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.