, when Ron returned to the same spot, looking for a place to avoid his two best friends, he found Blaise there again. He tried to chase him away a couple of times, but Blaise, annoyingly unfazed, just raised an eyebrow and stayed put. After a few half-hearted attempts, Ron gave up.
Three days later, he only bothered trying once. After a week, he had stopped muttering under his breath about it.
Now, nearly two weeks had passed, and those quiet moments spent together in the evening had become almost routine.

They weren’t friends—Ron could never be friends with a Slytherin, let alone Zabini—but when they met by the lake at night, the silence that settled between them felt... familiar. Comfortable, even.

One evening, Blaise decided to break that silence, his eyes tracing the constellations above them. Ron, sitting beside him on the cold grass, kept his gaze on the darkened school grounds, fingers curled tightly around his wand, as if gripping onto it could keep the world from shifting any further beneath his feet.

“You know,” Blaise mused, “Hogwarts looks different at night. More… peaceful.”

Ron scoffed. “Doesn’t seem that different to me. Still full of ghosts—literally and otherwise.”

Blaise smirked slightly, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective. Ghosts don’t bother me much. It’s the living who do.”

Ron turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Why are you here, Zabini? Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?” He meant for his tone to be sharp, irritated, but the truth was, he wasn’t nearly as bothered by Blaise’s presence as he pretended to be. There was something about it—about him—that didn’t demand anything from Ron. Didn’t push him to talk, to explain, to pretend he was fine.

Blaise shrugged, unfazed. “Not really. And besides, you have this magnetic aura of anger. Hard to ignore.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. That’s exactly what I want to be known for.”

Blaise didn’t laugh. Instead, he studied Ron for a long moment before speaking again, his voice as smooth as ever, but with an edge of persistence. “You know, anger is a loyal companion, but it’ll eat you alive if you don’t find a way to let it go.”

Ron stiffened, his grip on his wand tightening. He had been dreading this conversation without even realizing it. Blaise had been hinting at it for days now, testing the waters, and Ron had done his best to ignore him. But of course, Zabini was nothing if not stubborn.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair, already regretting having come outside tonight. “Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Blaise said, his tone perfectly even. “You act like I’m saying something ridiculous, but deep down, you know I’m right. This constant anger—it’s not helping you.”

Ron let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, and I suppose you’re the expert on handling emotions, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say expert,” Blaise admitted, still maddeningly calm, “but I know what it looks like when someone is holding onto something that’s only hurting them.”

Ron slammed his wand against his knee, the sharp sound breaking the quiet. “Listen, Zabini, I’m not here to get life advice from a Slytherin. You don’t understand anything about what I’m going through.” His voice had a bite to it now, a warning. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not with Blaise. Not with anyone.

Blaise studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he simply said, “Maybe not. But I do know that losing someone isn’t easy.”

Ron’s breath caught. The air between them suddenly felt too heavy. He turned sharply toward Blaise, eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Blaise looked away, his dark eyes fixed on the sky. “Fred. I never got the chance to say… I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t mean much, but—”

“Don’t.” Ron’s voice was low, dangerous. His entire body had gone tense. He turned fully toward Blaise now, eyes blazing with fury. “Don’t you dare talk about Fred. You don’t know anything about him, about us, about what we lost.”

Blaise didn’t flinch. His usual composure cracked just slightly, just enough for Ron to catch a glimpse of something deeper. But he recovered quickly, his voice steady. “You’re right. I didn’t know him. But I was there. I saw what happened. And even if I wasn’t the one who—”

“You were there,” Ron cut him off, his voice sharp as a knife. “With them. With your damn Slytherins. You did nothing to stop it. And now you’re standing here, acting all wise, talking about moving on?”

Blaise stood slowly, his posture as relaxed as ever, but his expression unreadable. “I was never a Death Eater, Weasley. Never.”

“But you’re just like them!” Ron shouted, his voice raw. “You watched, Zabini! You let it happen. To me, you’re no different from the Death Eaters.”

For the first time, Ron’s words seemed to land like a blow. Blaise’s face went completely blank, devoid of any of his usual amusement or cool indifference. And for a second—just a second—Ron thought he saw something like hurt flicker behind his eyes.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone. Blaise’s expression smoothed over into something colder, more distant.

“Think what you want, Weasley,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp as ice. “But remember this: your pain doesn’t give you the right to judge everyone who wasn’t on your side. Not everyone had the luxury of choosing.”

He turned and walked away without another word, disappearing into the darkness of the school grounds.

Ron stayed where he was, his hands clenched into fists, his chest heaving. His anger still burned, but underneath it, tangled up in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge, was something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like regret.

Ron stomped into the Gryffindor dormitory, slamming the door behind him with a loud thud that echoed off the walls. Harry was sitting on his bed, but he didn’t even glance up.
Ron watched him for a moment, hoping for a sign, a word, anything that could break down the wall of coldness between them. But Harry just kept flipping through an old book, showing no interest in his presence.
"Are you still mad at me?" He asked, trying to mask the irritation in his voice.
Harry turned another page without looking up. "I don't want to talk about it."

Ron clenched his fists but decided not to push it. He threw himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as the silence between them grew heavier, like a chain weighing them down.

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter. Ron sat at the Gryffindor table, grabbing a piece of toast without much enthusiasm. His eyes drifted toward the Slytherin table, where Blaise Zabini was talking to Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass.
Normally, Blaise would have sat near him, maybe with one of his sarcastic comments or a teasing remark, or he would have just sat in silence. Or perhaps he would have thrown him one of those friendly glances Ron hated so much—or thought he hated so much.

But that morning, Blaise seemed determined to ignore him. Not even a glance.
Ron tightened his grip around his goblet of pumpkin juice. Not that he cared, of course. Zabini was a Slytherin, and Slytherins couldn’t be trusted. But then why did he feel this dull irritation in his chest, like he had done something wrong?

Why do I even care? he thought, shaking his head. It was ridiculous. Zabini wasn’t his friend. He wasn’t anything to him.

And yet, when he saw Blaise laughing at something Pansy had said, he realized it annoyed him.
Deciding he had had enough, Ron pushed his plate aside and got up. He didn’t need this. Heading back to the Gryffindor dormitory seemed like a much better idea than sitting there, torturing himself with useless thoughts.

When he reached the dorm, however, the door was slightly ajar, and he could hear hushed voices from inside.

"Draco..."

Ron’s heart stopped for a moment. He leaned forward just enough to see inside, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Harry and Draco were there. Close. Too close. And when Ron saw Draco leaning in even further, his breath caught in his throat.

Malfoy's lips brushed against Harry's in a kiss—slow, almost hesitant, but filled with an intensity that made Ron feel like an intruder.
He didn’t know what to do. His brain seemed to freeze, unable to process what he was seeing. Then, without thinking, he moved to back away, but the door creaked under his touch.

Harry pulled away from Draco instantly, his eyes wide as he turned toward the door. "Ron!"

Ron froze for a second, his face burning with embarrassment and confusion. But instead of responding, he turned and bolted, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Ron, wait!" Harry called after him, but Ron didn’t stop. He ran down the corridor, ignoring his best friend's voice, too overwhelmed to face him.

When he finally stopped, far from any prying ears, he leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.

“What the hell is going on?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. The world had suddenly flipped upside down, and he had no idea how to set it right.