When Madam Pomfrey saw Hermione, she gasped but quickly composed herself. Without asking any questions, she nodded at a chair for me before levitating Hermione into the next ward. Figuring the examination could take a while, I shrugged off my cloak and boots, sprawled on the nearest bed, and drifted off.

I woke up to the prickle of diagnostic charms. Bright sunlight streamed through the window—it was already morning.

“You’re perfectly fine, Mr. Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey said with a small smile. “Take a shower, change, and have some breakfast. After that, you’re free to go.”

“How’s Hermione?” I asked, sitting up instead of answering.

“Miss Granger’s physical condition is stable,” she said primly, pursing her thin lips in disapproval. “I’ll discharge her by evening.”

“Can I see her?”

“Only briefly. And no upsetting her,” she conceded with a wave toward the corridor. “Third ward. Ten minutes, Mr. Weasley.”

“Hermione, can I come in?” I knocked softly, secretly hoping she was asleep and wouldn’t answer. Facing her after everything that had happened was hard, and guilt gnawed at me. I should have done better—known better. A healthy, grown man like me, and I couldn’t keep an eye on two kids.

“Come in,” she replied weakly, and I pushed the door open.

A couple of minutes later, she was crying into my shoulder. “Oh, Ron, I was so scared and hurt. I couldn’t even help Harry—I just got in the way. He remembered Lumos Maxima on his own, caught the key, and I... I froze,” she sobbed again.

“Why did you even get on the board if you didn’t know how to play?” I asked, stroking her hair, relieved she’d survived.

“We didn’t know!” she said, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “It was dark at first, and then suddenly the lights came on, and we were already on the board. I didn’t realize what was happening and ran to Harry, but he couldn’t stop me in time. I was captured right away and dragged to the other side.” She bit her lip to hold back more tears.

“I couldn’t move, and Harry couldn’t help me either. He tried making a few moves, but I passed out from the pain and don’t remember much after that.” She began crying again but caught herself when she saw my irritated expression. Gripping my arm, she said, “Don’t be angry with Harry, Ron. It’s not his fault. He hasn’t woken up since they brought him in yesterday. I don’t even know what happened to him. Please forgive him. He was just trying to do what’s best for everyone.”

“I’m not a judge to forgive things, Hermione,” I muttered through clenched teeth, cutting myself off before the anger could build. “How did Harry manage to make a mess in just two moves?” I asked, changing the subject. It worked—she calmed down. Any more tears, and Pomfrey would have stormed in.

“There weren’t many pieces left,” she explained. “Like someone else had played before us and left the game unfinished. And there was blood... everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to process it.” She started crying again, but fortunately, a very cross Madam Pomfrey came in, scolded me for upsetting her patient, and firmly kicked me out. Not that I minded—I was already tired of all the waterworks.

I wandered out of the hospital wing and leaned against the railing, feeling lost. I didn’t want to go back to the common room—Neville had probably already spread the word, and everyone would be waiting for details. Let alone Percy.

So, I wandered aimlessly through the castle until I found myself in front of Snape’s office.

‘I didn’t even think to ask Pomfrey how he was,’ I realised, feeling a pang of guilt. I knocked, not expecting an answer, but the door swung open silently almost immediately.

“Come in, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said, stepping aside to let me enter. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“How are you, sir?” I asked as he unexpectedly brought out a teapot, two cups, and a plate of sweets, quietly setting the table.

“Alive, thanks to your prayers,” he said dryly. “Help yourself,” he added, pushing a cup toward me and taking one for himself.

“Veritasium, sir?” I quipped, suppressing a laugh. The absurdity of the situation made me want to burst out laughing. No one would believe this if I told them. It was probably just nerves, though—lingering stress from everything that had happened.

“Just Indian tea. A very fine one,” he replied, smirking faintly as he took a demonstrative sip. “What do you think?”

“Sorry, sir, but I’m not much of a tea connoisseur unless it’s some herbal brew,” I admitted after a sip. “You might as well have steeped a broomstick.”

Snape let out a noncommittal hum into his cup and casually pushed a dish of jam toward me. The rest of the tea passed in tense silence.

“You’re not as hopeless as I first thought, Mr. Weasley,” he said unexpectedly, setting his cup down and fixing me with a piercing gaze. “Unfortunately, you don’t know how to choose your friends. Unlike you, they lack common sense and self-preservation.”

“I’ve figured that out for myself over the past year, sir,” I replied, setting my cup down as well. “You’re not telling me anything new. But, with all due respect, sir, they do have their good sides.”

“Mr. Weasley, I’ll be blunt,” Snape said, leaning forward with a frown. “It would be better if you distanced yourself from Mr. Potter and Miss Granger. I’m not suggesting you cut ties entirely, but believe me, without them, you’d find life much easier—and I’d sleep better at night. Now that you’re not on speaking terms, this is the perfect time to step away. Otherwise, you’ll stay on this train until the end of the line. This chance won’t come again. Do you understand?”

“Thanks for your concern, sir, but I’ll sort out my friends on my own,” I said, taken aback by his strange speech. “As you can see, I’ve been able to help them.”

“And it’s your ‘help’ that causes problems for me,” he snapped, standing abruptly. He paced the room before stopping in front of me again.

“Mr. Weasley, let me be clear. When the Headmaster calls you for a chat, he’ll be very persuasive. He’ll give you countless reasons to forgive your friends, to give them another chance, to keep babysitting Potter. But I want to give you a choice—a real choice. After all, you didn’t let me die,” he added with a peculiar smirk.

With a dramatic sweep of his robes, he sat down opposite me and yanked my chair closer until barely a hand’s width separated us.

His sharp eyes burned with a restrained intensity, filled with purpose. For a moment, I half-expected him to pull out his wand and give me an impromptu lesson in Legilimency. But instead, he seemed to calm down, my detached demeanor seemingly having a grounding effect on him. He leaned back slightly, resting his elbows on the chair's armrests and steepling his long, tense fingers together, half-covering his face in thought.

"Mr. Weasley, does nothing about this business with the Stone strike you as odd?"

"The simplicity of the obstacles and the availability of information, sir," I answered without hesitation. "You don’t come across as careless, and there’s no way Harry would’ve overheard you unless you allowed it. And those challenges—keys, Devil’s Snare, a chessboard—hardly seem like serious barriers to an adult."

"Excellent," he said with a faint smirk, leaning back into his chair with what looked like satisfaction. "Then I’ll spare you the tedious explanations."

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Those obstacles were designed specifically for you, Mr. Weasley—for three inexperienced students whose strengths had been studied in advance. They were crafted to exploit Mr. Potter’s reckless bravado and your tendency to follow along with his antics, should you happen to get underfoot."

"And Quirrell?" I asked, unfazed. The troll that appeared before Halloween had been caged up long before, so the gauntlet must’ve been set up later. "You knew something was off about him, didn’t you?"

"Naturally," Snape scoffed. "But as you correctly observed, the Headmaster is a great wizard and exceedingly thorough. The labyrinth held two traps—one for Quirrell and one for you lot. Had you been as dimwitted a Gryffindor as your friends, everything would’ve gone to plan. Your interference, however, forced an adjustment. Instead of playing along, you demonstrated common sense and involved an adult. But Mr. Potter, being who he is, acted on his own and tipped off Quirrell. The result? Miss Granger and I nearly died, and the Stone was almost stolen."

"So, we were deliberately manipulated into participating?" A chill ran through me.

"Oh no," he said quickly, with a sneer. "For that, you can thank your golden boy, Potter. He plunged in headfirst entirely of his own accord, driven by his inherited recklessness and utter lack of sense."

"Then I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir," I ventured.

"The Headmaster knew Quirrell wasn’t what he seemed and set a trap. As you noted, he’s an excellent judge of character and understood Quirrell wouldn’t resist temptation. I don’t know the specifics of the trap, but it would’ve ensured the thief couldn’t escape or retrieve the Stone. As for your trio of fools, a separate set of trials awaited, should you decide to play heroes—which, of course, you did. Now, to the heart of the matter."

Snape rose, pacing with one hand brushing his lips in thought, before abruptly stopping in front of me. His dark gaze pinned me in place.

"You’re a problem, Weasley," he said flatly. "Potter’s idiocy and heroics are predictable, but your rare flashes of logic introduce an element of unpredictability—danger, even. You make my life considerably more difficult. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"You’ve two choices: either you take the lead in your little group and stop Potter from getting into trouble, or you dance to his tune without protest. If you can’t act in unison, we’ll see a repeat of yesterday. And I, for one, have no desire to die because a pack of children decided to play heroes. My advice? Cut ties with them and focus on yourself."

"You think more incidents like this are likely, sir?" I asked instead of answering. "Isn’t Hogwarts supposed to be the safest school in the world?"

"It was," he said with a bitter twist of his mouth, "before Potter arrived. You’re familiar with his story, I assume? The Dark Lord’s defeat left many of his followers free. They’ve spent years searching for Potter, and now that he’s here, they’ll try to reach him. And anyone close to him will be in danger. But Potter’s reckless ego will make things worse. He’ll leap into danger without regard for the cost to others."

"Is that why you’re so hostile to Harry, sir?" I ventured. "Because he puts people in danger?"

"That’s none of your concern, Weasley," he snapped coldly. "But if Potter would simply stick to his studies and avoid seeking out trouble, it would be better for everyone. Now, get out."

I rose quickly, thanked him for the tea, and made my way to the door.

"Weasley," his low voice called, and I turned back. "I trust you’ll keep this conversation to yourself? Believe me, you don’t want me as an enemy," he added with a deliberate edge of menace.

"Understood, sir," I replied seriously before leaving.

The Great Hall greeted me with cheers and wolf whistles from the Gryffindor table, mixed with whispers from the other houses. The one saving grace was that Percy restrained himself from scolding me in front of everyone. Instead, he watched me with a peculiar mix of worry and pride.

The twins, however, weren’t nearly as restrained and smothered me with hugs and congratulations until I was ready to flee.

Neville looked at me with admiration tinged with guilt, while Seamus and Dean wore expressions of envy. Questions flew from every direction, but I deflected them all for now. I wasn’t about to say something I’d regret later.

At least I learned the public version of events, courtesy of Hagrid. Overcome with guilt, the groundskeeper had spilled the beans to McGonagall after hearing that Harry had gone after the Stone. Hagrid had blamed himself, sobbing about letting slip details to the wrong people. Naturally, word had spread like wildfire.

According to the story, Harry had heroically saved the Philosopher’s Stone from a thief, and everyone seemed awed by his bravery. How could they not envy such an adventure?

I was only curious about one thing: why did help take so long to arrive? It felt like they just sat around waiting for the headmaster to return, unwilling to act themselves.

And now, what am I supposed to do about Harry and Hermione? How can I stand by, knowing what I do, while they charge off to save the world again? Of course, I'll take Ginny's diary away so the basilisk won’t be a problem. I’ll collect the Horcruxes in advance, save everyone from running around in the woods later. Then I can finally focus on myself, like Snape suggested.

But could I really stay silent when Diggory is doomed to die? When Luna and the others storm the Ministry? Who would I be to them, trying to steer them away, if I remained just some classmate—like Dean or Seamus?

And is Harry even that much at fault for me to resent him? He’s just an eleven-year-old kid. Back at that age, I wasn’t exactly the model of obedience either. We roamed through old quarries and building sites, snuck off to swim when we weren’t supposed to. Got into scraps without a second thought.

When you’re young, you don’t really think about death, do you? It’s just something that happens when you’re ninety and done with life. You never imagine yourself dying in a stupid accident—falling off a bike or something. That’s for other people. Not us. Not the clever ones, the careful ones.

So yeah, I couldn’t blame Harry. And honestly, I had no idea how to proceed without making things worse. But one thing was certain: if I didn’t get involved, the Weasleys would be the first to suffer. Ron, Ginny, George, Arthur, Bill, Fred…

Dumbledore didn’t care about anyone except the Chosen One—and even then, only so far as Harry fit into his plans. As for Snape, trusting him was tricky. Not because he’d betray us, but because he’d sacrifice my family in a heartbeat if it meant defeating Voldemort. He came up with the “Seven Potters” plan, after all, and didn’t seem to care that my whole family was risking their lives for one boy.

Even so, I was leaning toward sticking with Harry and Hermione. I couldn’t just leave them on their own. I asked myself honestly, and the answer was clear: I wouldn’t be able to stay away. And what would be the point of distancing myself if I’d just end up rushing to help them anyway? Snape was right again—it’s better to take charge and try to keep things under control than to clean up the mess afterward.

When I ignored things before, Hermione nearly died.

As for the risks—what did I really face? It’s not like Voldemort and I would ever meet one-on-one. Harry always faced him alone. And I liked Harry and Hermione. They’re good people—honest, brave, and loyal enough to jump into any fire for their friends.

So, after dinner, I headed to the Hospital Wing to fetch Hermione—she’d asked me to come—and ran straight into Dumbledore.

“Good evening, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore greeted her warmly, with a nod.

“Good evening, Professor,” Hermione mumbled, her cheeks turning pink.

“And you, Mr. Weasley,” he said, his sharp gaze flicking to me. “Come to visit your friend?”

“No, sir,” I replied honestly. “I came to escort Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower.”

“Well, they wouldn’t have let you see him anyway,” he said with a faint sigh. “The poor boy is still unconscious. No, no, Miss Granger, don’t cry,” he added kindly, patting her shoulder. “Harry will be fine. And now, if you don’t mind, I need to borrow your friend for something important. Miss Granger, perhaps Madam Pomfrey could walk you back?”

I didn’t like how he was talking about me as if I weren’t there—or as if my opinion didn’t matter.

“There’s no need, sir,” I cut in before Hermione could agree. “I’ll take her myself and come find you afterward. It won’t take long.”

“Very well, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said, studying me for a moment before breaking into an unexpected grin. “I’ll await you in my office. Oh, and do note that I’m partial to fruit sherbets this week.”

“You haven’t told me where your office is, sir,” I called out as he turned to leave.

“Ah, consider it a little puzzle,” he said with a chuckle, his half-moon glasses glinting mischievously. “But I have no doubt you’ll figure it out.”

“He’s so odd,” Hermione muttered thoughtfully, listening to the fading click of his boots. “And he likes lemon sherbets.”

“It’s a password, you dolt,” I said with a snort. “Come on, I’ve got to find his office next.”

“Why do you think he needs to see you?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowing in concern. “When people get called to the headmaster’s office, it’s never good, is it? You don’t think he’s going to expel us, do you?”

“Of course not, Hermione,” I said, starting to get annoyed. “If he were, he’d have summoned both of us—with McGonagall in tow for good measure. He probably just wants details about what happened yesterday. Or to ask about Harry.”

“Alright then,” she said, giving me a small, shy smile. She hesitated for a moment, then squeezed my hand. “Thank you, Ron. For not leaving me behind and for bringing me to the Hospital Wing. It would’ve been awful to wake up there alone.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said quickly. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Now off you go.”

“Good luck, Ron,” she said, offering me an encouraging smile before disappearing through the portrait hole.

I watched her go, lingered for a moment to collect myself, and then closed my eyes.