I didn’t have to wait long, just about ten minutes—enough time to mull everything over properly. So, that’s the end of my brief friendship with Potter. Well, fine then. No use dwelling on it. I was only worried about Hermione with her over-the-top sense of responsibility. She’d definitely follow Harry into whatever mess he dragged her into. Maybe someone would save him, but her? Not so sure…

"Come in," Snape’s clipped voice broke my thoughts. He’d appeared out of nowhere, gesturing for me to step into his office. He shut the door behind us and motioned to a chair, seating himself opposite. "Speak."

I gave him a brief rundown of our suspicions while he stared at me in silence. His expression was calm, but the overly stiff posture gave away his tension.

"Your friends, I assume, don’t share your view on who the villain is, Mr. Weasley?" he asked with an obvious sneer, the corners of his mouth curling unpleasantly, clearly referring to himself.

"They think it’s you, sir," I admitted with a nod.

"And why, pray tell, have you settled on Mr. Quirrell?" he asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"Because, sir, apart from you two, there aren’t any other candidates in the school," I said with a shrug, and Snape looked genuinely taken aback for a moment, not even bothering to hide it.

"Explain," he demanded.

"It’s simple, sir. I think of Professor Dumbledore as a Great Wizard, which means he’s got the experience to hire the right people. You, along with the rest of the staff, have been here for ages. The Headmaster’s had more than enough time to figure out if you were dodgy or to decide he could trust you. But Mr. Quirrell’s only been here a short while. Given that the overheard conversation was between you and him, the choice seems obvious to me."

"But your friends, evidently, have a different opinion," Snape observed, relaxing slightly and sinking into his chair with a more comfortable posture.

"Well, sir, you’re not exactly the easiest person to get along with," I replied honestly, under his amused gaze. "Your appearance and attitude don’t help much—you’re practically playing the part of a villain. But I’ve met plenty of adults, and I’ve learned to tell natural nastiness from an act. I just see it as part of your personality, sir. It doesn’t bother me enough to judge you unfairly."

"And you’re not afraid of me?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward with a hint of menace in his voice.

"No," I answered truthfully. "If you were truly a villain and wanted me dead, you’d have done it ages ago. What can you even do to me now, sir? Put me in detention? Shout at me? With all due respect, sir, I’m not afraid of cauldrons or a telling-off."

"Why did you come to me, Mr. Weasley?" he asked after a thoughtful pause, as if unsure how to take my words. "You’ve got a Head of House, after all."

"We did speak to her, sir. Professor McGonagall’s a brilliant teacher, but she’s a bit too much of a Gryffindor to hear anyone out unless it’s her own idea," I admitted, and for a split second, I thought I saw the corner of Snape’s mouth twitch in a tiny smile.

"Very well," he said, standing. "I’ve already taken some precautions. Now, return to your common room and, if possible, keep an eye on Potter and Miss Granger. I can’t be everywhere at once." He stopped me with a quiet call as I turned to leave. "And Weasley—"

"Yes, sir?"

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for your improper assessment of a teacher and your insolence."

I grinned broadly, nodded, and headed off to the tower. My chest felt lighter. Let him dock all the points he wants, so long as he keeps Potter safe.

In the common room, I found Hermione waiting. Judging by how quickly she came over, she’d been looking for me.

"Where’s Potter?" I asked, glancing around.

"None of your business," she snapped, dragging me over to the window, away from the others. "How could you, Ron?" Her face twisted briefly, like she was holding back tears, but then she fixed me with a stern look, so much like McGonagall’s.

"What else could I have done, Hermione?" I asked, smirking. "I’ve been telling you two all year that you were wrong, giving you reasons and evidence. You even agreed with me at times, remember? But then you’d turn right back around and side with Harry. I couldn’t just wait any longer, Hermione. We need a strong, grown-up ally, or Potter’s going to drag us into another mess."

"But you didn’t even discuss it with us," she countered. "And now the Stone’s in danger. We wanted to warn Professor Quirrell, but McGonagall threw us out of the staff room before we could even speak to him and threatened to dock points. Now Harry’s gone off to keep watch on Fluffy. This is your fault," she rambled, and I broke into a sweat, panicking at the thought that they might’ve run straight into Quirrell’s trap.

"Hermione, if Snape’s such a villain, why didn’t he kill us outright or hex us into submission? Why bother talking to me instead of running off to nick the bloody Stone? Do you really think you could take on a grown wizard with your Wingardium Leviosa and a few sparks if he meant us harm?"

"I don’t know anything anymore, Ron," Hermione said miserably. "I don’t know who to believe. When I listen to you, I think you’re right. When I listen to Harry, I think you’re wrong. But what you did—going behind our backs—was low, no matter if Snape’s guilty or not."

"You don’t understand my reasons, Hermione," I said with a bitter laugh. "It’s just bloke stuff, that’s all. I couldn’t let it go on. Potter and I might be mates, but he doesn’t see me as his equal. He never listens to me, always brushes off my opinion. I’m not going to trail after him like a stray. Potter wants to play the hero? Fine. But I’m not going to be one of his lackeys."

"Ron—" Hermione started, uncertain.

"What, Hermione?" I cut her off. "We’re friends, but he’s got to decide—either he sees me as a real friend, or he sorts out his problems on his own. And don’t forget, Hermione, we don’t have Potter’s luck. If something goes wrong, we’re the ones who’ll cop it first. Got it?"

"Got it. You’re just a coward, Ronald Weasley," Hermione snapped, her voice rising. "Harry was right about you."

The door slammed open, and in burst Harry, out of breath. Hermione immediately rushed over to him, and they started whispering furiously, throwing me these nasty, accusatory looks.

Meanwhile, night was falling. Our housemates came back to the common room, making it lively and cheerful again. Only for the three of us—ex-best mates—it felt like there were claws raking at our insides.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I kept my eyes on Potter, pretending to chat cheerfully with Dean and Seamus. Meanwhile, my "former friends" just sat there, talking quietly.

Finally, it was fully dark, and everyone headed off to bed. Harry was the first to leave. I wanted to crash too, but I couldn’t risk it—not with Potter’s cloak in his possession. They could slip away at any moment. So, when Percy called me into his room, I had to ask Neville, who was writing a letter to his gran, to keep an eye on the common room entrance while I was gone.

Percy wanted to lecture me about my winnings. I hadn’t handed it over to the twins yet but planned to. He’d only just found out and was trying to talk me out of it. I shut him down pretty quickly.

Funny how much can go wrong in just ten minutes...

When I came back, I found Neville sprawled face-first on the carpet, completely petrified.

“It was Hermione,” he croaked when I undid the spell. “She hexed me when I wouldn’t let them through and said I’d call a teacher. I’m sorry, Ron—I couldn’t stop them.”

“It’s fine, Nev. You did great,” I said, racking my brain for what to do next. “Go find Percy and get him to fetch the teachers. Tell them those knobs are headed to the third-floor corridor—to the forbidden door.”

“What about you?” Neville asked, still shaken.

“I’ll try to cut them off. They might not have reached it yet,” I replied, sprinting for the exit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Neville nod determinedly and stagger toward the dorms.

Once outside, I let instinct take over, following the path that would lead me to Snape—or so I hoped. Downstairs, into a nook, then back upstairs—I didn’t even think about the route, just ran. Suddenly, I realized I was standing in a dark puddle. At my feet lay Snape, deathly pale and barely breathing.

It took me a moment to register that the puddle was his blood.

Hands shaking, I pulled out my wand and cast Sanentur, the only healing spell I knew. The wounds on his chest and arms started to close, though not completely. At least there was less blood now, and his breathing, though ragged, evened out a little.

I finally let out a breath, glanced around, and realized I knew where I was—the third-floor corridor. The one we’d been to before, back when we were still friends. Snape must’ve been guarding Quirrell but got ambushed or caught in a trap himself. Either way, I didn’t have time to think about it.

I bolted for the exit and found myself on the landing.

“Sir Nicholas!” I shouted, gripping the railing. “Anyone! Please, someone come here!”

Silence. Just the dim corridor, apparently off-limits to students.

“What’s all the racket, young man?” The Fat Friar floated through the wall, and I could’ve kissed him, except there wasn’t time for that.

“Sir!” I blurted out before he could start scolding or vanish. “I found Professor Snape! He’s in this corridor, badly hurt—he’s lost a lot of blood. Please, get someone here! And tell the other teachers that Potter’s gone after the Stone—they’ll understand. Just hurry, please!”

The ghost floated through me, chilling me to the bone, clearly skeptical. Then came a sorrowful cry from the corridor, and he shot through the wall with surprising speed.

I checked on Snape, who was still breathing, hit his wounds with another spell for good measure, and looked around more carefully. Blood drops trailed toward the trapdoor. I followed, finding Fluffy, the three-headed dog, snoozing to the sound of the enchanted harp.

Time was ticking. The harp kept playing, no help had arrived, and I couldn’t stop imagining my friends—however stupid they’d been—lying in their own blood, like Snape.

“To hell with it,” I muttered and jumped into the dark shaft, praying someone would come soon.

Devil’s Snare was an easy obstacle, even for a young wizard. A quick Incendio, and it was done.

In the key room, nobody was left. The next door was already open, and fresh bloodstains marked the floor. I hurried through, only to freeze in horror.

Five metres ahead, the chessboard began. Towering, faceless chess pieces stood, armed with what looked like real weapons. But the worst part? At the far end of the board, atop a pile of shattered black pieces, lay Hermione. Her dusty hair hung limp, her face rested against the hilt of a sabre, and her right leg was twisted at a grotesque angle. She wasn’t moving.

“Ron!” Harry’s voice broke through, somewhere to my right. A mix of relief and terror. “Ron! I’m so glad you’re here. What do we do?”

I scanned the room, noting more blood on the chessboard than before, and fixed my eyes on Harry. He looked completely lost, like he might cry, frozen in place.

“Ron, I thought I could play through it on my own, but Hermione… she got hurt.”

“Shut it, you bellend,” I snapped, darting along the edge of the board. But the nearest piece blocked my way, crossing its swords.

I realized I’d have to play the game to reach Hermione and help her. ‘Where’s McGonagall when you need her?’ I thought grimly.

“You!” I barked at the knight. “Get up!.” The rider dismounted and bowed, offering his place. Climbing onto the horse’s back wasn’t easy, but I managed.

“Potter, I swear, if we survive this, I’m breaking your nose.”

“Whatever you want,” Harry pleaded from the sidelines. “Just help.”

The game only took about seven minutes—it was clearly designed for kids. No idea how else to explain my win. Most of the pieces were gone already, but still, it was disturbingly easy. Too easy. But there wasn’t time to dwell on that.

The game snagged at the very end when, just like Ron in the book, I had to sacrifice the knight. But unlike him, I wasn’t keen on ending up sprawled out like a broken doll, as Hermione had.

“Potter, listen up,” I said quietly, glancing in his direction. “I’m about to sacrifice the knight. As soon as I do, you call checkmate on the king. Got it?”

“No, Ron,” Harry blurted, guilt flashing in his eyes as he glanced at Hermione. “Not that. Think of something else!”

“I’ve already thought it through,” I replied firmly. “Now stop arguing. Get your wand out. When the Queen takes a swing, use Leviosa to lift me up and get me to the other side. Got it?”

“Yes,” he exhaled, relief washing over his face as he fumbled for his wand. “I’m ready.”

I made my move, tugged the reins to rear the horse up, and watched from atop as the Queen stabbed it through the side and dragged it off to the edge of the board. I had to yank Hermione towards me quickly and forcefully to stop her from getting buried under falling rubble. Thankfully, she was still out cold.

“Ron, how is she?” Harry asked nervously, shifting from foot to foot, clearly too scared to come closer.

“Broken leg, probably a concussion, maybe internal injuries. How should I know? I’m not a healer,” I answered coolly. “She’s still unconscious.” ‘I wish help would come sooner’, I silently pleaded.

“Ron, I’m sorry, but I have to keep going,” Harry said seriously, guilt lacing his voice. “You stay with Hermione and wait for help. If Voldemort gets the Stone, all of this was for nothing. You have to understand…”

“Go,” I said flatly. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said with a sad smile before hurrying off toward the exit.

“You’re not my mate, Harry,” I called after him, but he didn’t stop. If anything, his shoulders slumped even more. “Not anymore,” I muttered under my breath, stroking Hermione’s hair as we were left alone.

McGonagall never showed up, but about ten minutes later, Dumbledore himself arrived.

“Apologies, Mr. Weasley, but I can’t stay with you,” he said, his voice gentle, his smile soft. I had half a mind to grab his beard and shake some sense into him. “Could I ask you to take Miss Granger to the hospital wing?”

Before I could answer, he flicked his wand, and a passageway appeared in the wall. I realized then that his “question” wasn’t really a request—it wasn’t up for debate. Fine by me. Without Hermione, Harry was probably either asleep or passed out drunk by now anyway.

“Please, Mr. Weasley,” he said kindly, but it was clearly an order as he conjured a stretcher for Hermione. “This path will take you directly to where you need to go. I’m terribly sorry, but I must be on my way.”

With a sad smile and a dramatic swish of his travel cloak, he disappeared into the next room, almost as though he were never there. The whole interaction had taken no more than five minutes.

The stretcher floated off down the tunnel on its own, and I guided it to keep it from bumping into the walls. We emerged through an alcove right next to the door to the hospital wing.