Well... I'm actually shocked that this fic made it this far. Hopefully, your muse let you post 5 more before it kicks the bucket.

Still... Thanks for the update.

Now, lets get down to business.

First and foremost, your prose is too American. Most of these are British gen X kids that have never seen a single American programme, so they speech hasn't been colonized by Hollywood unlike British millennials. It just kills the immersion. Please work on that.

Also, for anyone here who keeps accusing the author of bashing... are yall okay? It's nit bashing just cos a character don't agree with y'all. Like, Ron clearly has every right to hate and distrust Draco. He don't have to forgive and forget just cos that's ya boy smh. He's a human being who is allowed to have feelings.

the Sorcerer's Stone.

Eewww. Brother, eeewww. Ew, brother! What's that, brother??🤢

Nigerian magic school.

Ouagadou is actually in Western Uganda, even though it has a west African name lol. Still, Rowling's ign'ant ass got some 'splainin to do about this particular fuck up. Cos ain't no way all of Africa is sharing that one raggedy school in them gorilla mountains. I mean, with the way Africa's geography is set up, it's more like 5 or 6 deferent continent that border each other as opposed to the homogeneous continent everyone think it is. I mean, if a tiny place like Europe can have 4 international magic schools, then why can't Asia and Africa, right?😤

Anyway, I'm tired, so I'ma see yall if and when the next chapter drop. Bye.✌🏽
 
Gotta agree with that SB comment, the needless fanon about traditional and modern spells is basic bitch and would be absolutely something Ron would know.
I don't like him much, but I can't help being influnced by all the bashing fanfiction. At least I didn't watch shitty movies past the third.
Anyway Ron got his moments stolen by Hermione in the movies and fanfiction, he's not so useless or a terrible friend, besides the 4th year.
 
Wasn't the dark Lord during Doubledores eras whole thing that Muggles we're getting too dangerous. He needs to roll up and tell everyone I told you so.
 
Interlude: Pansy Parkingson New
Pansy Parkinson sat in the dim glow of the Slytherin common room, her gaze fixed on the murky green light filtering through the enchanted windows. The depths of the Black Lake pressed against the glass, shadows of fish and drifting plants distorting the faint light. Once, this sight had filled her with awe. Once, she had felt untouchable down here, shielded from the world above by cold stone and water.


She vividly remembered her first days at Hogwarts—a wide-eyed first-year, clutching her new robes and staring at everything with barely concealed wonder. The dungeons had felt like their own little kingdom, cut off from the noise and warmth of the upper castle. The other houses treaded lightly down here, eyes wary, voices hushed. The common room had been it's own little haven, its dark leather couches and emerald banners whispering of legacy and power.


But it wasn't the grandeur or the secrecy that had captivated her most—it was the promise. She remembered the prefects—sharp-eyed and self-assured—standing before the assembled first-years that first night. "You are Slytherin now. That means you are family. You watch each other's backs, and you stick together. If you have a problem, don't show it out there, in front of everyone. Family takes care of its own business, at home."


Family.


The word had struck her like a spark in a dark room. Pansy had grown up in a home of lies and deceit, where it was made clear that as a person, she was unwanted. Her mother manipulated her and her father with soft words and colder silences, while her father barely acknowledged her, his disappointment etched into every glance. A girl wasn't what he'd wanted. A daughter wasn't someone he could mold into a legacy. Girls were for breeding and making alliances. Boys were the leaders, the ones who shaped the world and made it run. Perhaps if he hadn't been cursed by a lucky shot early in the first War, he would have tried again. But the Healers at St. Mungoe's had made it clear that Pansy was their miracle child, and the chances of another Parkinson heir was dead in the water.


But Slytherin had been different. Here, she could have brothers and sisters—peers who would stand with her, not above her. Snape, though enigmatic and severe, could be something like a father figure—or at least a protector. With how viciously he protected his Slytherins from the rest of the school, and how he so obviously favored them in their potion classes, it was easy to replace the only male role model in her life from her father to Snape. Snape would never hit her or belittle her if she made a mistake. He would tell her that he expected better, that she was a Slytherin, that she could be more than what the world wanted her to be.


She had clung to those words like an oath, following Draco's lead not just because of her family's debt to the Malfoys, but because he seemed to understand what Slytherin meant. When he sneered at Potter, she sneered too. When he dismissed the other houses, she dismissed them without hesitation. Who needed Gryffindor's bravery, Ravenclaw's wit, or Hufflepuff's loyalty when she had the strength and solidarity of Slytherin?


She had been so certain.


But now... now everything felt different. The common room that had once been her sanctuary felt suffocating, the emerald light casting eerie shadows on familiar faces twisted by fear and suspicion. Fifth year had changed everything. With the Dark Lord's return no longer in doubt, and every one of her classmates having felt the weight of his presence, the bonds that had once tied them together had begun to rot.


The camaraderie of her first years had turned brittle and sharp-edged. Whispers carried venom instead of secrets, and every conversation felt like a duel—words chosen carefully, weaknesses probed relentlessly. Everyone was looking for an edge, a way to make themselves valuable in the Dark Lord's eyes, or at least to ensure they weren't the first to be sacrificed. Because if you weren't in the Inner Circle, if you didn't get a Dark Mark…then you were just spell fodder, a sponge for curses and hexes, whilst the real players made their moves in silence, manipulating the Ministry and Wizengamot alike with honeyed words and heavy purses.


She had tried to keep her head down, to maintain the alliances she had once thought unbreakable. But the smiles of her friends felt paper-thin now, their laughter hollow. Every glance carried suspicion, every compliment an ulterior motive.


Except for Draco.


Draco Malfoy, who had always been the ringleader, the center of their little circle, was different now. His pale face was drawn and tired, shadows heavy under his eyes. He spoke less, avoided unnecessary confrontations, and carried himself like someone bracing for a fight.


Or a war.


He was kinder, he had made friends with Potter's little group, who had once been their greatest enemies. His soft edges had sharpened, and despite his tiredness, there was a presence about him now, a feeling that made all of them realize that over the summer, Draco had morphed into someone who couldn't be controlled by hissed demands and threats. Only real power could make Draco bow now, and with what he had planned, he was searching for that kind of power himself.


He wasn't playing the game anymore—at least, not the same one everyone else was.


Pansy wasn't sure when she'd realized it, but somewhere in the silence between their last conversation and the haunted look in Draco's eyes, she'd started to understand.


He was scared—truly scared—not of punishment from his family or the Dark Lord but of something deeper, something that clawed at him from within.


And, perhaps most terrifying of all, Pansy realized that Draco Malfoy—the boy who had once seemed untouchable, unshakable—was starting to crack.


The worst part? She couldn't blame him.


The promise of solidarity, the pledge of family, had unraveled into something twisted and hollow. Slytherin House no longer felt like a home. It felt like a prison, and she couldn't see a way out.


Her fingers tightened around the edge of her armchair as she stared out into the depths of the Black Lake, her reflection faintly visible against the glass. Somewhere, far above, the castle was bathed in sunlight, the other students were laughing and chattering in the Great Hall.


But down here, in the shadows of the dungeons, Pansy sat alone, and the weight of Slytherin's so-called legacy pressed heavily on her chest.


She wished she had made friends outside her house. She wished she'd earned the trust of other teachers besides Snape. She wished she had something—anything—to hold onto outside these stone walls.


But most of all, she wished she could believe in the promise of Slytherin again—the promise Draco swore he would make come true.


And speaking of Draco, she caught a glimpse of him as the door to his room opened. He stepped out, a cloak draped over his shoulders, his face set in a cold, impassive mask.


The soft hum of conversation in the common room stilled immediately, the silence pressing against her ears. But Draco didn't seem to notice—or care. He walked past them all, his gaze never flickering, his steps unhurried, his poise unshakable. The heavy door closed behind him with a final-sounding thud.


That silence? That was supposed to be Draco's punishment. Isolation. Estrangement. A barrier between him and Slytherin House until he came to his senses, renounced the Gryffindors, and begged for forgiveness.


But instead of breaking him, it had done the opposite. Draco didn't seek their approval anymore. He didn't look for their validation. Most days, he stayed in his room, away from their whispers and glances. But on others, he would emerge and sit by the fire, a book in hand, seemingly content amid the oppressive quiet.


Ignore me all you want. You aren't worth my time. I'm a Malfoy, and the opinions of the lesser masses don't concern me.


A bold statement, considering this had been going on for most of the term. And as far as anyone could tell, Draco hadn't cracked.


But cracks were starting to show elsewhere.


"Fucking prick," Goyle spat as the door closed behind Malfoy.


Case in point: Gregory Goyle.


Pansy had never thought much of him despite sharing space with him for years. Goyle had always been part of the background, silent and unassuming. Draco trusted him, sure, but the trust in Goyle and Crabbe often felt less confident and more convenient.


But ever since Draco had become a so-called "blood traitor," Goyle had… changed. Or maybe he had just stopped pretending. Crueler now, with a sharper edge, and far more willing to wield his strength like a cudgel. He had stepped into Draco's vacant space in their little hierarchy, and he ruled with a brutal fist.


He reminded her too much of her father, and that was something he didn't like.


"You see how he struts around here like he owns the place?" Goyle growled, his lip curled. "Bet he'd stop if we gave him a little reminder of where he stands now. Show him why Slytherin House never tolerated Mudbloods and Blood Traitors."


"That's not nice," Crabbe whispered, voice low and startlingly soft.


Pansy's stomach twisted. Crabbe—simple, awkward Crabbe—had surprised her this year. Away from Draco's shadow, he had started showing fragments of himself. Not much, and not always pleasant, but something. And yet, it was becoming clearer every day that Crabbe was stuck. Immature, emotionally stunted, struggling academically and magically. A child in a world that would swallow him whole. If you actually talked to him for about ten minutes, you would come to the quick conclusion that Crabbe had never mentally grown past their first year. And after Goyle took over, it became very clear that Crabbe had been placed under Malfoy's control for his own safety, rather than Draco's.


When Goyle's fist crashed into Crabbe's skull, the sound was loud enough to echo in the stunned quiet. And yet, no one reacted. No one cared.


Business as usual, Pansy thought bitterly.


"You stupid lump," Goyle hissed. "How many times do I have to tell you? He's not our friend. He's a traitor. He wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. You think he cares about you?"


"That's enough, Goyle," Theo Nott interjected, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming through him. "Beating him isn't going to change anything."


Goyle's head snapped toward Theo, his glare sharp and dangerous. "Did I ask for your opinion, Nott?"


Theo raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying, mate. You know how he is. Violence won't fix it."


"He's my cousin, and I'll deal with him how I see fit."


A shadow crossed Theo's face, but he wisely said nothing more. Goyle, while not particularly powerful, knew a handful of nasty curses, and wasn't afraid to fight dirty. Add in his love for brawling like a muggle, and well…not very many of their yearmates wanted to tangle with Goyle.


Goyle turned back to the room, chest heaving. "We need to remind Draco where he stands. There hasn't been a blood traitor in Slytherin for five generations, and I'll be damned if one gets away with it now."


"You can't touch him."


The words slipped from Pansy's mouth before she realized she had spoken. Goyle's attention snapped to her like a predator scenting blood.


"Oh yeah? And why not? Still holding a candle for your little boyfriend?" His grin was sharp and unpleasant. "Face it, Parkinson. He never cared about you."


A wicked smile crossed his face.


"Unless it was for a quick shag in a broom cupboard."


Dark laughter echoed throughout the room, and her stomach churned, but she forced herself to stay still, to stay calm.


A part of her wanted to yell back that she had never done anything like that with Draco or anyone, but she knew that one wrong move would end with her on the floor, in pain, and Goyle the winner.


She needed to focus. To push away the fear and act confident. To appear untouchable.


Like Professor Snape.


Like Malfoy.


She straightened her spine, schooling her face into something cold and unimpressed.


"Go ahead, Goyle. Run your mouth. But you won't lay a finger on Draco."


"And who's going to stop me? You?"


"No," she said smoothly. "But Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy will. And if they don't, your father will. Do you really want to gamble on who they'll side with?"


Goyle froze. The mention of Lucius had rattled him, but the mention of his father had turned his face an ashen gray.


Despite what she had gone through in her home, Pansy knew she had been treated better than most people in Slytherin did. Goyle had never talked about his home life, but the few times she had seen him around his father, he'd always looked a few seconds from bolting out of there.


Pansy pressed her advantage.


"You think the Dark Lord will care about your petty grudges? Malfoy has power, influence, and a clear path to the Inner Circle. Do you really want to bet your family's standing on this?"


The common room had fallen silent again, every eye trained on them.


Goyle's scowl deepened, but he said nothing. Slowly, he dropped back into his seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hands were trembling.


So were hers.


She rose to her feet, smoothing down her robes, her face perfectly composed. Around her, she caught glimpses of something she hadn't seen in months.


Respect.


But it didn't feel like a victory. Not really. Slytherin House was broken, splintered beyond repair. And despite being surrounded by people she had known for years, Pansy Parkinson had never felt so utterly alone.


"I'm going out," she said quietly. "Don't bother waiting up."


As the common room door closed behind her, she couldn't help but wish—just once—that they could all go back to their first year.


And stay there. Forever.


***********************************************************


It wasn't a planned meeting.


Pansy liked the stars, even if she didn't care much for Astronomy itself. After finishing her nightly patrols, she had wandered to the Astronomy Tower, seeking a breath of fresh air and a quiet moment away from the simmering tensions in the Slytherin Common Room.


But Draco was already there.


He sat slumped against the battlements, back pressed to the cold stone, knees drawn up loosely. The dark rings beneath his eyes looked like bruises, stark against his pale skin. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, until the soft echo of her footsteps stirred him. One eye cracked open, bloodshot and sharp in the moonlight, before sliding shut again with a faint grunt of acknowledgment.


For several minutes, neither of them spoke. They simply existed in shared silence, the only sounds the whisper of the wind and the distant hoot of an owl on its hunt.


It was such a stark contrast to the Draco she knew. He had always been restless, filling quiet spaces with chatter or sarcastic quips. Even when he wasn't speaking, he enjoyed soaking in the chaotic energy of the Great Hall at mealtimes—the clatter of cutlery, the hum of a hundred conversations, the bustle of students moving about.


Chaos was comfort for Draco Malfoy. And yet, here he was: still, silent, utterly spent.


Pansy broke the quiet first.


"Have you eaten dinner?"


"Hmm."


"Is that a yes-hmm or a no-hmm?"


"It's a 'hmm-hmm,'" he rasped. His voice was low and scratchy, like parchment rubbed raw. "It means… I don't remember. I ate something today, I think. Couldn't tell you what or when."


She sighed, long and exasperated. "If you collapse in the middle of class, you won't be able to protect anyone, least of all the Slytherins you promised to look after."


One corner of his mouth twitched into a dry, humorless smirk. "I'm not that far gone. Not yet, at least. Things are… better now. Saint Potter actually trusts me. Granger, too."


"And Weasley?"


Draco's smirk sharpened into something colder. "Weasley and I will never be friends, but his opinion doesn't matter. He's a decent enough bloke, but his only claim to fame will be as Potter's sidekick or another entry in the oversized Weasley clan."


Pansy felt her lips curve into a small smile. It was oddly comforting to hear Draco like this—sharp-tongued, dismissive, familiar.


"You're underestimating the Weasel," she said lightly, tilting her head. "You always have. He has more potential than you give him credit for."


"How?" Draco scoffed. "The Wizarding World doesn't exactly hold eating contests in high regard."


"As annoying as they are, the Weasleys are never unskilled. Every single one of them finds their place eventually. Ronald just hasn't found his yet."


"And he never will." Draco's voice held an edge of finality, cold and resolute. "Look, I know being nice means pretending everyone is special, but there's nothing extraordinary about Ronald Weasley. He's the epitome of average. He's content to drift, to exist without forcing the world to notice him. He wants attention, but he won't fight for it. He wants praise, but he won't earn it. He wants fame, but he doesn't ache for it."


Draco shook his head, letting out a faint breath. "He'll be a footnote in the war. Maybe a chapter, if Potter insists."


Pansy chuckled softly under her breath. There it was again—that glimpse of the boy she knew, the one who measured the worth of things on how shiny they were: top-of-the-line broomsticks, enchanted items with fascinating powers, or even simple precious metals and gems.


Draco liked shiny people, too—Potter, with his immense power for an underaged wizard, and Granger with her voracious hunger for knowledge. But to Draco, Ronald Weasley wasn't shiny. He was dull, a common stone kicked along the side of the road.


What Draco couldn't see, what he refused to see, was the quiet strength in Ron's ordinariness. Ronald Weasley, for all his lack of sparkle, had followed Harry Potter into the jaws of danger time and time again. He might not have the hunger for power that Draco admired, but he never turned away when it was time to fight.


Lazy he might be, but cowardly he was not.


Bravery might not be a measure of talent, but with how many people had bowed their heads in the last war, even bravery on its lonesome was a valuable tool. And even so, she was sure that Ronald had something in him, a gift he hadn't tapped into yet. He just hadn't gotten the proper motivation to access it yet. Look at Draco: a year ago, he had been little better than Ron Weasley. But after the events of his summer, he had grown by leaps and bounds.


"Do you know what your problem is, Draco?" Pansy said finally, her voice soft but pointed.


Draco's tired gaze slid toward her, one pale brow raised in question.


"You can't see that not everyone shines the same way. People aren't like enchanted items; they don't have special abilities for you to use and exploit at your leisure. They need time to grow, become better, learn. Someone that's useless today might turn out to be the next Dumbledore if given enough time and incentive. "


Draco didn't answer. He just let his head fall back against the battlements, eyes closing once more.


For a while longer, they sat there in silence under the watchful gaze of the stars, two Slytherins getting ready for a war they weren't sure they'd survive.


And for that moment, it was enough.


Draco looked up at Pansy, still sitting on the cold stone floor, his silver eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.


"Is your favorite animal still Potter's snowy owl?"


Pansy froze for a moment, her brows lifting slightly. That had been an offhand comment, made during their first year when they were still wide-eyed children trying to navigate Hogwarts' endless stone corridors. She hadn't expected him to remember—Draco never seemed like the type to hold onto small, trivial details.


Yet here he was, throwing it back at her years later.


Outwardly, she smirked, crossing her arms. "Yes. Why? Are you planning to get me one for Christmas?"


Draco reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a small golden ring. It was simple, unadorned, but even in the faint moonlight, Pansy could feel the subtle pulse of magic radiating from it. She took it gingerly, turning it over in her fingers as if it might bite her.


"There's magic on this," she said softly, her brow furrowing as she studied it. "Some kind of enchantment. I can feel it, but I'm not clever enough to tell what kind."


Her lips curved into a dry smirk. "If this is supposed to be a proposal ring, I'd like a few more diamonds on it."


Draco rolled his eyes, letting out a short huff of amusement. "As if the two of us are ready for anything big like that."


Pansy raised an eyebrow, placing one hand on her hip. "So, you can plot to dethrone the Dark Lord or whatever it is you're scheming, but marrying me is too big a thing for you?"


Draco's head snapped up, his mouth slightly open as if trying to form words. The look of pure, unfiltered bewilderment on his face was too much for Pansy, and she burst into laughter, the sound sharp and bright against the still night air.


Draco scowled, his face flushing a pale pink as he turned away from her, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.


It was nice, Pansy realized, to joke like this with him—to feel at ease instead of walking on eggshells the way she did around the rest of their Slytherin yearmates.


"Shove off," Draco muttered, but his voice lacked any real bite.


After a brief pause, his tone softened. "Do you trust me, Pansy?"


She tilted her head slightly, considering him. "If you'd asked me that a year ago, I would've said no. But now...well, you're buddies with Potter. You can't be too mean to me anymore. So yes, Draco. I trust you."


Draco nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line before his eyes flicked back to the ring in her hand. "Put it on and say 'quintessence.'"


Pansy hesitated. "Why?"


Draco's lips curled into a mischievous smile. "It's a surprise."


For a brief moment, she considered refusing. But something in his expression—a rare openness, an earnestness she wasn't used to seeing—softened her resolve. Against her better judgment, and to her own surprise, she realized she genuinely did trust him.


Slipping the ring onto her finger, she took a deep breath and said, "Quintessence."


The change was immediate.


A strange warmth spread through her body, starting at her chest and unfurling outward like a ripple across still water. Her bones felt as if they were shrinking, condensing, her joints twisting and reforming in ways they never should. Her arms melted into soft, stiff appendages, her fingers fused and feathered. Her lips and teeth melted together, before hardening into a small, hooked beak. Her hair seemed to flow back into her scalp, replaced by downy white feathers, and her eyesight—Merlin, her eyesight—sharpened into something impossibly crisp and clear. When it was over, she felt weightless, alien in her own body, yet somehow... natural.


She opened her mouth to yell at Draco, but the only sound that emerged was a sharp, indignant, "Hoot! Hoot!"


Realization crashed over her like ice water.


He turned me into a owl. A bleeding snowy owl.


Before she could properly panic, Draco leaned forward, kneeling until his face was level with hers. "Okay, I see that you're starting to panic. Don't panic," he said, his voice calm but edged with guilt. "It's temporary. Five minutes, tops. I promise."


She let out an infuriated screech, flapping her wings aggressively.


Draco winced and gave her a sheepish grin. "Okay, okay, this whole scenario played out a lot better in my head, all right?"


Cupping his hands together, he lowered them towards her in invitation. Tentatively, Pansy gave a little hop, flapping her wings and landing in his palms. The moment she settled, her new owl senses overwhelmed her.


The cold no longer bit at her skin; it barely registered at all. Her entire body felt impossibly light, as if she could be carried away by the faintest breeze. And her vision—it was sharp, sharper than anything she had ever experienced as a human. Every minute detail of Draco's face was crystal clear: the faint stubble on his chin, the way his lashes caught the moonlight, even the individual fibers of his robes.


"Are you okay?" Draco asked softly.


Pansy stared up at him, her large golden eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation—before she lunged forward, pecking at his head and flapping her wings wildly as she beat him with them.


"Ow! Ow! All right, I get it! No more surprise transfiguration!" Draco yelped, unsuccessfully trying to shield his head with his arms all the while still holding her in his hands.


Satisfied, Pansy backed off, letting out a triumphant hoot.


Once Draco was certain the onslaught had ceased, he lowered his arms, a hesitant smile on his face. "Look, I know you hate flying. But that's as a human—dangling from a thin strip of wood, miles above the ground. This time, you're in a body made for it. You are flight. Do you want to try?"


Fear flickered in Pansy's chest. Her mind conjured up a dozen worst-case scenarios—what if the enchantment failed mid-air?


What if she couldn't fly like a natural owl?


What if a hawk decided she looked like a tasty snack?


But…for once, she pushed the Slytherin survival instincts aside. Just this once, she wouldn't think about what could go wrong.


She'd take a leap of faith.


With a determined hop, she leapt from Draco's hands and over the edge of the battlements.


For a brief, heart-stopping moment, she fell. Panic surged through her small chest, but then—


Her wings caught the air. Instinct took over.


She soared.


The night wind streamed over her feathers, lifting her higher and higher as she stretched her wings wide. Every tilt of her body, every flick of her feathers, guided her effortlessly through the sky. She could feel the currents of the air, the invisible hands of the wind cradling her, pulling her forward and upward.


She let out a triumphant hoot, her voice echoing through the vast night sky.


For once, Pansy Parkinson felt free.


Pansy soared through the night sky, exhilaration thrumming in every feather as she sliced through the cold winter air. The moon hung fat and bright above her, casting silver light across the vast expanse of Hogwarts' grounds. She tried a tentative dive, her small owl body tucking in its wings as she plummeted downward, going farther and farther, almost hitting the forest floor, before spreading them wide and rising sharply.


A Wronski Feint—in bird form. She almost couldn't believe it worked.


Letting out an excited screech, she leveled out and tried a barrel roll, spinning effortlessly through the sky. It felt natural, instinctual even, and when she righted herself again, she couldn't stop the joyful cry that escaped her beak. Who would have thought she'd acclimate so quickly to this form, that something as simple as air and wings could feel so freeing?


But then—movement. A shadow passed over her, followed by a sharp, familiar screech. Pansy tilted her head and spotted a brilliant, pure-white eagle gliding alongside her. Its wings were massive, sharp-edged, and regal, each feather catching the moonlight like polished porcelain.


She didn't need to guess who it was.


Of course, she thought, even as a bird, Draco Malfoy has to be the rarest, most eye-catching thing in the sky.


They flew together, wings beating in tandem, spiraling higher and higher until the wind turned thin and sharp. For a while, they simply glided side by side, but then the race began—a sharp, unspoken challenge.


Who could climb the fastest, who could dive the furthest, who could glide the longest without a single flap of their wings? Pansy let herself laugh inwardly, her competitive streak sparking to life. For the first time in months, she wasn't thinking about appearances or alliances or survival.


She was just flying. Free.


But as she began another ascent, she felt it—a faint buzzing deep in her chest. It wasn't painful, but it was growing stronger with every beat of her wings, every sharp pull of icy air into her small owl lungs. Warmth spread slowly, pooling under her feathers and building toward something undeniable. Her wide eyes blinked as realization crashed into her—the spell was fading.


With a screech of alarm, she angled herself back toward the Astronomy Tower, wings working frantically against gravity. The buzzing grew unbearable, vibrating through her bones, driving her forward with an urgency she couldn't ignore. She pushed harder, faster—


And then, just as she cleared the battlements, her small owl body turned gold in a flash of light.


Her triumphant screech morphed into a very human yelp as she tumbled through the air and landed hard on the stone floor with an audible thud.


"Merlin's bloody beard," Pansy groaned, flopping onto her back and clutching her ribs as she glared up at the sky. Every breath felt like gravel scraping against her insides, and she was pretty sure she'd have a spectacular bruise tomorrow.


But she couldn't stop the manic grin from forming on her lips.


A sharp cry from above caught her attention. The eagle—Draco—swooped down gracefully, landing on the battlement before transforming back into his usual self in a cascade of golden light. He hopped down from the ledge, his face lit with wild, boyish glee.


"Well? How was that? Tell me that wasn't the most fun you've ever had!"


Pansy let out a groan, playfully glaring at him from her spot on the floor. "You're insane."


Draco's grin faltered slightly, and he crouched beside her. "Are you okay?"


She waved him off, sucking in a deep breath as the ache slowly dulled into something manageable. "I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are an absolute menace."


Draco snorted, plopping down beside her on the cold stone floor as they both caught their breath. After a moment, Pansy lifted her hand, inspecting the golden ring still snug around her finger. The faint hum of magic still lingered, a whisper rather than the comparative roar it had been before.


"What is this, Draco?" she asked, turning the ring in the moonlight.


His smirk returned, softer this time. "Animagus rings."


Pansy barked out a laugh. "Bullshit."


Draco raised an eyebrow, but she pressed on. "Becoming an Animagus is insanely difficult. There've been, what, five successful transformations this century? Even Dumbledore isn't one. And you're telling me you managed to condense that entire nightmare ritual into a bloody ring?"


Draco laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "No, of course not. The ring doesn't make you a real Animagus. It's enchanted to transform the wearer into a specific animal for five minutes. With how many human-to-beast spells there are, I was spoiled for choice. I have forms for combat, for stealth, for land, air, and sea. After a specific activation phrase is uttered, you turn into the animal each ring is enchanted to. After that, it needs ten minutes to recharge, before you can use it again."


Pansy stared at him, awe creeping into her expression. "That's… brilliant."


Her voice was barely a whisper, but Draco heard it. His smirk shifted into something softer, something almost shy.


"It's not perfect yet," he admitted, leaning back on his hands. "I want the final version to let the user transform into any animal at will, activate with a thought, and let them change back whenever they want. But this version works well enough for now. I just wanted you to be the first one to see it. To use it."


Pansy's heart gave an odd little flip, and her cheeks felt warm despite the cold night air. This wonderful, stupid, brave, idiotic mess of a boy-


She took a deep breath, steadying herself.


"What do you plan to do with it?" she asked, her voice quieter now.


Draco's expression turned serious. "Sell it. First to the Auror Corps, then to the general public."


Pansy frowned. "Why not keep it for yourself?"


Draco hesitated, then shrugged. "Two reasons. First, it's a powerful tool for survival. When the Dark Lord stops hiding and starts waging open war, being able to turn into a bird or a mouse for five minutes could mean the difference between life and death."


His voice dropped slightly, almost like he didn't want to say the next part aloud. "And second… I need my own money. When this is all over, I'm probably going to be disowned. I like being rich, Pansy. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. This thing can make me a lot of Galleons."


Pansy stared at him, realization settling heavily in her chest. He's giving up everything. His fortune, his future, the comfort of Malfoy Manor—all traded away for something as intangible as hope. For a different kind of future.


"Are you sure all of this is worth it?" she asked softly.


For just a moment, Draco's face crumpled, his sharp features softening under the weight of doubt. But then his chin lifted, and his silver eyes hardened with steely resolve.


"It has to be."
 
Good morning! I've had a really good week, so much so that I created a huge chapter that had to be split in half. So half is out for today, with the other half coming tomorrow morning. Hope you guys enjoy!
 
As far as I know, one of the drawbacks of human transfiguration (compared to animagus) is that the changed do not keep their ability to think like a human while transformed.
 
As far as I know, one of the drawbacks of human transfiguration (compared to animagus) is that the changed do not keep their ability to think like a human while transformed.
I thought so too, but there was evidence against it. In the GOF, when Viktor Krum transfigures his head, and therefore his brain, into that of a shark, he still retained his human intelligence when Harry hit him and gave him a rock to cut Hermione free. And when Draco was turned into a ferret by fake Moody, he was obviously able to remember and realize what had been done to him. And before Moody started bouncing him, he was waiting for Crabbe/Goyle to pick him up, rather than run away like an actual wild animal would do when surrounded by humans.
 
Perhaps it relies on the intent/magic of the caster? If one does it to themself, they have more control whereas doing it to someone else the affected lose control?
 
Chapter 6 New
"You know, Mr. Malfoy, not many of my students ask me for a duel," Snape said silkily, pulling out his wand. "The few who have angered me to this point usually realize they have made a mistake by the time the challenge has flown from their mouths."


His young charge gave him an arrogant smirk as he pulled out his own wand.


"Well, you know me, Professor. I live to make your day a bit more interesting."


The dungeon they stood in was one of the abandoned chambers beneath Hogwarts, dimly lit by flickering torches mounted on ancient stone walls. Dust clung stubbornly to the cracked stone floor, and the air carried the faint scent of mildew and old potions. A few dilapidated desks and tables, along with a single rusty cauldron, had been shoved against the far wall, leaving a wide-open space in the center of the room.


Snape's black eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed Draco. "What is the real purpose of this duel, Mr. Malfoy? Surely you're not foolish enough to believe you can best me in straightforward combat."


Draco's smirk widened into something sharper, a blade's edge of confidence. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Professor. I simply thought it was time to... show off one of my little inventions."


Snape raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He was well aware that Draco had been experimenting with spells, muting incantations, and modifying charms to give them unique properties—not entirely unlike his own Levicorpus. But Draco had spoken only in passing about these projects, leaving Snape with little more than tantalizing hints.


From his robe pocket, Draco withdrew a black iron sphere, roughly the size of a baseball. Its dark surface glinted faintly in the torchlight, and Snape immediately recognized the faint hum of enchantment. With a flick of his wand, Draco tapped the orb. The soft hum intensified, and suddenly, the golden Nordic runes engraved into the metal exterior flared to life, glowing brilliantly.


Snape squinted slightly, focusing on the runes. "What, precisely, am I looking at, Mr. Malfoy?"


Draco smirked. "An altered Bludger, Professor. With a few... enhancements."


"Hmm," Snape murmured, slipping into a dueling stance. His wand rose, precise and sharp. "Very well. Show me what it can do."


Draco's grin turned feral, and without uttering a word, he unleashed a roaring stream of fire from his wand. Snape's eyes widened slightly as the torrent of flames rushed toward him, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he conjured a shimmering shield. The fire roared against the barrier, crackling like a living beast, and Snape inwardly marveled at the sheer power Draco was pouring into what seemed like a standard Incendio.


But then, he heard it.


A faint, sharp whistle.


Snape's head snapped to the side just in time to see the altered Bludger hurtling toward him from the right. Cursing under his breath, he dispelled his shield and batted the Bludger away with a swift Knockback Jinx. But the flames were still advancing.


Thinking fast, Snape began Vanishing the fire, absorbing and dispersing the flames at an almost impossible pace. The air shimmered with heat, sweat beading on Snape's brow.


Then, suddenly, the flames stopped.


Through the rising steam, Snape caught a brief glimpse of Draco—his wand held high, a grin splitting his face—before the boy unleashed a thick cloud of black smoke.


Fumos, Snape realized, already preparing a silent Ventus to clear the air.


But the Bludger was back.


A sharp hum cut through the smoke as the iron sphere came hurtling toward his face. Snape barely managed to raise another shimmering shield, deflecting the Bludger with a resounding clang. Then, two red bolts shot through the smoke, impacting his shield with sharp cracks.


Stunners.


Snape retaliated with a volley of spells—bright flashes of light cutting through the darkness—as he kept Draco pinned down. But the Bludger returned again and again, grazing his robes and whipping past his hair. Snape snarled, frustration curling in his chest. The limited visibility, the relentless Bludger, and Draco's increasingly creative spells were beginning to wear on him.


The Bludger, ever persistent, swooped back into the fray. Snape conjured translucent barriers, only for the enchanted iron sphere to shatter them on impact, buzzing angrily as it zeroed in on him. The professor snarled in frustration, sidestepping just in time for the Bludger to narrowly miss his ear.


"Impressive, Mr. Malfoy!" Snape barked as he dodged a crackling whip of fire that Draco lashed toward him.


Draco smirked, sweat gleaming on his brow. "You haven't seen anything yet, Professor!"


Draco pressed his advantage, launching a ferocious torrent of smoke and flame. Snape, teeth clenched, spun his wand in a defensive arc, creating a whirlwind of air that sucked the smoke upward and dispersed it. He flicked his wand again, and a Stinging Hex zipped toward Draco, narrowly missing his cheek.


The duel became a dance.


Snape moved fluidly, sending rapid streams of spells—Stupefy, Flipendo, Petrificus Totalus—while dodging and blocking both the enchanted Bludger and Draco's attacks. The boy, for his part, was relentless, sending jets of green, blue, and red fire, manipulating the dungeon floor with spiked transfigurations and slippery patches of ice.


Snape had to admit—this was impressive.


Draco then cast a powerful Ventus, and the gust hit Snape squarely, pushing him back several steps. It was a fleeting mistake, but it was all the Bludger needed.


With a predatory hum, the Bludger lunged upward from below, striking Snape cleanly in the chin. His teeth rattled, his vision swam, and pain exploded through his jaw.


Before he could recover, Draco followed up with a low-powered Blasting Curse aimed at Snape's feet.


The explosion knocked Snape backward, and he hit the stone floor with a sharp grunt.


Draco froze, wide-eyed. "Holy shit, I actually got you! Wait—are you for real? Did I actually get you?"


For a split second, Draco's guard dropped.


Snape struck.


"Expelliarmus!"


The spell ripped Draco's wand from his hand, sending it clattering across the dungeon floor. The force of the spell threw Draco backward into the stone wall with a dull thud.


The Bludger let out an angry, vibrating hum, its golden runes glowing furiously as it lunged at Snape again.


But this time, Snape was ready.


"Immobulus!"


The Bludger froze mid-flight, slowing to a lazy float. Snape snatched it from the air, feeling it vibrate furiously in his palm, the runes blazing like molten gold.


When he turned, Draco was already back on his feet—his wand retrieved, pointed squarely at Snape's chest.


Snape's own wand was aimed at Draco's head.


For a long moment, neither moved.


Then Snape's shoulders relaxed, and his wand lowered slightly.


"Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, his voice low and silky. "You are now as skilled as an experienced Death Eater in the Dark Lord's inner circle."


The smile that spread across Draco's face was victorious.


"Well, one that is holding back in every aspect of the phrase, at least," he added, chuckling internally at how his ward's face fell.


Snape considered the altered bludger still enclosed in his fist, buzzing angrily as it tried to escape from his grip.


"What alterations did you add to this?" he asked, curious.


"Not much. I used the Reducio to make it smaller, but I modified the spell so that it kept its mass even though its size was reduced. That slowed it down some, but it's still faster than most wizards can track. There's a Finite Incantatum enchantment on it that's supposed to let it crash through magical barriers and wards and dispel spells, but, you could still use Immobulus on it, and it only broke a few of your Protego, so I need to work on that. It also has a Bombarda enchantment that I can activate by saying a certain phrase, but that's a last-stand kind of thing."


"Hmm. Interesting. Innovative, to be sure. Why did it not attack you, though? Bludger's are indiscriminate, as far as I know."


"Oh, that's easy," Draco said with a smile. 'It's part of the reason why Bludgers don't attack civilians or referees. You see, right now, the enchantment on it allows it to differentiate between a player, civilian or referee. The Bludger has designated me as a 'referee', and you as a 'player', so it'll listen to my commands and attack you. It's why Bludgers stop attacking when a referee calls a time-out. When I'm fighting with allies, I can enchant the Bludger to designate them as 'civilians', or people not playing the game, and enemies as 'players'. I want about three of them with me when everything is said and done, and I think it'd be really cool to add some more enchantments…"


As Draco continued to blather on about his new toy, Severus came to a sudden realization.


Draco had been deadly serious when he talked about defying the Dark Lord.


The wandless magic could have been a fluke: the Lucky Potion could enhance your abilities, but not to the point of absurdity. With Felix Felicis, a normal person could survive Albus Dumbledore, not defeat him. But creating something like this…


Even with the potion guiding him, Draco needed to have serious skills to get to this point. Certain enchanted items like Brooms and Quidditch gear were very hard to customize because the regulations by the Department of Magical Games and Sports required them to be ironclad. For the boy to have manipulated those enchantments, and add his own, turning the toy into a weapon, it spoke of power, creativity and ingenuity.


Draco would not go under the radar, that much was obvious. His masters, the men he had chained himself to-both of them would one day see Draco's power, and they would ask him why he had not told them.


Either the Dark Lord or Dumbledore would have to be alerted to the boy's hunt for power, if only to keep his cover as a double agent.


The question was…which one?


*************************************************************


The night was ink-dark and heavy with silence as Fred Weasley lay beneath his sheets, eyes wide open, waiting for the clock to tick closer to 2:30 AM. George, in the bed across from him, was similarly still, though Fred could tell by the faint rustling of fabric that his twin was equally awake.


The letter from Draco Malfoy had been gnawing at both of them all day—a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and an edge of something else.


Unease, perhaps? Distrust?


Draco Malfoy: the Slytherin prince, long-time tormentor of their little brother Ron, and a walking embodiment of everything they generally avoided in life. Malfoy thought they were scum on the boots of the world,and he thought the same of them.


But the meeting in the Hog's Head a few weeks back had planted a seed of doubt.


Malfoy had spoken in defense of Harry, and Harry and Hermione themselves had started vouching for him during D.A. meetings. Yet Ron—Ron was a different story. He'd scowled every time Malfoy's name was mentioned, never outright objecting, but never confirming the boy had changed either. And Ron—their usually hot-tempered, stubborn brother—had been distant these last few days. Quiet, morose, lost. Fred made a mental note to talk to him soon, get him out of his funk. For Ron, you couldn't let things run their course, or he'd fall into a rut. You had to push him, force him to open the curtains and let the sunlight in, or he'd be stuck in the dark for a long time.


The letter had been simple: a meeting at 3 AM, in an old, unused classroom on the fifth floor. Fred's first instinct had been to crumple it up and toss it into the common room fire. But curiosity was a Weasley trait, and the twins had it in spades.


At 2:30 sharp, the twins silently slid out from under their covers, fully dressed in dark robes. With synchronized movements, they aimed their wands at each other and whispered the incantation for the Disillusionment charm. The cold sensation of the charm washing over them was familiar—like an icy egg cracking over their heads. Moments later, their forms blurred and disappeared. Next came the Silencing Charms on their boots and robes, muffling every movement.


George moved to the dormitory door, pausing only to fire a nonverbal Silencio at the hinges, knowing well how they squeaked. When they had cleared that hurdle and reached the common room, Fred cast a quick Homenum Revelio—no one.


They slipped through the portrait hole, stirring the Fat Lady from her sleep.


"Hmm? Who is that? Who—?" she began, but the twins were already halfway down the corridor, silent as shadows and invisible to the naked eye.


The castle was alive at night in a way it never was during the day. The air was cooler, the stones seemed to hum softly underfoot, and the shadows twisted and stretched with every flicker of torchlight. Every sound could be a teacher. Every shadow could be hiding a prefect. With Umbridge in the castle, security had stepped up, and some sets of armor were even told to keep an eye out for troublemakers. It should have discouraged them, the danger.


Instead, it only invigorated them.


Fred grinned wildly, the same exhilaration coursing through him as it always did when they pulled off these late-night escapades. Beside him, though unseen, he knew George was grinning too.


They had spent countless nights like this over the years—exploring, pranking, dodging Filch, and discovering Hogwarts' secrets.


But tonight felt different. Heavier. Fred couldn't shake the thought that this was his last year—their last year—to feel this free. Adulthood loomed on the horizon, and while their joke shop was something to look forward to, it felt like they were leaving behind a part of themselves in these stone halls.


The thought made Fred's chest tighten. Hogwarts had been their home as much as the Burrow. He knew George felt it too, even if they never spoke about it. They didn't need to. George was more than his twin—he was a part of him. They had always been Fred-and-George, a singular entity against the world, and soon they'd be facing something much larger than prefects and cranky caretakers. They'd be facing responsibilities, taxes, and bills, a world they weren't used to. If Fred didn't know George would be by his side every step of the way, he wondered how he would even sleep at night.


Doors swung open for them without resistance, shortcuts revealed themselves as if the castle itself were guiding them.


Fred idly wondered if Hogwarts was alive—if it had been looking out for them all these years, aiding them in their mischief.


They reached the classroom that Draco had mentioned in his letter, with only a few seconds to spare.


Therefore, they were right on time.


George rapped on the door—three sharp knocks, a pause, then two more. The agreed-upon signal mentioned in the enigmatic letter. For a second, there was nothing but silence, and Fred began to wonder if this was some kind of trick or trap. But there was a click from the lock, and he knew that at the very least, someone who knew about the letter was in there. The door creaked open, and they slipped inside.


Draco Malfoy sat at one of the old desks, a single candle casting flickering light over his pale, exhausted face. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, and his pointed features were drawn tight with tension.


Fred flicked his wand at the door, casting a silent Colloportus, sealing it. George dispelled the Disillusionment Charm on Fred, and Fred did the same for George.


The twins stared at Draco, their expressions identical in their skepticism.


Fred broke the silence first. "So, what does the prince of snakes want from the lowly Weasley brothers?"


Draco sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. "I have a business proposition."


Fred and George exchanged a look, identical eyebrows arching.


George spoke next. "What possible business could the two of us have with you?"


Fred added, "We're not interested in curses or hurting people, Malfoy. That's been your main gig for the past four years, so why are we even here?"


Draco closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself. "I want to invest in your business. To become a primary shareholder."


Fred and George blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. It was rare for the twins to be at a loss for words, but Draco Malfoy offering to invest in their joke shop was about as likely as Peeves apologizing for causing chaos.


Fred recovered first, his grin sharp and incredulous. "Primary shareholder? Is this some sort of joke, Malfoy? Because we're usually the ones telling them."


George leaned against one of the old desks, arms crossed, his skepticism plain. "If it is a joke, it's not a very good one. You're barking up the wrong tree if you think we'd take Galleons from you of all people."


Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he reached into his robes and withdrew a small leather mokeskin pouch, setting it on the desk in front of him. The faint jingle of coins was unmistakable.


Fred's eyes narrowed. "What's that? Your piggy bank?"


Draco's lips twitched, though it wasn't quite a smirk. "One thousand Galleons as an initial investment. Consider it proof that I'm serious."


The twins exchanged another look, this one more contemplative. A thousand Galleons wasn't just pocket change—it was equal to the amount Harry had given them. And right now, they needed that money. After the down payment for their spot in Diagon Alley, the ingredients they needed from vendors, how much they had paid for advertisements in the Prophet, the owls they had bought for the Owl Order service, the pay for the testers…well, right now, they were at an equilibrium. Not making enough cash for a profit, but not enough to make it a loss. This money could change that, and give them a lot more breathing room.


But the source of the money made their stomachs churn.


"Why?" George asked finally, his tone softer but no less suspicious. "Why us? Why now? You've spent years making Ron's life hell, sneering at our family, and now you want to fund our dream? Forgive us if we're not exactly lining up to shake your hand, Lord Malfoy."


Draco exhaled, his fingers drumming on the desk. For a moment, he looked almost... vulnerable.


"Because I believe in what you're doing. Your products—your ideas—they have potential. Not just for pranks, but for innovation. I've seen the way students flock to your inventions, and how your work inspires laughter even in the middle of all this…madness. People need that."


Fred and George were quiet, their usual banter tempered by the unexpected earnestness in Malfoy's voice.


Draco continued, his tone low and urgent. "I'm not asking you to like me. I don't even care if you hate me. But the world is changing, and we're all going to need... allies. Resources. If you think I'm doing this out of some misguided kindness, you're wrong. It's a strategic move—for both of us. Your shop could grow into something extraordinary, and I want to be part of that success."


Fred folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "And what's in it for you, exactly?"


Draco met his gaze evenly. "A share of the profits, of course. Some lessons on enchantments. I would also like to propose some…personal inventions, to sell through your shop: nothing dark, just useful. Useful enough that the Ministry will line up to buy them in droves. And... an association with something better than the family name I've been saddled with. Let's just say I'm diversifying my reputation."


George snorted. "That's one way to put it."


Fred tilted his head, studying Draco with uncharacteristic seriousness. "You really think our shop could be that big?"


Draco smirked faintly. "With the right funding and business strategy? Yes. But that's up to you. I'm just offering the means to make it happen."


The twins exchanged a long look, their silent conversation stretching for several beats. Finally, Fred turned back to Draco, his grin slowly returning.


"This is…a really nice amount, Lord Malfoy. But…we're gonna need a bit more than this."


Draco frowned. "How much more?"


George caught on to his plan immediately.


"I'd say…three more of these nifty little bags?" his brother said, taking the mokeskin pouch nonchalantly. "Yeah, three is fine."


"What?! That's wandpoint robbery!" Draco protested. "You cannot tell me Potter invested four thousand Galleons into your shop!"


Huh. Draco knew that Harry had given them the Triwizard Winnings? That was weird; he could have sworn that they'd kept that bit quiet…


"Yeah, but you see, you're paying the Tosser Tax," Fred said silkily. "And it looks like you've got a four-year backpay. And we're not even including how much time and effort it's gonna take for us to teach you the ins and outs of enchanting."


"Not to mention checking out what clumsy designs you've definitely made, and improving them to the point that they're worth selling in our shop," George ended. "And putting you under our name? That's a hit to our reputation, taking a suspected Death Eater's son as a business partner. Honestly, we're being very generous with you."


No, they weren't. Malfoy was right: they were robbing him at wandpoint. But they were also right in saying that they were taking a risk in taking him on. With how many people at the Hog's Head had confessed about how much of a berk Malfoy was, there was a significant chance that they could get boycotted by their target market just by having him as a partner. Not to mention, this was Newt Year, and they were definitely going to have to take time out of their pranking just to make sure he didn't blow himself up.


Plus, he'd been an arse for four years straight. Justice was needed; he could pay for it.


Draco's face turned red, and he looked like he was a few seconds away from having a meltdown.


But he calmed himself, and with a simple twitch of the eye, he said, "Fair enough. The rest will be deposited to you by the end of the week. Is that satisfactory?"


For a minute, Fred thought about tacking on a late fee…but, nah, that was a bit much.


With matching grins, the twins outstretched their hands for a shake.


"Welcome to Weasley Wizard Wheezes, Mr. Malfoy."


********************************************************


The study in Malfoy Manor was oppressively ornate, filled with unnecessary finery that grated on Voldemort's nerves. He lounged in Lucius's favorite armchair, its high back and soft cushions no comfort to him. The chandelier above, dripping with crystals, cast a faintly sickening glow, its gaudiness a constant reminder of Lucius's desperation to flaunt his supposed power. Everything here reeked of Malfoy's futile attempts to assert power and importance through wealth. It was laughable. No gilded mirror, no polished silverware, could mask the family's current impotence.


How dull this summer had been. At first, tormenting Lucius and his cowering family had provided some amusement. Watching the once-proud patriarch flinch at every word, seeing Narcissa pale as he dissected her failings, and observing the growing crack in Draco's trembling composure had been a satisfying distraction. But even the most exquisite suffering grew tiresome when the victims had no fight left in them. Lucius had been drained of defiance, Narcissa of pride, and Draco of courage. What was left but their empty shells?


Peacocks strutting in the garden, chandeliers cluttering the ceilings—everything here is an insult to simplicity and efficiency, Voldemort thought with disdain. His long, pale fingers drummed idly on the armrest as Nagini coiled near his feet, her scales glinting faintly in the firelight.


Nagini hissed softly, her voice slipping into his mind like silk. Bored, master?


"Yes, Nagini," Voldemort murmured. "These walls stifle me. I tire of this... decadence."


The serpent flicked her tongue as if in agreement, her sleek form coiling near his feet. Voldemort's hand brushed her head absently as his thoughts turned to more pressing matters.


The Ministry. He needed to move against it soon. The fool Fudge still clung to his delusions, but cracks were forming. The Ministry's resistance was a fragile dam holding back an inevitable flood. All it needed was the right pressure.


His lips curled into something resembling a smile. Yes, pressure. And who better to apply it than Nagini? She was perfect for the task. Intelligent, stealthy, and bound by loyalty far stronger than that of any of his Death Eaters.


But still, the thought annoyed him. He should not have to risk her. If he had more competent followers—if Bellatrix were free, for instance, she could carve a path through the Ministry with sheer ferocity. Her power was unmatched among his servants, save for him. And then there was Rookwood. His knowledge as a former Unspeakable would have been invaluable.


Two pawns, locked away with the others. What waste.


"The peacocks taste as ridiculous as they look," Nagini hissed in Parseltongue, her tone laced with disgust. "Too much feather. Too little meat."


Voldemort's lips twisted into something resembling amusement. "Patience, Nagini. You will feast on flesh that satisfies soon enough. Perhaps tonight, if my servant fails me." He gestured lazily toward the fireplace. "It has been too long since you tasted human blood."


Nagini's forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air, her amber eyes gleaming with anticipation. Humans taste better when their blood is spiced with fear, she remarked, coiling tighter.


Let me scare him first. I like the taste of adrenaline.


"You may play," Voldemort allowed with a faint smile. "But wait until we hear what he has to say. He might yet prove useful."


As if on cue, the flames in the fireplace flared emerald, and a cloaked figure tumbled out, landing on his knees. The man looked up, revealing Avery's pale, sweat-drenched face. His lips trembled as he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Nagini had begun circling him, her movements slow and deliberate, her head weaving closer to his face with every pass.


Avery froze, his breath hitching as Nagini hissed softly, her fangs gleaming. Voldemort chuckled, the sound low and cold.


"She's only playing, Avery. She's been bored—and hungry. If you have not brought me what I asked for, however, her boredom and hunger will be solved... by you."


"My Lord," Avery stammered, his voice cracking. "I—I have it. The information you requested."


"Oh? Did you finally find the particulars of whatever contract the Ministry has with the Dementors?"


He remembered it clearly: during the first war, the Dementors had flocked to him, eager to serve, their hunger drawn to his power like moths to flame. They obeyed his commands without hesitation. But the one time he had dared to set foot on the accursed island, it had been different. They had swarmed him, their soulless, rattling breaths reverberating in his ears. They had not obeyed him, had not even recognized him as their lord, even though they were his natural followers.


Why? What did the Ministry wield that could control such creatures?


The Dementors were not truly allied to anyone but their hunger. So what bound them to the Ministry's will?


He had concluded that it was some kind of magical contract, bounding the creatures to the Minister's will, but something that allowed them a bit of legroom. After all, they had defied orders before. If he could figure out the particulars of that contract, he could make one himself, and gain the Dementor's loyalty, a tool that would give him unmatched power. Even Dumbledore would not be able to stop him.


To his surprise, however, Avery quickly shook his head.


"My Lord, there is no contract, no such thing. I had to break into the Department of Mysteries, into their Hall of Records using my Imperisued puppets, but…My Lord, you need to see this for yourself."


Voldemort's gaze sharpened. "Show me."


Avery fumbled inside his robes, withdrawing an ancient scroll. He held it out with trembling hands, but Voldemort made no move to rise. With a flick of his wrist, the parchment flew to him, settling neatly in his hand.


He smirked at the mix of awe and fear on Avery's face.


Wandless magic. Such a small feat, and yet they look at me as if I've torn the stars from the heavens, Voldemort thought with faint disgust. He unrolled the scroll, careful not to damage the brittle material. His sharp eyes took in the faded ink and an interesting image: a black crown with sharp edges, high above a mountain. And at the bottom of that mountain were the hooded figures of the Dementors. Beneath the drawing was a script, nearly illegible and written in Old Norse.


His lips curved in satisfaction. A challenge, at last. He was well-versed in Old Norse, among other magical and mundane languages, and his sight in this new bodyw as comparable to an eagles. Leaning forward, he began to read, translating the words with ease.


The tale unfolded as such:


Long ago, in the shadowed heart of the North Sea, there existed a place of such dark power that even the waves seemed to shy away from its jagged shores. This was Azkaban, a fortress of despair, built by the sorcerer Ekrizdis to house his unspeakable experiments. It was said that he alone commanded the Dementors, wraithlike creatures birthed from his twisted magic, their hunger for souls unquenchable. Under his rule, they prowled the island, their cold hands gripping any living thing that dared approach. But when Ekrizdis vanished—some said by death, others by madness—his creations were unleashed upon the world.


The Dementors spread like a plague, descending upon villages in the dead of night. Their approach was heralded by an unnatural chill, a biting cold that no fire could ward off. They drained not only the warmth from the air but the joy from the heart, leaving behind empty husks of those unfortunate enough to face them. Entire towns were silenced, their inhabitants consumed in a single night. No walls could keep them out, no plea for mercy could stay their hunger.


The Ministry of Magic fought valiantly but in vain. Wizards cast Patronuses, silvery shields of light and hope, to drive the creatures back, but even the strongest could only hold them at bay. The Patronuses scattered the Dementors like shadows before dawn, but the creatures always returned, unrelenting. The land was on the brink of collapse, and hope dwindled like a guttering candle.


In desperation, the Ministry called for volunteers to embark on what many believed to be a suicide mission: to storm Azkaban itself and destroy the fortress. They hoped that by erasing the source of the Dementors' creation, they might banish the creatures forever. A group of brave souls answered the call—men and women whose courage was only matched by their despair. They sailed through the stormy sea, reaching the blackened shores of Azkaban as lightning split the sky.


The moment their boots touched the cursed sands, the air turned to ice. The Dementors came, swarming like locusts, their skeletal hands clawing at the air. The volunteers lit their wands, conjuring their Patronuses, and the silvery forms leapt forward to drive the creatures back. The beach became a battlefield of light and shadow, of shimmering hope against the suffocating despair. But the Dementors were relentless, and the Patronuses, though valiant, could not destroy them. For every Dementor driven back, two more surged forward.


One by one, the volunteers fell. Their Patronuses faltered, their lights extinguished as despair took hold. The creatures closed in, their rattling breaths echoing in the storm. By the time the last survivor stumbled through the gates of the fortress, he was alone.


This lone wizard, whose name history has forgotten, barricaded himself in the tallest tower, the chamber once occupied by Ekrizdis himself. It was a place of horrors—a testament to the sorcerer's madness. Books bound in human skin lined the shelves, and jars filled with unnameable things glinted in the dim light. The wizard searched desperately for anything that could save him as the Dementors battered at the door.


His hands trembled as he rifled through ancient tomes and cursed artifacts, his breath clouding in the frigid air.


Then, his fingers brushed something cold.


He pulled it free and found himself holding a crown—a strange, black thing of jagged crystal, sharp-edged and glinting like obsidian. Its surface shimmered faintly, as though it pulsed with its own malevolent life. The air around it grew heavier, and despair sank into his bones, as if the crown itself shared the same dreadful aura as the Dementors.


The door shattered behind him, and the Dementors poured in, their cloaks rustling like dry leaves. Their empty faces turned toward him, and he felt their hunger clawing at his soul. In a final act of desperation, he placed the crown on his head.


The world seemed to still.


A voice, silent yet commanding, surged through him. Without thinking, he raised his hand and spoke a single word:



Stop.


And they did. The Dementors froze, their skeletal forms swaying as if caught in an unseen wind. Their hunger ebbed, replaced by something he could only describe as submission. They bowed low, their cloaked heads nearly touching the ground, as though he had become their master.


It was said that the wizard returned to the Ministry with the crown and a terrible tale. The Dementors, he explained, could not be destroyed, but they could be controlled. The crown was the key, binding them to the will of its wearer. Thus, Azkaban became not only a fortress but a prison, its very horrors repurposed to guard the most dangerous of magical criminals. The crown was passed down from warden to warden, ensuring the Dementors' obedience.


Yet, the crown's power was not without limits. It was strongest on the island where it was forged, and the farther the Dementors strayed, the weaker the crown's hold. It is why, even now, they act with greater freedom when far from Azkaban's shores.


And so, the Dementors remain, neither ally nor enemy, but a force leashed to the Ministry's will. Yet a prophecy exists, whispering that the crown's magic is as dark as the creatures it commands and that one day, it may find a master who will not wield it for imprisonment, but conquest.



And just like that, everything clicked.


Voldemort leaned back, his red eyes gleaming with triumph. This was perhaps the biggest coverup in England's history. He had never heard of such an event, neither in textbooks nor from the mouths of old men who ought to have died centuries ago. And yet, here it was; proof of a forgotten war, in which the Ministry had gained control of Azkaban and the Dementors in one lucky swoop. They framed it as if the Dementors feared the wrath of the Ministry, and didn't dare move against them. But in reality, the Ministry held their literal leash.


Who would have known that the Ministry was in possession of such lovely toys?


But the farther they were from Azkaban, and by extension, the crown, the more loose their restrictions became. This was why the Dementors had lost control two years ago, when Black had escaped, and those beautiful creatures had taken a chance to feed during the Quidditch game. This was why they had joined him on his hunts for Muggles and Mudbloods, but had turned against him and he had first landed on Azkaban's shores.


The crown. It explains everything.


He laughed, a sharp, high sound that made Avery flinch. "You have done well, Avery," Voldemort said, his tone almost pleasant. "You have repaid your debt to me at last."


Avery, still on his knees, pressed his forehead to the floor. "Thank you, my Lord. I am honored by your forgiveness."


Voldemort turned to Nagini, speaking in Parseltongue. "Avery is off the menu. He has finally proven himself useful."


Nagini hissed in disappointment, coiling closer to him. "He smells of fear," she lamented. "A pity."


"Patience," Voldemort said, stroking her smooth head. "You will feast soon. But first, a mission."


Nagini's head tilted, her amber eyes alight with interest.


"The crown lies in Azkaban," Voldemort continued. "But first, we must try and recover the Prophecy. You will infiltrate the Department of Mysteries and retrieve it as soon as possible. When that is done, you will go to Azkaban itself."


Wormtail had told him that Sirius Black had been able to escape Azkaban because of his Animagus form. The Dementors did not care about animals, preferring to feast on humans. Nagini would have an easier time searching the prison than any man he would send. She would locate where his faithful followers were, allowing him to see through her eyes and case the prison…and she would also find the warden and retrieve the crown for him.


Nagini hissed in agreement, her tail flicking eagerly. Voldemort's gaze returned to the scroll, his thoughts already racing. A crown to control Dementors. How fitting.


After all, who was more deserving of such a crown than he, a future king?
 
a black crown with sharp edges, high above a mountain
Why am I reminded of Barad-dur, only missing the Eye of Sauron...

[reading continues]

Well crap, it's the One Crown To Rule Them All!

Suddenly, the Azkaban-breakout becomes a lot more important to the war - or more precisely, the army of Dementors does.
 
Chapter 7 New
The flickering light of the hearth cast dancing shadows across Hagrid's cozy cabin as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat around the oaken table. Each of them held a steaming mug of tea—oversized tankards that were comically large in their hands but no more than a small wooden cup to Hagrid. Despite their joy at seeing their old friend again, the sight of his bruised face and bandaged arm weighed heavily on their spirits.


"So tha's it, then," Hagrid said gruffly, his massive hand clutching the cup as delicately as he could manage. "We tried our best. Olympe and me, we did. But the giants… they ain't comin'. The Gurg we talked to, Karkas, he listened ter us, but the Death Eaters got ter his lot not long after. They killed him." He paused, his beetle-black eyes filled with sorrow. "The new Gurg, Golgomath… he's a mean one, and he's taken a likin' ter You-Know-Who."


A heavy silence fell over the room. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of Fang shifting in his spot near the hearth.


Ron broke the silence reluctantly. "Malfoy was right, then."


Hagrid's brow furrowed, his expression a mixture of confusion and surprise. "Malfoy? What're yeh talkin' about Malfoy fer?"


Hermione hastily jumped in, her voice a little too high-pitched. "It's all right, Hagrid! Malfoy's… he's on our side now."


Hagrid looked at her as if she'd grown another head. "Come again? Draco Malfoy? On yer side? What in tarnation happened while I was gone?!"


Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione before beginning. "It's a long story, Hagrid. Voldemort's been staying at Malfoy Manor—he took over their house this summer. He… hurt Malfoy for trying to defend his mum. And when we got on the train to Hogwarts, Malfoy told us everything. He apologized for… well, for everything."


Hagrid snorted. "Malfoy? Apologizin'? Pull the other one."


"I didn't trust him either," Harry admitted, "not at first. But he's been helping us. A lot. He's been giving us information about Voldemort's plans, helping us prepare. He even told us you were with the giants."


Hagrid's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Yeh trust him? Malfoy and his dad have been nothin' but trouble fer years."


Harry nodded firmly. "We do. Or at least, I do. Malfoy's risking a lot by helping us. Slytherin's practically shunned him—none of them will even talk to him."


Hermione added, "He's taken a big risk, Hagrid. We wouldn't have come this far without his help."


Hagrid still looked unconvinced. "An' Dumbledore? Does he know about all this?"


Harry frowned. "We haven't told him yet. We haven't been able to. We can't send him an owl, and we can't just go to his office whenever we want anymore-"


It was at this point that Hermione suddenly brightened, sitting up straighter. "Hagrid, you can tell Dumbledore for us! You can give him a letter! Have you anything to write on?"


Hagrid looked bemused as she shot to her feet. "Er… I s'pose I could, yeah. There's parchment and ink in the drawer by the stove."


Hermione bustled over, rummaging through the drawer. She quickly found what she needed and began furiously scribbling notes, the quill scratching loudly in the quiet cabin.


Hagrid turned back to Harry and Ron. "What's this all about, then? What's Malfoy been tellin' yeh?"


Ron, absently scratching Fang behind the ears, muttered, "Oh, you know. Just that You-Know-Who wants to destroy the Statute of Secrecy in order to take over Britain."


Hagrid's tankard slipped from his hand, clattering onto the table. "WHAT?!"


Harry winced but launched into an explanation, with Hermione chiming in from the stove as she wrote. They explained Voldemort's plan: how he wanted to expose the wizarding world to Muggles, take over Britain, and declare himself ruler. With each new detail, Hagrid's expression grew grimmer, his face pale beneath his wild beard.


By the time they finished, Hermione returned to the table, ink-stained hands clutching the completed letter. "Here," she said proudly, placing it in front of Hagrid. "This has everything Malfoy's told us."


Hagrid picked up the letter, his massive hands dwarfing the parchment. "Are yeh sure Malfoy's right about all this?"


Hermione shrugged. "He was right about you and the giants, wasn't he? And Professor Snape could probably confirm whether the information's true or not."


Hagrid nodded slowly, his expression still troubled. "All right. I'll take it ter Dumbledore first thing in the mornin'. But I'm still keepin' an eye on Malfoy, mark my words."


Harry nodded. "We understand, Hagrid. But trust me—he's trying to help."


Hagrid grunted, still looking skeptical, but the conversation shifted to other matters as the fire crackled on, casting warmth and light over their tense gathering.



************************************************************


The Room of Requirement had outdone itself this time.


It wasn't the grand hall of polished wood and shelves of enchanted books that Harry had seen during DA meetings, nor was it stocked with arcane instruments or magical training dummies. Instead, it was a gym—a Muggle gym, by the looks of it. The weights were scuffed and scratched, the leather on the benches cracked, and faint stains and scuff marks marred the walls and floor. It wasn't pristine, but it felt... real, like it had been lived in, worked in, and sweated over. Harry knew this gym very well.


After all, it was Dudley's gym that he had asked the Room to remake for him.


Harry jogged in measured strides around the perimeter, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from his brow and soaked into the collar of his oversized t-shirt. His legs ached with each step, his muscles burning from the exertion. He'd already done squats, pull-ups, and some light weightlifting—three sets of ten reps for each exercise, with a careful five-minute rest in between. Now, he pushed himself to finish his laps. After this, he'd tackle pushups.


As the soles of his trainers pounded against the scuffed floor, his mind churned through the events of the past two weeks.


Hagrid had finally returned. Bloodied and bruised, the half-giant had recounted his harrowing journey to the giants. The details he'd shared had been far grimmer than Draco's clipped report—stories of failed alliances, shattered diplomacy, and the looming shadow of Voldemort's influence. What few giants remained had pledged their strength to Voldemort. It was another piece in the madman's growing web of alliances with dark creatures, a reality that sent a chill down Harry's spine.


Hagrid's return had driven Harry to push harder, to prepare himself for the inevitable battles ahead. His training in wandless magic, as suggested by Malfoy, had been progressing—but slowly. He could cast spells like Expelliarmus and Accio without incantations, but removing the wand movements entirely still felt like trying to breathe underwater. Hermione, of course, had already surpassed him and Ron in this. He wouldn't be surprised if she managed her first wandless spell any day now.


Guiltily, Harry couldn't help but feel happy that he had surpassed Ron, at the very least. The redheaded boy was having trouble just performing the wordless incantation, and it was only adding to his sour mood.


But Harry wasn't just focusing on magic. Draco's other advice—to strengthen his body—had resonated with him.


Dudley had been his unlikely inspiration.


Over the summer, Harry had watched his cousin grunt and sweat his way through boxing workouts. Now, Harry found himself replicating those routines: running, lifting weights, doing pushups and pull-ups. Unlike Dudley, though, Harry's progress came steadily. Each day, he could lift a little more, run a little faster, push a little harder. Maybe it was the benefit of being a wizard—his body, after all, had endured injuries that would have killed a Muggle—but he was seeing results much faster than his cousin had.


As he rounded the last corner of the room, his chest heaving and his legs begging for mercy, he forced himself to keep going. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back, and his trainers squeaked faintly on the floor. Finally, he staggered to a halt.


For a moment, Harry stood there, bent over, hands on his knees, gulping air into his burning lungs. The ache in his muscles and the pounding in his chest were painful, yes—but they also felt good. They were proof of progress, evidence that he was getting stronger. He flexed his arm and smirked at the faint outline of muscle beneath his skin. His stomach, once soft and lean, was beginning to show the faintest trace of abs.


He only had two hours to spare each night, squeezed between classes, DA meetings, and Quidditch practice. Yet even in that short time, he had already noticed a difference. On the Quidditch pitch, he was faster, sharper. He could catch the Snitch quicker, dodge Bludgers with ease, and keep up with Angelina's grueling training sessions without feeling like he was about to collapse.


The transformation wasn't just physical, though. The exhaustion that came from working out so intensely had a welcome side effect: dreamless sleep. When he finally crawled into bed at night, his body shut down completely, sparing him the nightmares that so often plagued him.


Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, letting his thoughts drift to Ron and Hermione. Hermione, he knew, was too focused on her wandless magic practice to join him here. She was determined to master the technique, and Harry admired her focus even if he couldn't quite match it. Ron, on the other hand...


Ron had been in a funk since his argument with Malfoy. The other boy had accused him of becoming the next Wormtail, and he knew that those words had cut Ron deeply.


Harry knew his best friend wasn't like Pettigrew—Ron was loyal to a fault—but the accusation had struck at Ron's insecurities. Harry suspected it was tied to Ron's struggle to define himself, to step out of his brothers' shadows and prove he was more than "just another Weasley."


Ron had always felt overshadowed—by his brothers, by Hermione, by Harry himself. It was something he rarely talked about, but Harry had seen glimpses of it over the years: the Mirror of Erised, Ron's envy during the Triwizard Tournament, his occasional outbursts of anger and frustration. Malfoy's taunt had dredged all of that up and left Ron in a funk he couldn't seem to shake.


Growing up with the Dursleys had taught Harry one thing: emotions were dangerous. Anger, sadness, even joy—any show of strong feelings could earn him a slap or a sharp word, followed by Aunt Petunia's favorite threat: "Stop crying before I give you something to cry about." As a result, Harry had learned to bury his emotions deep, to shove them into a corner of his mind and lock them away.


Because of this, Harry wasn't sure how to help. Every disagreement he and Ron had ever had had been resolved by ignoring it until it faded away. This felt different, though.


Hermione had tried to talk to Ron about it, of course, but the two of them had ended up having a horrible row, and now they were barely speaking.


Maybe Fred and George could get through to him, Harry thought. Or perhaps Ginny. He'd bring it up with one of them when he got the chance.


In the meantime, though, he'd like to have someone here with him, if only so he could tackle some of the heavier weights safely. Though, he didn't know who'd be interested. He immediately crossed the girls from the D.A. of his potential list, and the pureblood boys who had spent their lives in the Wizarding World. Well, except maybe Neville.


Huh. Neville…


The idea made him pause. Neville had been gaining confidence lately, and maybe inviting him to work out here would be good for both of them. Harry could use a spotter, after all, and it'd be nice to have someone to talk to while he trained. Yeah, Neville would be a great choice, actually.


He stretched his arms over his head and let out a satisfied groan. Tomorrow, he'd invite Neville. For now, he had pushups to finish.


As he dropped to the floor and started his set, Harry smiled faintly to himself. Let Dudley throw a punch at him next summer—he'd be ready.


***********************************************************


Wingardium Leviosa


Hermione whispered the incantation in her mind, the words echoing through her thoughts in a clear, deliberate tone. The soft hum of magic responded, echoing throughout her body, and three quills lifted gently into the air. She sat cross-legged in the middle of her dormitory floor, her wand nowhere in sight, sweat beading on her forehead as her muscles trembled from the sheer effort of holding them aloft.


The dorm was unusually quiet; Parvati and Lavender had left for dinner, giving Hermione the solitude she needed for this experiment. Her breath came in shallow, uneven pants as the quills wavered slightly in the air, but she refused to let them fall. Despite the strain, an unmistakable glimmer of happiness lit her face.


She was finally doing it—wandless magic.


She licked her dry lips, feeling the exhilaration mix with exhaustion. Yes, it was more ambitious than she'd initially planned. Logic dictated she should have started with one object, not three, but that inner hunger—that relentless, well-hidden drive for power—had whispered in her ear, pushing her to aim higher. It always had. That voice had been with her all her life, urging her to study longer, to read more, to seek out every scrap of knowledge she could find.


It was a hunger she had learned to temper, but not ignore.


Magic had awakened that hunger like nothing else ever had. The day she received her Hogwarts letter, her quiet yearning transformed into an insatiable ravenousness.


Magic wasn't just a skill to learn; it was a universe to explore. Every spell, every charm, every theory—she wanted to dissect it, understand it, and master it. And now, it had led her to this: wandless magic, an ability that many adult wizards deemed impossible to achieve without years of practice.


Two minutes, she noted internally, her eyes flicking toward the clock on the bedside table. She needed to set a limit, to see how long she could sustain this fledgling ability of hers. Her arms quivered slightly as though the effort to hold the quills steady was physical, though she knew it wasn't her muscles straining.


No, it was something deeper—something within her core, her inner self, that part of her core that connected to magic like a second heartbeat.


When she reached her limit, she'd record the time, rest, and then push herself further. It was a methodical process, one that brought her a sense of control.


She couldn't understand how wizards could treat magic so casually, accepting it as an everyday convenience rather than an awe-inspiring gift. Didn't they want to know more? To push their limits? To push it's limits?


Perhaps it was because they'd grown up with it, she mused. They were inured to its beauty. But it wasn't just purebloods who seemed indifferent; even Muggle-borns and half-bloods like her eventually fell into the same complacency. After their first year, they embraced magic as part of their lives but never seemed to cherish it, never hungered to unravel its mysteries.


Hermione frowned, the quills wobbling slightly in the air before she steadied them again.


Even Harry—the Boy Who Lived, someone she thought might share her curiosity—didn't have the same relentless drive to uncover magic's secrets.


He was talented, yes, but he wasn't consumed by the need to understand the hows and whys.


But Malfoy was.


The thought came unbidden, and she bit her lip. Of all people, Draco Malfoy… the boy who had sneered at her, insulted her, tried to make her life miserable for years. And yet, after this summer, he had changed. Hermione couldn't deny it. Something in him had shifted, and it wasn't just the haunted look in his eyes or the scar that now marred his once-perfect face.


It was his mind. Malfoy, who had grown up in the lap of magical luxury, who had been surrounded by magic all his life, now shared her hunger for knowledge.


She wondered if it was terrible to be a little grateful for the trials he had endured. Without Voldemort's occupation of Malfoy Manor, without the horrors Draco must have witnessed, he might still be the same arrogant, shallow berk he'd always been. Instead, he had become someone who pursued knowledge with a fervor that mirrored her own.


It was…nice, having someone she could talk to on that level, someone who shared that yearning, just as it was nice for him to share his knowledge with her. A pureblood like him…he must have access to magic's she could only dream of. Didn't most magical families have their own personal libraries? And for someone like Malfoy, whose family riches dwarfed so many, he must have books from all over the world…


It certainly made befriending him a much more bearable task, she thought with a smile.


A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, stinging her eye. Her concentration wavered, and the quills dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Hermione collapsed back onto her elbows, gasping for air, her entire body trembling. The ache wasn't just in her muscles; it was in that deep, internal part of her that had reached out to magic, stretching itself thin.


And yet, a wide grin crossed her face. She pushed herself upright, running a hand through her damp hair as she glanced at the clock.


Five minutes.


Not bad for a first sustained effort. Not bad at all.


Her heart raced with excitement as she reached for her notebook, scribbling down her observations with a shaking hand. Tomorrow, she'd try again. Perhaps she'd start with one quill, just to see if she could push past five minutes. Or perhaps she'd add a fourth quill, challenge herself even further.


Her hunger whispered in her ear, and she smiled.


There was so much to learn. So much to achieve.


And she couldn't wait.


******************************************************


The Gryffindor common room was quiet, with the warm glow of the fire flickering against the stone walls. It was late, and the only occupant was Ron Weasley, slouched in a chair, his brow furrowed and his lips set in a tight line. The chessboard in front of him was alive with the clatter and clamor of tiny enchanted pieces locked in battle.


"Pawn to E4," Ron muttered, moving the white piece by hand. Across the board, a black pawn shuffled forward in response. "Knight to F3," he snapped. His frustration was palpable, and the pieces responded to it with a heightened ferocity. The white knight galloped forward, drawing its tiny sword, and with a swift blow, sent a black pawn flying off the board with a clatter.


The match was vicious and brutal, but despite how aggressive he was playing, there was only one thing on his mind.


Malfoy. That git had no right to say that shit to him; saying that he'd turned against his friends before. That he'd end up being the next Wormtail. Fuck him. Arsehole. He got to spew shite for four years straight, talking about how he wanted them to die, calling Hermione a Mudblood, talking about his family, mocking the death of Harry's parents-but he just got to take it all back, and everything was just fine, right?


The game was fast-paced and aggressive, reflecting Ron's simmering frustration. His fingers gripped the pieces tightly, his movements sharp and forceful. The enchanted chessmen mirrored his mood, their battles ferocious and unrelenting. The queen knocked over every piece in her path with one powerful swing, the rook rolled forward like a battering ram, and the knight bludgeoned his foes with calculated brutality. Were it not for the sturdiness of the enchanted pieces, the set would've been destroyed in moments.


"Bishop to C4," he snapped. The piece glided across the board, swinging its staff in a wide arc to flatten a black pawn. The attack brought a flicker of satisfaction, but the knot of emotions inside him didn't loosen.


Because as much as he hated the words that came out of that tosser's mouth…he couldn't deny that the other boy was right. He had turned his back on his friends multiple times; he'd fought with Hermione, making her cry on multiple occasions just because he wanted to be right. He'd turned his back on Harry in the Tournament, thinking his friend wanted to gain all the glory and fame to himself. He'd thought that Harry had left him behind like he always seemed to. And yet, if it had been him whose name had come out of the goblet, he would have died during the first task. It had taken seeing Harry face a Horntail to finally pull his head out of his arse.


"Queen to H5," Ron growled. The white queen stormed across the board with regal fury, knocking over every black piece in her path with one decisive strike. The black king quailed in his corner, surrounded and doomed.


Checkmate.


Ron slammed the queen down with a thud, leaning back in his chair with a frustrated sigh. He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling drained despite having done nothing physical all day. The tips of his ears burned, but not from exertion. He felt… useless. Like he was the dead weight in their trio. What did he bring to the table? Some knowledge of wizarding culture? Malfoy could teach Harry and Hermione that, and more. He was a pureblood, so he knew things about high society and wizarding culture that Ron probably hadn't even heard about. That was stuff Harry would need after school, right? And he knew enough about the Ministry that Hermione would need connections there to get the jobs that she wanted. Malfoy could do that stuff for her.


The thought made Ron's stomach churn. Rich, brilliant, and even—he admitted with great reluctance—handsome. He'd heard girls gush about it enough to know. "If he wasn't such a tosser," Ginny had once said, "he'd be very fanciable." At the time, Ron had been incensed; who would ever be interested in Malfoy, of all people? Now, it was just one more thing that Malfoy seemed to have over him. He was smart too. Wandless magic in months? That wasn't normal. If Malfoy was nicer, he'd probably have half the girls in every House chasing him.


Including Hermione.


That thought made Ron's chest tighten, a pang he didn't want to name. He shoved it aside. Focus. What could he do to be more useful? Learn more stuff? He wasn't really interested in that kind of stuff, and besides, that was where Hermione shined. Get better at magic? He was…okay, at magic. He was no Bill or Charlie, but he'd managed to work with a shitty wand for two years in a row and still managed to pass his classes. But with how hard learning this shitty wandless magic was for him, it was obvious that he probably wasn't as good as he thought.


So focused was he, that when two hands clapped his shoulders' and jumped.


His heart rate didn't climb down when he saw his twin elder brothers smiling down at him.


They had their pranking smiles on.


Blimey, Ron, you're jumpier than the ghoul in the attic," Fred said, grinning down at him.


"And just as mopey," George added, sliding into the armchair to Ron's left. "Which, by the way, isn't a compliment."


"Shove off George," Ron muttered, setting up the chessboard again.


"I'm Fred," George corrected, smirking.


Ron rolled his eyes. They always did this—swapping names to confuse people. But the family knew better. Fred's nose was slightly crooked from a childhood broom accident back when he was seven, and he had a faint scar on his bottom lip from stealing Dad's wand when he was eight. George, on the other hand, liked to keep his hair just a bit longer than Fred, and when he had been smaller, he'd been really clumsy, so he had scarred hands from gnome bites, when he'd been a bit too slow to throw them in time.


Tiny little differences, but they were enough to sort out who was who if you knew them long enough.


Fred leaned forward, his grin widening. "What's wrong, ickle Ronniekins? You've been sulking for weeks."


"Yeah," George chimed in. "It's bad for business for us, having a sad sack of a brother. If you don't cheer up, we'll have to take matters into our own hands."


Their Cheshire Cat grins sent a chill down Ron's spine. He did not want to be the target of their pranks.


With a grunt, he relented. "Fine, fine. I just… I want to help Harry and Hermione more. To be more useful. But I don't know how."


Fred tilted his head. "You're already plenty helpful."


"Yeah," George added, smirking. "They need a good meat shield."


It was like something just…snapped, when George said that. He'd been pissed for weeks now, just wallowing in his feelings, taking it out on Hermione when she tried to talk to him about it. That anger just came roaring out of him, and before he knew it, he had shoved the chessboard off the table, scattering the pieces, and had started yelling at his brothers.


"Seriously? Is that all you see me as? A meat shield?" His voice cracked with anger. "You think I like standing there, useless, while my friends figure out how to keep us alive? You think it feels good knowing I'm not smart like Bill, or brave like Charlie, or inventive like you two? You think it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, that Draco Malfoy, has done more to help keep Harry alive longer than I've probably done in the last four years? I hate this! I hate feeling like this, not knowing what to do or how to help them, but I don't know how to fix it! I just… I need something! Something so You-Know-Who doesn't show up and blast Harry to pieces one day when he stops playing around!"


Breathing heavily, he slumped back in his chair, his ears burning as the twins exchanged a look. Their usual mischief was gone, replaced by something… serious.


Fred nodded. "Alright, okay. First, sorry about that: didn't realize this was something that serious to you. We would have spoken a bit differently then. And secondly….we'll help you."


Ron frowned. "Huh?"


George leaned forward, his grin returning. "Sit tight, little brother. We're about to help you find your Talent—with a capital T."


The confusion in his head only grew as they kept talking.


"My…my Talent? What are you two going on about?"


"Okay, so you've noticed that every Weasley kid is good at something. You've even noticed some yourself, even though you were wrong on what exactly each one is," George explained. "You see, this all starts with Dad. You've noticed how good he is at messing with Muggle machines, right? Like the car?"


"Yeah? What about it?"


"Well, Dad's talent isn't mucking about with Muggle tech," Fred continued. "It's mixing the two worlds together. Muggle and Magic. The car was his masterpiece: fully automatic, filled to the brim with Muggle parts, but working with the magic, the two of them coming together, to create something that represents both worlds. It's broad, way broader than any of our Talents, but Dad is the seventh son of a seventh son, so it makes sense that his would be a bit stronger than ours."


"So…all these skills that you guys have, like your pranking…that's a Talent?" Ron asked dubiously.


George let out a small huff of laughter. "No, no, Ronniekins. Nothing that simple. Look, we'll go through the list, alright? Bill: his Talent is warding. Breaking them, making them, twisting them how he wants, expanding, shrinking, etc. It's what makes him such a good Cursebreaker for Gringotts. It just clicks for him. Charlie's Talent isn't his strength; it's his empathy with animals. You might be too young to remember, but Charlie could make friends with the garden gnomes and talk to them in a way none of us could. When he got to Hogwarts and started doing Care of Magical Creatures, a lot of the beasts listened to him even more than they did with old Prof. Kettleburn. Dragons were just the natural progression for him; the ultimate creature, one that didn't bow to him.


"Then we move onto Percy," Fred said, taking over. "His Talent is kind of weak; it's just memory. Percy remembers everything though, from when he was about six months up till now. It's why he knows so many rules and regulations by heart. He doesn't really have to study. Just glancing at books is enough for him."


"And then there's you two."


George nodded. "And then there's us. Our Talent is the same: Enchantment. We just cover different areas of it. Fred's good at copying other enchantments, figuring them out, and then modifying them for our own use. For me, I can thread multiple enchantments together, even the ones that don't really fit together, and I can make them last way longer than the average enchantment should be able to."


"Ginny found her Talent back in your Third Year when Bill taught her the Bat Bogey Hex. She's a dab hand with hexes, curses, jinxes; not Dark Magic, but vicious magic. Magic that hurts, but doesn't kill. Scary stuff, that," Fred finished.


"But, I still don't get it. Where'd you two even hear about this, and what about me? What's my Talent?" Ron asked.


"Well, Dad told Bill, Bill told Charlie, Charlie told Percy, Percy told us, and Bill told Ginny," George answered. "We…kinda skipped you? But to be fair, we figured you already knew yours, and you just weren't really expanding on it."


"Wait, have a Talent? You know my Talent?" Rona sked excitedly.


The twins shared a look, and then gazed at him like he was a particularly stupid child.


Fred gestured to the scattered chess pieces on the floor. "Your Talents is currently on the Common Room floor. Is that enough of a clue for you, Merlin?"


"...chess? That's it? My Talent is…chess?"


Ron tried not to sound too disappointed but…Chess? That was it? After hearing about how his brothers were gifted with Wards, Enchantements, Magical Creatures, even Ginny's gift with hexes and curses…Chess just sounded so…lame. Even Percy's memory thing was way better than this.


"It's the one thing you've never had trouble with, the thing that just seems to click with you, right? It's the thing that you're undeniably good at. It's your Talent."


He'd always been good at chess, there was no doubt about it. He'd been able to beat everyone in the Burrow back when he was seven, and he'd only gotten better over the years. When he played chess, it was like he could see all the possible ways a match could go, the moves a person could make, and how to achieve the perfect checkmate.


But he couldn't apply that in real life; you can't treat people like pawns to take hits and sacrifice themselves. You can't designate someone as the Queen and let them be the only one to make offensive and defensive moves. You can't make someone the king and try and protect him from the rest of the fight.


He told the Twins that, but rather than refute this, they just…nodded.


"Yeah, that's true. You can't just play with people's lives like that. So, just fix that: make it so that you can bring chess onto the battlefield. When you can do that, you can be more than deadweight."


"Wait, what? How is that even possible?! You expect me to what, just pull out a board in the middle of a fight and start playing a game?"


George shrugged as he and Fred got up. "Shit, maybe. That's something you have to figure out on your own. If we spoonfeed you everything to you, it won't help you in the long run. You need to carve your own path, little brother. I wouldn't worry too much though.


"You're a Weasley. We always pull through."


****************************************************


You're a Weasley. We always pull through.


Fat load of good that shite was to him now, he thought angrily as he tried to get to sleep. Chess. Of all the Talents he could have gotten, it had to be a game. And why had no one brought it up before? As usual, he was the last to know something important, and Fred and George seemed to think that him having Chess as a talent was on the same level as any of his sibling's niches.


What a load of bull. It wasn't like he could bring a chessboard to a fight.


He was standing on a giant chessboard, Harry and Hermione behind him, waiting for him to make the first move. This was his empire; his decisions here would determine if they lived or died, and he couldn't deny it:


He loved it.



…Except, he thought as he sat up in his bed, his heart beating wildly, he had been in a situation where someone had brought a chessboard to life, and had he not been as good as he was, he would have lost that fight.


********************************************************


Ron sat nervously in the Transfiguration classroom, his mind far away from the lecture. Professor McGonagall's voice was a steady drone in the background, but he couldn't focus on a single word. His thoughts were like a storm, churning and raging, bouncing between frustration, determination, and doubt. When McGonagall finally dismissed the class, her clipped tone snapping him back to reality, he stayed put, watching his classmates shuffle out.


Harry paused by his desk. "You coming, mate? They're serving Shepard's Pie today."


Ron's stomach grumbled, and just for a moment, his will softened. He could do this another day, couldn't he? Fresh, hot Shepard's Pie would certainly make him feel better…


Except…how could he eat, when he had promised to find a way to become better? To help his friends?


To one-up Malfoy?


"I'll catch up," Ron muttered, not meeting his friend's eyes.


Harry shrugged, already turning to the door, but Hermione lingered. She studied Ron for a moment, her brow creased with concern, before giving him a small nod and following Harry out.


A small smile graced his lips. It was good to know that even with Hermione being mad at him, she still cared. Then again, that was Hermione; she always cared.


Soon, it was just him and McGonagall in the room. She was gathering the papers on her desk, her sharp movements slowing when she noticed him still seated. Her keen eyes narrowed slightly, and for good reason. He was usually one of the first out of the door.


"Mr. Weasley, is everything all right? You'll miss your friends if you stay too long."


Ron swallowed hard and forced himself to speak. "Yeah. I mean—yes, ma'am. I just... I need your help. With some extracurricular work, that is."


McGonagall straightened, one eyebrow arching elegantly. "Extracurricular, you say?" She studied him for a long moment, and Ron squirmed under her gaze. Finally, she nodded. "Very well. Pick up those papers on my desk and follow me to my office."


Ron grabbed the stack, his palms sweating as he trailed her out of the classroom. His nerves intensified with every step, and doubts swirled in his mind.


Would she even take him seriously? What if she dismissed his idea outright? He knew he wasn't a good Transfiguration student: he had a solid Acceptable in her class right now. She might tell him it wasn't possible based on his grades alone.


When they reached her office, McGonagall unlocked the door with a silent flick of her wand and cast a privacy charm with the same effortless grace. Ron couldn't help but envy the ease with which she performed magic. She set the papers on her desk and turned to him.


"Tea?" she offered, gesturing to a kettle on a side table.


"Uh, sure," Ron said, still trying to calm his nerves.


The kettle began to whistle almost immediately under her direction, and she summoned teacups and a tin of biscuits with another flick of her wand. The cups floated gently onto the table, and the kettle poured steaming water into them before she tapped each with her wand, darkening the liquid into rich, fragrant tea.


Ron marveled at the casual elegance of her magic. It wasn't like how his mum did things. When Mom did her household charms, it was always rushed, and sometimes overpowered, resulting in more of a mess than the one she'd started with. With McGonagall though—it felt refined, controlled, precise.


"Ginger newt?" McGonagall asked, offering the tin.


Ron grabbed one, and the animated biscuit wriggled in his hand before going still. He took a bite, savoring the mix of ginger's heat and the sweetness of sugar, but his thoughts were elsewhere. McGonagall took one as well, dipping the head of the wriggling newt into her tea before biting it off. The silence between them felt surprisingly comfortable, much like the quiet moments he shared with Harry and Hermione in the common room, rather than the nervous silence he expected he would experience with a teacher.


After finishing her second biscuit, McGonagall broke the silence. "I've noticed you've been... moody these past couple of weeks. Care to share?"


Ron swallowed his mouthful quickly. "I was just having a bad couple of days. Needed to figure some stuff out."


McGonagall's lips quirked in faint amusement. "Does that mean you'll be nicer to Miss Granger now?"


Ron's cheeks burned. "Yes, ma'am."


She gave a small huff of approval before fixing him with her piercing gaze. "Now then, Mr. Weasley, what is it you wished to discuss?"


Ron hesitated, then asked, "Do you remember the giant chessboard from our first year?"


McGonagall snorted. "Not likely to forget your first year anytime soon." She sighed, shaking her head. "What a disaster that was. Dumbledore keeping the Sorcerer's Stone in the school, employing Quirrell despite his odd behavior, and that absurd obstacle course..." She chuckled softly. "I had hoped my chessboard would be more of a challenge, but clearly, it wasn't enough if an eleven-year-old could solve it."


Ron shifted awkwardly. "I couldn't have won without... sacrificing myself."


"That was the point," McGonagall said. "The game was meant to eliminate the player. But it was designed for a single person. The fact that you led two others through it speaks to your skill. You were quite impressive, even better than your brother Percival was."


Ron gulped down a mouthful of tea. "How did you make it? The chessboard, I mean."


McGonagall looked at him curiously. "It's advanced magic. The pieces were marble, which is difficult to transfigure, far above your current skill level. I used animation charms to give them a level of sentience so they could understand the rules of the game and the instructions I gave them. I also layered enchantments to make them resistant to Vanishing and other spells that would remove them from the board. The board itself was warded to ensure no one could bypass the game without playing. As soon as you set foot on the board, you had no choice but to play: it would not allow to move forward or back."


Half of her explanation went over Ron's head, but he pressed on. "Could you... teach me? How to make the pieces move like that?"


Her sharp gaze pinned him in place. "And why would you need something like that, Mr. Weasley?"


Ron hesitated, considering lying, but he knew better. She had been Gryffindor's Head of House longer than he had been alive. She would see right through him.


"I want to help protect Harry," he admitted. "When... when You-Know-Who comes for him. I'm tired of being useless."


McGonagall's expression softened. "Mr. Weasley, the adults in this castle will make sure Mr. Potter is safe as long as he resides within these walls—"


"That's a lie," Ron interrupted, his frustration boiling over. "The adults in this castle have always failed to protect Harry when it mattered. First year, Harry had to stop Voldemort. Second year, he had to kill the basilisk. Third year, he had to learn the Patronus Charm because the Ministry put dementors here, and you couldn't do anything about them. Fourth year, his name came out of the Goblet, and then he was kidnapped—and no one realized Moody was a fake until it was too late. You've had four years, and you've failed every time. How can you promise to protect him now?"


McGonagall looked at him, startled into silence by his outburst. Slowly, her expression shifted to something far more serious, her eyes glinting with a mix of respect and resolve.


"And you intend to fight beside him?" she asked softly, her voice steady, "You will risk your life for his? Take his burdens as yours? Fight his enemies as if they are your own? This isn't anything like your feud with Mr. Malfoy. You intend to fight against the Darkest Wizard Britain has seen in quite some time. He has made his name unspeakable to the masses; only those who are utterly unafraid of him, like the Headmaster, can say it with any sort of ease.


"You know the stories. You've heard the tales. Are you prepared for the trials ahead?"


"...no. But that's why I'm here. So I can learn. And if you don't teach me, then I'll learn it myself," Ron said defiantly.


McGonagall let out a small snort of laughter. "Mr. Weasley, you run a considerable risk of killing yourself before you ever remake those pieces or that board."


With a sigh, McGonagall raised her wand and swished it twice. With a flash of light, four books appeared on her desk. None of them were the behemoths that Hermione liked to stick her nose into, but they were much thicker than he liked.


"Read all of these by the end of the week. They will give you a baseline understanding of Transfiguration, Animation, Basic Warding, and Arithmancy necessary for the Pieces and the Chessboard. You may ask Ms. Granger for help, but you must be able to understand these in your own terms."


Suppressing a groan, he nodded. He had hoped that he would be able to start working on the pieces immediately, and he didn't like all the extra reading she had given him.


But for once, he felt like he was advancing toward…something.
 
I thought his talent was going to be tactics, or strategy. I think it's really stretching it to have some sort of, iunno, shounen-anime-battle-chess thing where, I guess, he traps his enemies into a giant chessboard and everyone is forced to play by chess rules? Are we (chess) Yu-Gi-Oh now?
 
I thought his talent was going to be tactics, or strategy. I think it's really stretching it to have some sort of, iunno, shounen-anime-battle-chess thing where, I guess, he traps his enemies into a giant chessboard and everyone is forced to play by chess rules? Are we (chess) Yu-Gi-Oh now?
It probably is tactics, it is just that chessboard is the best way for Ron to do it, have an army of golems to move and sacrifice so harry and normal people can fight better and safer. His end goal is probably an small squadron of the statues that fought death eaters in deathly hollows
 
... man, first the twins start talking about how everyone in their family has a special talent like they were in MLP, and now Ron's looking for a way make trap cards.

It's fantastic.
 
Well that's certainly an... interesting... direction for Ron to go. I guess we'll see if he makes anything of it.

The real question is how much of that was the twins bullshitting to try and make him feel better?
 
Man, Malfoy is going to be so fucking confused when Ron starts summoning giant chess pieces. That's a pretty fucking massive divergence from canon.

As an SI, you expect your actions to change things somewhat, but seeing Ronald Weasley calling forth an army of pawns and sending them into battle is still gonna blindside you...
 
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