The Silver Lining
Ronald Weasley was used to just going the easy route. After years of just being seen as the sixth out of seven, as the youngest boy Weasley, as the spare on the way to the beloved daughter, he was used to fading in the background. After all, after his older brothers held titles of prefects, head boy, quidditch captain, and the most ingenious pranksters Hogwarts had seen in decades, what could Ron bring to the family legacy?
He shifted anxiously between the first people he’s met that didn’t see his hair and see anything less than Ron. The first people that looked at the world in something other than black and white, who pointed out the flaws in the mindset Ron learned at his parents’ knees, and didn’t seem to hate him for needing time to think things through himself.
The intimidating professor who opened the doors, McGonagall, made Harry take off his beanie, looked doubtingly at the rest of them, then disappeared, leaving them all to stand awkwardly in the entrance hall. Hermione drank everything in, barely even noticing when a bunch of ghosts floated through the wall, talking about that poltergeist that Ron’s brothers warned him about. Harry just tried to flatten the hair above his scar, almost trying to melt into Ron’s side when someone looked at him a little too long. Ron made a point of shifting in front of him each time, not noticing the grateful look sent his way.
The Sorting Hat (and he can’t believe that’s the test, and not fighting a troll like Fred and George mentioned) wasn’t too impressive, even when it started singing about the different houses. He decided to put names to the faces around them, even as he inched closer to Harry when he noticed the curious eyes staring at his friend.
He kept a hushed running commentary on each student who got sorted, letting the other two learn families, blood status, and connections that he knew even growing up as sheltered as he was. He pointed out why Draco Malfoy was bookmarked by two hulking eleven-year-olds, why Neville Longbottom was shying away from the other Purebloods, why Gryffindors booed every time someone was sorted Slytherin. Hermione just nodded at each new piece of information, locking it in the steel trap that Ron was coming to realize was her mind. Harry just watched, taking in every inch of the Great Hall.
Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived wasn’t anything like he thought he would be. Where he expected a confident, golden hero, there was a scrawny, shifty-eyed ball of nerves. He could see Harry, out of the corner of his eye, hands wrenching in the beanie he clearly wanted to put back on, clenching his jaw every time whispers of his name reached the trio.
Hermione, on Ron’s other side, seemed impassive as she watched the sortings. As each student moved to a table, her sharp eyes scanned each house for reactions.
Ron knew that girl was going to do something insane before she even went to her first class.
As her name was called, her spine stiffened, and her face went blank. She gave the boys a weak smile before clenching her fists and walking up to Professor McGonagall.
Her sorting took six minutes. Her fists didn’t loosen for the majority of that time, but when her hands finally smoothed down the skirt of her uniform, a smirk could be seen from where the Hat was perched precariously on the curls of her head.
Seconds later, the Hat gave a grin and yelled, “SLYTHERIN!”
Her smirk lasted for half a second more before she dropped her blank mask in place and stood. She bowed slightly to the professor as she handed the Hat back, and then walked to the Slytherin table with her head held high.
She didn’t seem fazed at all when the other first years shifted to isolate her at the table, eyes just flicking around her at her new housemates.
Harry watched her, eyes not leaving her even when Neville Longbottom had to run back from the Gryffindor table to return the Hat, even when Malfoy gave the muggleborn an appraising look as he settled a few feet to her right. She looked up at that point, making eye contact with both of them, worrying her lip between her teeth again.
Even when his own name was called, Ron had to elbow Harry and push him towards the Hat. Towards a single word that might change his life. Towards his future.
The gasp when Harry Potter, after three minutes of uncomfortable wriggling, was sorted into Slytherin echoed through the Great Hall. Snape knocked over the goblet in front of him. Dumbledore himself dropped the quill he was writing with. McGonagall barely registered Harry having to take the hat off himself.
And in that moment, something in Ronald Weasley shifted.
Maybe he just saw through the blank look on Harry’s face when he hands the Hat back to McGonagall, the breath the too-small boy has to take before he sat across from Hermione, who gave him an understanding smile, if a little too sharp.
Maybe it was the look in all three of his brothers’ faces, as they sat cradled in the glory of Gryffindor, confused at losing their hero, but giving Ron thumbs-ups and confident smiles when they meet his eyes, knowing that he will sitting among them, even shifting apart to leave him a space.
Maybe it was the echo of a muggleborn fighting for both sides of a war that wrecked a society she never got a chance to learn about before being forced into. The logic an eleven-year-old could figure out that full-grown adults never cared enough about to realize about a stupid label that they force on students before they even know who they are.
Maybe it was the fact that even the first years that know where they are going are nervous, scared. That even Malfoy gave a small sigh of relief when he was sorted. That all of the eleven-year-olds sitting at the far side of the four tables were shifting, watching their new housemates, staring up at the teachers sitting only a few feet away, showing how much even the children of Death Eaters are unsure and terrified about how their lives are about to change.
Maybe in that split second, Ronald Weasley, sixth son of the Prewett-Weasleys, who had resigned himself for years to being yet another red-tied, red-haired menace running through a tower, realized that bravery comes in all forms, not just lion’s red and gold.
Maybe, for the first time in his life, maybe Ron didn’t want the easy way out. Maybe school didn’t just have to be seven years of boring lessons that took time away from friends and Quidditch. Maybe it could be more of a game of chess, with hundreds of pieces he can learn the moves of, himself the shining knight beside the bishop that Harry Potter might become, flanking the queen that he knew Hermione Granger would fight her way to emulating.
Well, he thought as he walked towards the small stool in front of the entire school, if I wanted to contribute to my family legacy in a new way, this is one way to do it.
The Hat took a second. Plenty to work with here. And I see what you want. But before I send you to where you see yourself, let me be sure you know what you want. So tell me, Mr. Weasley, what do you want?
Ron sat, thoughts flying. What do I want? I want… Words popped up, images of possible futures, of things to aspire to… powerloveaffectiontrustknowledgefaithtobeRonnotanotherWeasley…
The Hat broke through again. What do you want?
Ron looked up at the waiting masses of his fellow students. I just want.
The Sorting Hat laughed in his mind. At least you’re being reasonable about this. I’ve been trying to get one of you Weasleys to realize that Gryffindor won’t actually help you gain anything in this life for generations. You will be the best of your family, young one. Ron’s spine straightened as the Hat yelled “SLYTHERIN” for the Great Hall to hear. A smirk, mirroring Hermione’s a few minutes prior, graced his face as he didn’t spare the incensed Gryffindor table a glance, heading straight for the surprised grins of his two new friends. His smirk didn’t leave his face as he loped somewhat gracefully to his new table.
He made a promise to help them in the Wizarding World, after all.
And if there was one thing he wanted the world to know, it was that Ronald Weasley, first Weasley in Slytherin in over three centuries, kept his promises.
He settled next to Harry, separating him from the calculating look of Malfoy as Hermione met his eyes across the table with a soft smile. Harry pressed a quick hand into his, leaving a Chocolate Frog card there as Harry turned back to the end of the sorting, a Zabini settling next to the other group of first years at their table. Ron looked down under the table to see the imposing face of Salazar Slytherin, who glanced up at him and then disappeared with a wink.
Harry saw Ron’s responding grin before the taller boy bumped shoulders with him. A man with an impressive gray beard stood, arms stretched wide as he introduced himself and welcomed them all to the new school year. It took Harry a moment to realize that this was Albus Dumbledore, whom he had seen in one of the history books Hermione had shown them during their train ride. He gave them all a warm smile, twinkling eyes seeming to land on Harry a little too often, before he gave a final announcement.
For a moment, Harry was warmed by the gaze. And then he remembered days in Gerard’s office, going over Harry’s childhood and the reason behind it. Dumbledore. Harry took a deep breath as he turned back to his friends.
“Before we begin our banquet, I’d like to say a few more words. And they are, Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!” He sat down at the High Table, and Harry looked back down to see more food than he could even imagine piling high on the groaning table.
Harry looked back up at the headmaster. “Is he… mad?” he whispered to Ron, who was loading potatoes onto the empty plates in front of both Harry and himself.
“He’s a right genius, no doubt, but yeah. He’s a bit barmy.” Ron handed the spoon to Hermione, who was eyeing the professors with a critical eye.
“Ron, do you know all of the professors?” she asked, mindlessly scooping food onto her plate without really noticing what was going on it.
The boy shook his head. “Not really. We met Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor, and I’m pretty sure the one with the dark robes and sour look on his face is Professor Snape, head of Slytherin and a few years younger than my parents. Mum mentioned him when he got the position, youngest Potions professor both in the Isles and on the continent.”
Harry spoke up. “The one in the turban is Professor Quirrell, he teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts. I met him when Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley, he was at the Leaky. I know of a few other professors, but not who’s who.” He was looking up as he told them this, and when both Quirrell and Snape stopped their conversation to look down at their table, he felt a searing pain in his scar, hand instinctively slapping to his forehead with a hiss.
The glare he was receiving from the Potions Master didn’t seem to help things.
Ron leaned forward. “You okay, mate?”
Harry nodded, looking down at his heaping plate, courtesy of his friends. “Yeah, it was nothing.”
Hermione frowned. “Your scar looks… almost inflamed, Harry, are you sure you’re okay?”
He just started shoving food in his mouth. He just gave them both a nod as he focused on his plate, not noticing yet another look pass between his friends.
At that moment, an older boy with an ugly expression scooted down next to Harry. “Potter, right? Little scrawny for a first year, you sure you’re not a year or two early? Need someone to help you into your robes every morning? Did someone have to help you up the stairs to the castle? If you needed help, you probably should’ve gone to another house, you won’t find it here.”
Harry just continued eating, ignoring him as best he could, until the boy snatched his goblet of pumpkin juice right out of his hand.
“What’s wrong, Potter? Haven’t learned to speak? Hope all of your growing is going to your head since it’s definitely not going to your height.” The boy made a motion to poke at Harry’s wild hair.
Harry flicked his wrist, snapping his wand out of his arm holster to aim it under his outstretched arm at the ribcage of the older boy, whose movement stopped immediately. “I don’t need the extra height if I hex your legs off at the knees, prick.”
Ron grinned at Hermione, who was fidgeting with her wand under the table as she watched. She rolled her eyes with a soft smile as the older boy looked down at Harry’s arm.
“Am I supposed to believe that a first year knows a hex strong enough to deter me?”
Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting as he used his free hand to grab his goblet back. “Maybe I should introduce my friends here. Hermione, across the table, had read every single book assigned to us before we even got on the train, and successfully performed every spell she’s tried. Ron here happens to be the youngest Weasley at Hogwarts. Maybe you know his older brothers, the Twin Terrors of Gryffindor?” The nickname was laughed about on the train, but the look of hesitation in the boy’s eyes made Harry think it was a little too close for comfort. “Do you really want to see if I can put my wand where my mouth is?”
The boy swallowed before giving them all a smirk. “Glad to see the Hat hasn’t made a mistake yet, Potter. Had to check, see. I’m Marcus. I look forward to seeing how you three fare here.” He slid back down the table, whispering to his year mates who had watched the encounter from the corner of their eyes.
Ron bumped shoulders with Harry again, giving him a grin. “Bloody brilliant, mate.”
“Language, Ronald, seriously.” Hermione rolled her eyes again as she sipped delicately at the soup she had poured for herself, even as she beamed at Harry.
Twenty minutes had passed, Ron still going strong as dessert appeared, Harry having slowed down very quickly after starting to eat. Hermione watched both of them between watching the rest of their housemates. They chatted about classes they were looking forward to, Ron giving information that he learned from his older brothers, Hermione and Harry discussing supplementary books they had purchased at Flourish & Blotts. They both promised to let Ron borrow the books, as he was using the twins’ old textbooks and wasn’t able to afford anything more, and didn’t want to be left behind. The conversation about books made Harry start looking around for Flick, but he realized she would probably be at the far end of the table with the other seventh years. Finally, even the desserts disappeared, Ron wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin as Dumbledore stood once more.
Everyone fell silent as he started to speak. “Just a few more notices before we disperse to our rooms to prepare for the classes to come. First, our new students should know that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all our pupils. Some of our older students need that reminder as well, I’ve heard.” His eyes flashed to the Gryffindor table, where the Weasley twins had started whistling innocently.
“Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has also asked that I remind you that no magic is to be used between classes in the corridors. He also has mentioned that the list of forbidden items that can be confiscated from students if found can be located in his office.”
A grouchy old man clutching an even grouchier cat glared at the students from the corner of the High Table.
“Quidditch trials will be held within the next two weeks, depending on the House Captains. Anyone who wishes to play for their house team needs to be cleared by Madam Hooch before trying out.” A woman with hawk-yellow eyes raises a hand a few seats down from Dumbledore.
“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”
Hermione frowned again as Ron and Harry traded worried glances.
“And now, before we go to bed, the school song! Everyone, pick your favorite tune and off we go!” He pulled his wand out of his robes, giving it a little flick as the other professors’ smiles turned to grimaces. From his wand flew a golden ribbon, which floated above the tables and twisted into words.
No one from the Slytherin table sang louder than speaking volume, and most were simply speaking the words at a brisk pace. Harry squinted at the words, Ron and Hermione speeding through the lyrics quickly. The last people to sing were Fred and George, arms wrapped around each other as they sang a very slow funeral march. Ron’s eyes rolled so hard that Harry was worried they would get stuck in the back of his head.
Dumbledore conducted the end of the song before wiping his eyes. “Ah, music. Magic beyond anything we could hope to do here. Now, to bed, trot on!”
“He must have firewhiskey in that goblet of his to be that friendly all the time,” Ron muttered as they looked around. Hermione flicked his hand with a scowl, which switched to Harry as he laughed quietly.
Older students began streaming out of the hall. A girl up the table tried to make her way towards them through the crowd, before sighing and standing on the closest seat, turning down to where the first years were huddled at the end by the High Table. “Alright, first year Slytherins, we’re going to stay here for a moment to let the crowds pass, and then we’ll make our way down to our dungeon. Please make sure to stay within eyesight of me, I don’t want to be responsible for a lost firstie on day one.”
As the crowds lessened, other houses of first years dodging between the older students, the girl moved seat to seat to get closer and spoke up again. “My name is Gemma Farley. I’m a sixth-year prefect for Slytherin House. There are six prefects per house, a boy and a girl in fifth, sixth, and seventh year. Please note that the fifth- and seventh-year prefects will be busier than us sixth years, as they both have important tests at the end of the year. If you have any issues or questions, attempt to solve it amongst yourselves, then ask older students. If you need a prefect, start with me and Prefect Khan.”
A boy with skin almost as dark as Harry’s grinned at them from the other end of the table.
“Now, let’s go. Remember the paths we take, as we don’t want to have to hold your hand for more than a day.” Farley jumped down and walked out of the hall, not even checking that the first years were scrambling to follow her. Khan took the back end of the group, hands in his pocket as he walked.
Farley kept up a near-constant stream of facts and trivia about the school in general; the 142 staircases, how a Gryffindor decades back had cursed a certain stair to vanish going down, but not going up, how some hallways hadn’t been used in years, but were still technically open for students. They didn’t get a glance at any of the moving stairs, but Farley assured them they would become very familiar with them in the coming days.
Khan chimed in here and there, informing them all about the different ghosts and portraits that were reliable for help if they got lost, and the ones that definitely were not. He took special care to mention Peeves, the poltergeist that loved chaos and mischief. He tended to avoid Slytherin students for fear of the Great Baron, their house ghost, but apparently Khan’s younger sister wound up with a piece of chalk jammed up her nose when she got turned around on the second floor and was found by Peeves before a professor.
All three of them tried to memorize any and all recognizable features of the halls and stairs they took to get down to a stretch of empty hallway. Farley paused at a patch of wall that looked identical to the rest. “Welcome to Slytherin House. Most of the other houses believe that our common room entrance is actually in the hallway next to this one, as there is a portrait of a nest of snakes on the wall there. However, if you look up at the ceiling, you will see a small mural of a single snake pointing to this section of the bricks. No current student outside of Slytherin House has entered our common room in three centuries. If we find out someone breaks that streak, expect to spend a few nights in the Hospital Wing. Now, password changes once a fortnight, it will be posted on a notice board in the common room. The first one is bezoar.”
At her words, the bricks shifted apart, similar to the alley at the Leaky Cauldron. They swarmed in, taking in the common room now full of older students who had left earlier than the first years, as Farley kept speaking.
“A fun fact about our dorms: if someone from another house was able to enter, they would think our space cold, and uninviting. But those of us who belong here, who the Hat found worthy of carrying on the legacy of Salazar, will see it for what it is. Welcome, first years. Welcome to your new home.”
Hermione inhaled sharply as she eyed the room. Students were split into clusters throughout, much more relaxed and open in a space they were comfortable in. The space was open, with plenty of couches and chairs, study tables, tea tables against walls, even cushions on the floors. She immediately fell in love with the black marble of the floor covered in emerald green rugs, the towering shelves heaving with books, the fires roaring in stone fireplaces, the thick windows that looked out into what seemed to be murky water. She didn’t realize that something so dark could be so… warm.
Harry and Ron were both in awe beside her, similarly memorizing in their home for the next seven years. Instinctively, she grabbed Harry’s hand, and he squeezed back, shooting her an excited grin.
An older boy moved forward from a seat at one of the fireplaces. “Welcome, first years. Everyone else, welcome back. I’m Alaric Rosier, seventh-year prefect. The other seventh-year prefect, Felicity Higgs, is also the Head Girl, and has other duties tonight, but will introduce herself to you at some point soon. You’ve already met our sixth-year prefects. Our fifth-year prefects are Silas Lee and Erin Avery.” Two other students gave a wave from a study table in the corner, filled with what must have been other fifth years, loaded down with textbooks and lesson notes.
Rosier kept going. “A few quick rules before our Head of House stops by to check in. First, you all need to know that outside of these walls, we must have a united front. The other houses, no matter how well-meaning they seem, tend to look down on us. If they won’t have our backs, we have to have each other’s. I don’t care if you are mortal enemies. That can be hashed out in the common room, or even better, the dueling room down the hall. But once that brick closes behind you in that hallway, you will act like you are all the best of friends.” He sent a glare around the first years, who all nodded violently.
“Rule two, and this is a reminder for all of us here, in the same vein of looking like we have our shit together: good grades are expected. If you find yourself falling behind, you are expected to seek help. Start with other students in your classes, even professors if they’re willing. If you still need assistance, you can ask a prefect to set you up with an in-house tutor.”
Hermione’s eyes glinted at the idea of combing older students’ minds for information. Harry squeezed her hand again, giving her a knowing grin.
“Finally, rule three. We have a seven-year streak of getting the House cup. It may seem arbitrary, but consider it the Slytherin way of getting back at all of the professors who would rather give points to the other houses, even when we deserve them. You all will try your best to get us an eighth year. If you need to skirt the rules, be smart about it. Do not get caught. I will not have this streak broken while I am prefect. Do not make me have to go to extremes to make it happen.”
A soft clearing of the throat sounded from the back of the room, all of the first years spinning around to face the new voice. “Prefect Rosier, please do not encourage our new students to break the rules of this school so blatantly. Subtlety is one of our pillars, after all.” The boy just grinned and sat back down.
The Potions professor pulled his robes tight as he crossed his arms. “Slytherins, welcome home. I am Severus Snape, your Head of House. I am a resource for all of you, but please do not waste my time with things that can be solved betwixt yourselves.” He looked at the group of first years standing in awe at him. His eyes lingered at each of the trio, but his face didn’t change as he continued. “First years, you are expected in the common room by eight, and in your dorms by ten. Notice I said in the common room. We snakes have many places in the dungeons that we use for various reasons, there are lounges and study rooms in the surrounding hallways. Ask one of your prefects where the wards for the dungeons end—as long as you are past a certain point, you will find safety in these halls, no matter what year you are. Feel free to enjoy the space in the dungeons, but as I said, you must be on this side of the bricks by eight each night unless given a valid reason not to be. Lights out is not a requirement, but if you take advantage of this to your detriment, that will change. Mandatory health checks will take place this week for all years, no one will find a way to get out of it, Mr. Bletchley, Mr. Pucey.” Two boys standing in behind one of the couches flushed red as their friends shoved at them playfully.
Snape looked back to the first years. “To reiterate Prefect Rosier’s advice, do not get caught. Any infraction another professor or prefect assigns you may be either matched or exceeded by my own punishment. We must work twice as hard to get half the recognition the other houses receive. It is a sad truth that you will discover rather quickly. Stay sharp, study hard, and do Salazar and your housemates proud. Do not diminish the legacy of this house.” He sent a vicious glare at Harry, who couldn’t stop his instinct of immediately looking down and taking a step behind Ron, who didn’t even think before moving in front of him. “I wish you all good night.” Barely looking twice at the first years, he swept back through the brick, robe snapping at his heels.
“And with those loving words from our Head, let’s get you little ones to bed.” Farley gestured for them to follow her towards a doorway to the back of the common room. “We keep our dorms simple. Each of you will have a single room, boys on one side of the hall, girls on the other. Benefits of being the only ones in the dungeons, we have plenty of room. Each gender will share a living space and a bathroom. If you do not identify with the gender you were placed with, let one of us know and we’ll reassign you. You lot will be at the bottom of the stairs, keep going down until you see the banner for your year. Please don’t make the prefects walk all the way down to you to make sure you get to bed at a decent time.” She paused at the top of the stairs. “Breakfast starts at seven, classes start at nine. Don’t be late.”
They all began to descend, the hall getting darker even with torches lighting the way. The first years could peek into the shared dorms of the older students, seeing couches already covered in flung robes and books. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, they split into their two living spaces. Hermione grabbed a hand on both of the boys, giving them a squeeze and a grin as they said goodnight. Ron and Harry quickly chose rooms closer to the door, next to one another. Hermione nodded to the other girls, all four of whom were too tired to do anything but nod back as they opened their own rooms. She walked in, her trunk appearing as soon as she closed the door behind her.
She sighed as she ran a hand over a soft green blanket trimmed with silver.
This, this was going to be home.
She quickly changed into her pajamas and slid under the covers. She fell asleep with a grin on her face, and the memories of her two new friends fresh on her mind.
That night, only a few hallways away from where Harry Potter was trying to get used to the comfort of an actual mattress that was his, a brooding man slammed the door to his quarters closed, pulling his greasy hair back into a bun with the hairband that came flying from his bathroom with a wave of his hand. Settling at the desk in his study, he gave a few good thumps of his forehead to the thick oak wood. He stayed there for a moment, not even shifting when a knock gave way to the opening of his quarters’ door. The only response he gave to the intruder’s laugh was a groan, looking up to meet the amused gaze of his mentor and friend only when there was a clank of a bottle and a glass next to him.
“Shall we toast to the new additions of both our illustrious houses, Severus? I’m sure you’re thrilled to have your godson in a position for you to keep an eye on him.”
“You know that’s not the sorting that I’m despairing over, Minnie.” His tone was decidedly petulant, Minerva thought. “Or, shall I say, one of the three.” He reached for the scotch she had brought, poured the glass to the brim, pushed it towards her, and took a swig from the bottle itself. “Mordred grant me patience, having a muggleborn, a Weasley, and Potter among my snakes.”
Another swig.
Minerva shifted, settling across from him as she traced condensation on her glass. “Severus, you know I, of all people, know of your… turbulent relationship with the boy’s origins.”
The man froze in his seat, staring down at his desk.
She sighed. “I won’t ask you to forget the sins of his father, I simply implore that you don’t let it blind you to the sufferings of the son.”
He snorted. “What sufferings? He is known as a hero in this world, nearly born on a pedestal, no doubt spoiled beyond comprehension by whatever Potter cousin the Headmaster sent him to live with. I will not let him use his undue influence to ruin my godson–nor my house.”
Minerva put down her glass and leaned towards him. “Albus did not want this to be widely spread, but I think it would benefit us all if you knew—the boy was sent to live with her sister.”
His eyes met hers in a fury as he gripped the neck of the bottle. “Petunia? Why in Morgana’s name did anyone think that a wise idea? She’s hated magic since before she even knew it existed.”
She threw the drink back in a single motion, sighing at the comfortable burn it left in her throat. “Perhaps the same reason for the trials awaiting some fool student too clever for their own good on the third floor—Albus uses his influence to play chess on a board no one else can see, without telling the pieces the moves.” She stood, waving away his offer of a refill. “I’ll tell you this once, Severus Tobias Snape. You can have the nights to wallow in self-pity, to throw curses and hatred towards this situation. But once classes start in the morning, I will not hear of you treating that boy any differently than the rest of his year. I know you have more cunning than to let an eleven-year-old who can’t even touch the floor when he sits in a chair cause you so much unrest.”
He looked sheepish as she glared down at him, only giving her a nod as he took another drink.
“Morgana help us all,” he heard as the door closed behind her.