I thought that with no basilisk this year, things would finally calm down—but as it turned out, it was quite the opposite.
Everything was fine up until New Year’s. Even Halloween passed without the usual chaos, and we didn’t get invited to Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday party this time either. But after Christmas, trouble started brewing, and the further we got into the term, the worse it got.
It began in late November with a letter from Mum and Dad. This time, they didn’t even risk inviting me home. They wrote straight away that they wouldn’t be around—they’d gone to visit Bill in Egypt and wouldn’t be back until after Christmas.
Bill had been promoted, or rather, he’d officially qualified as a Curse-Breaker and was taken on full time. They transferred him to Egypt, set him up in a flat in Zamalek on Gezira Island, and Mum and Dad decided to visit while the rest of us were stuck at Hogwarts. That left us to spend the holidays at school. Saying I was disappointed would be putting it mildly. I’d been hoping to visit Charlie, but with no one to see me off to Romania, I had to put the trip off until summer.
I’d already invited Harry and Hermione to come along, of course after asking Charlie first. He was fine with it, even managed to get us a family discount—twenty Galleons instead of a hundred for the international Portkey and translator, plus we’d be staying at his place. Now Harry’s counting down the days till summer on his calendar. He’s buzzing—he’s never been anywhere. Luna turned us down, though. She and her dad are off on another month-long expedition. I wouldn’t mind tagging along with them someday, though her dad’s not too keen on me. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Malfoy, meanwhile, was more insufferable than ever this year—probably couldn’t get over being humiliated at the Quidditch pitch. There wasn’t a single day he didn’t sling some nasty comment when we crossed paths. And it wasn’t just us, either. He’d changed his strategy—got smarter about it, almost professional.
Instead of tossing off a quick insult and strutting off, he’d stick around, goading his target until they snapped and started a fight. His goons, Crabbe and Goyle, wouldn’t let anyone get near him, so Malfoy would stand there smirking, untouched, while the other person fumed. The commotion would draw prefects or professors, and points would be docked—or Snape would hand out detentions. Malfoy, of course, would always play innocent, throwing smug looks that made you want to knock him flat.
He didn’t bother me, though. I’m not a kid, and I’ve got no problem giving as good as I get. I warned him back in the Shrieking Shack to leave me be, and he’s taken that to heart. Plus, my comebacks are a bit more grown-up. Like this one:
“So, Weasley,” Malfoy sneered as we loitered outside the Potions classroom, waiting to go in. “Not going home for the holidays? I suppose your parents finally decided to rid themselves of all their brats and save a few Sickles. Must be crowded in that little hovel of yours, like rabbits in a warren. Hopefully, now your mum can afford a new robe—her old one’s a sight for sore eyes.”
Everyone snickered, and Hermione shot me a worried look, gripping my arm as if I’d fly at him. She needn’t have bothered—I wasn’t going to rise to such a clumsy dig. But Harry, on the other hand, snapped.
“Shut it, Malfoy!” Harry growled, fists clenched. Before he could do anything, I shoved him behind me and stepped forward.
“And I suppose your dad only managed to pot the ball once, Malfoy, and that’s why you’re an only child,” I said with a slow, nasty grin, fixing him with a piercing stare. “Some of us are rich in family, and others in broomsticks. Personally, I’ll take siblings over seven Nimbus 2001s any day. But I’m sure your well-dressed mum would disagree.”
Malfoy’s face went white, and with an angry snarl, he lunged at me, forgetting his wand. He ended up crashing into Goyle instead, who toppled over with him when my fist connected.
Of course, Snape showed up immediately, docked Gryffindor points, and handed me a detention. After that, Malfoy left me alone, though he still enjoyed winding up Harry, who’s far more impulsive and always takes the bait.
He didn’t dare target Hermione directly either—she’s not the sort to lash out physically, but her words can cut deeper than a hex. Instead, she’d get hit with petty spells behind her back—nothing harmful, just minor inconveniences like a snapped bag strap, spilt ink, tangled hair, or a stuck scroll of homework. Hermione’s sharp, though, and always fixed things right away. The trouble was, we could never prove it was Malfoy, so we couldn’t hex him or report him. The little git knew that if he crossed a line, we’d tear him apart, so he stuck to sly, small-scale sabotage.
That’s how life went—one skirmish after another. I couldn’t help but think half the fights could’ve been avoided if someone just rearranged the schedules so Gryffindor and Slytherin didn’t share classes. But no, wizards never take the simple route.
Harry was on edge this year too—terrified of letting the team down. With Slytherin’s new brooms, it all came down to the Seeker. Wood was relentless, piling on so much pressure it even got on my nerves. I wanted to smack him just to shut him up. Harry, already dealing with Malfoy and Snape, was completely frazzled. Snape wasn’t even outright insulting him—just constant, calculated nitpicking that made his life hell. He even made sure all of Harry’s detentions were with Lockhart, knowing how much Harry hated him. I thought it was a bit of a joke—sitting there listening to Lockhart ramble while writing lakers to his fans in his name wasn’t exactly hard labour. But Harry swore he’d rather scrub cauldrons for Snape than endure another detention with that blowhard.
Then, a week before the holidays, Dobby reappeared. Honestly, I thought he’d vanished along with that cursed diary.
Saturday brought our first Quidditch match of the year—Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Our team got a standing ovation from the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws too. I almost felt sorry for Slytherin. They’re proper pariahs, really, the whole school against them. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Could just be everyone united in envy over their shiny new brooms.
The game didn’t even get off to a proper start. A rogue Bludger locked onto Harry straight away, forcing the twins to protect him while Slytherin racked up points.
Before the match, I reminded Harry about the mad house-elf, told him to keep his guard up, and if anything odd happened, to get the teachers involved. When the team called a time-out, I thought, finally, Harry will tell the grown-ups about the cursed Bludger, and they’ll sort it all out.
But nope. Nothing of the sort happened. The team huddled, had a quick chat, and they were back on their brooms before I could blink. Looked like Wood didn’t fancy losing points over stopping the game, or maybe Harry was just being his usual reckless self—classic hero antics.
The rain started coming down harder, and I realised it was only a matter of time before Harry ended up with a broken arm. I hurried down from the stands, aiming to stop Lockhart from mucking things up worse if he got anywhere near Harry with a spell. Hermione caught up with me just as I reached the edge of the pitch. We stood there, squinting at the sky, trying to make out what was going on and wondering who might’ve cursed the Bludger.
Then, a roar went up from the crowd, and Harry plummeted straight to the ground like a stone, barely managing to roll off his broom before impact.
He’d landed a fair distance off, so we didn’t reach him until a crowd had already formed—his team, Lockhart, and Snape heading over from the stands. Strangely, no sign of Madam Pomfrey or Dumbledore, not even Hooch. Students were trickling down from the stands to gawk.
“I caught it, Ron!” Harry beamed when he spotted me, holding up the Snitch in his good hand. But then his face twisted in pain, and he groaned, gritting his teeth.
“Yeah, you caught it, Harry! We won!” Wood announced gleefully, clapping Angelina on the back, while Fred and George wrestled with the rogue Bludger, trying to shove it into the crate. The thing was still trying to break free and have another go at Harry.
“Harry, your arm!” Hermione fretted, rattling off about how he needed to get to the Hospital Wing immediately.
“I reckon I can handle this,” Lockhart chirped, grinning that ridiculous grin of his as he whipped out his wand. “Hold still; I’ll have you sorted in no time!”
“No—” Harry managed to say, but before he could finish, I shoved Lockhart square in the back. He went sprawling face-first into a puddle beside Harry, just as I turned and socked Wood in the nose, hard. I couldn’t take it anymore—he was standing there rabbiting on about how the win was worth any injury, instead of helping Harry to the Hospital Wing like a proper captain should.
“You’re a bloody nutter, Wood,” I snapped, as Katie and Alicia tried to calm him down, and Hermione grabbed my arm to keep me from taking another swing. “You don’t give a toss about anyone, as long as you get your precious win. Look at you, preening like a prat while Harry’s lying here in the mud with a busted arm!”
“What’s going on here?” Snape’s icy voice cut through the scene as he arrived. “Weasley, Wood, ten points from Gryffindor for brawling. And you, colleague,” he added, turning to Lockhart, who was sitting up, inspecting his mud-splattered robes with a horrified expression, “what exactly happened to you?”
“Oh, just a little mishap,” Lockhart replied breezily, brushing himself off. “Thought I’d lend a hand and, er, slipped. I’d best go change—leaving Mr. Potter in your capable hands, of course.” And off he went, scuttling back to the castle.
“Well?” Snape turned back to us, scanning the lot of us with that sharp, piercing look. No one said a word.
“Everyone, back to the castle. Wood, Weasley, with me,” Snape barked. The crowd scattered quickly, not wanting to stick around. Snape cast a sleeping charm on Harry, conjured a stretcher, and levitated him toward the castle.
“I expect an explanation,” Snape demanded, once Harry was handed off to Madam Pomfrey and Wood’s nose had been mended.
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“The Bludger was cursed, sir,” I said bluntly. “Everyone could see it during the match, but Wood didn’t stop the game or ask for an investigation. Then, when Harry fell, instead of helping him, he just stood there waffling about how the win was worth it. I think someone ought to look into this before our next game.”
“You suspect Slytherins?” Snape asked, his tone dangerously sharp.
“No idea, sir. I figure an investigation will clear that up,” I replied, not backing down. “Gryffindor’s got two more matches. I’d rather not see this happen again.”
Snape stared at me for a long moment before turning to Wood. “Mr. Wood, a week of detentions with Mr. Filch should give you time to reflect on your duties as captain. Fail to prioritise your team’s safety again, and you’ll be the first captain in history to be removed for negligence. And you, Mr. Weasley, will serve detention with me tonight at eight for your insolence. Dismissed. Wood, stay.”
As Wood followed Snape, he shot me a murderous glare over his shoulder and made a cutting gesture across his throat. I smirked and flipped him the bird. Looked like I was in for another fight later.
Honestly, I’ve been uncharacteristically aggressive this year. Must be hormones or something. Half the time, I feel like I’m bursting out of my skin, itching for a scrap or to down a pint. Hell, even just to sneak off with a girl for a proper snog. But no one would understand. So here I am, living like a cross between a grumpy old man and a monk. Brilliant.
Wood didn’t get back for two hours, and he was still muttering threats when he did. Fred and George cuffed me on the back of the head for good measure, but they backed me up in the end, letting Wood know in no uncertain terms that if anyone was teaching me manners, it’d be them. Turned out the Bludger had been cursed to take Harry out of the match—could’ve been fatal if he weren’t so quick on his feet.
If Harry had been seriously injured, I reckon Dobby would’ve swooped in to save him—his whole plan, after all, was to keep Harry alive but far away from Hogwarts. “Better crippled than dead,” or something like that, wasn’t it?
The whole thing must’ve rattled Dumbledore and Snape—two years in a row now, and Harry’s the target of another cursed object. Bet they’re checking everyone’s skulls for Dark Magic squatters. Snape’s been hovering around us a lot more since then, clearly keeping an eye out. Can’t say it’s done much for his mood, though.
Harry was let out just in time for dinner—looking chipper, healthy, and smug as ever about the win. After the meal, when we hid away in an empty classroom, he spilled the beans.
Turns out Dobby had paid him a visit in the Hospital Wing. This time, his rambling made a bit more sense.
“He said,” Harry rattled off excitedly, “that after the Dark Lord disappeared, life got better for house-elves. And now, apparently, I’m some kind of hero to them! I don’t really get why, though. Then he said he didn’t mean me any harm—he just wanted to save me. That something terrible’s brewing at Hogwarts, and if the Chamber of Secrets is opened again, the nightmare will return. Only this time, I might get hurt.”
“The Chamber of Secrets?” Hermione frowned. “I’ve never heard of it. But if it’s been opened before, and judging by what he said, someone must’ve been hurt back then. We should look into it,” she added, already brimming with enthusiasm. “By the way, what are house-elves exactly?” she asked as she started dragging us off to the library.
“And you didn’t deck him?” I asked while we clattered down the stairs. “Forgave him, didn’t you? You soft git—he nearly killed you!”
“Well, I felt sorry for him,” Harry mumbled, his face going red. “He’s so small and pitiful. He cried and had bandages on his hands—hurt himself for going against his masters. Can you imagine? And he promised he wouldn’t try saving me again.”
“You’re a saint, Harry,” Hermione said with a pointed glare in my direction. I just snorted. “You handled it perfectly. Did Dobby say who his master was?”
“No,” Harry muttered in frustration. “When I asked, his eyes bulged out, and he smashed a water jug on his head. Madam Pomfrey came running, but by the time she got there, he’d already vanished.”
Nothing else happened until Christmas. I spent most of my time at extra lessons with Flitwick, Hermione with McGonagall, and the rest of it in the library. We dug up some information about the Chamber of Secrets in “Hogwarts: A History,” but there wasn’t a word about its opening in the school’s chronicles. Still, I let the kids enjoy their little mystery hunt—I had other things on my mind.
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I kept bumping into Luna regularly—usually just enough for a quick exchange of words on the stairs or in the entrance hall before breakfast or lunch. I didn’t push to hang out more, figuring it’d be good for her to make friends with other girls and settle into school life. She’d have me around regardless.
But things didn’t turn out quite as rosy as I’d hoped.
Every day, she wrote to me in her notebook. About everything. It was like having a conversation with her, really. She’d spot an interesting suit of armour or a crack in a window frame and jot down a couple of lines right away. At times, it felt like I was walking alongside her.
Luna never complained, but through her cheerful words, you could sense a deep homesickness—especially for her dad. She felt out of place at Hogwarts, surrounded by so many people who didn’t understand or even try to understand her. She missed her long walks through fields and hills. Here, they didn’t want wonders springing from her imagination—they demanded spellwork exactly as instructed, robbing the magic of its spark and turning it into bookish drudgery.
She enjoyed her lessons, though, and was considered one of the strongest in her year. But she had a habit of daydreaming and going off-topic. Ginny told me how, during Charms, Luna made her feather not just levitate but twirl like it was dancing, break into butterflies, flutter over everyone’s heads, and then transform back into a feather before landing softly on her desk. Flitwick thought it was brilliant. McGonagall, on the other hand, was less impressed. She preferred precision and discipline, and Luna’s whimsical approach didn’t sit well with her, even though she excelled in the subject.
Luna’s favourite class, surprisingly, was Potions. She liked to experiment there, too, but always managed to get it right. And, to everyone’s shock, Snape had become her favourite teacher. She even made him a Valentine—a bright yellow card with a sun motif, decorated with fresh flowers and leaves. Alongside it was a string with an orange radish charm, like the one she’d given me. I could only imagine his face when he received it.
“Everyone else will get loads of cards, Ron, but the professor’s all alone,” she said matter-of-factly when I asked why Snape of all people, not someone like Lockhart or Flitwick. “Besides, it’s always dark and cold in the dungeons. That’s probably why he looks so sad—he must miss the sun and warmth.”
Can’t argue with that...
As always, Luna looked like herself—dreamy, serene, and a bit disheveled. She had a Puffskein on one shoulder and a tiny dragon on the other. Her wand was often tucked into one of her braids or behind her ear like a pencil. The handle was adorned with little beads strung on thin cords—sort of like the rowanberry necklaces Russian girls make in autumn. The wand in her hair resembled a wooden chopstick with dangling charms. Bright orange radishes dangled from her earrings. Altogether, her look was odd but endearing. I figured she was doing fine since she was dressed properly, so I stopped worrying. Big mistake.
A couple of days before the holidays, I noticed her Puffskein was missing. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but when we returned after Christmas, it was still gone. Luna just smiled and changed the subject when I asked about it. Imagine my shock when I spotted it perched on Cho Chang’s shoulder.
Cho, a pretty girl a year ahead of us, always stood out with her exotic looks. But I hadn’t expected her to be such a cow.
I had a word. Didn’t need to threaten her with violence or anything.
“Oi, doll,” I said, blocking her path. “Your mum works at the Ministry, yeah? Well, if you don’t return what’s not yours to its rightful owner, people might find out her daughter’s a thief. Imagine the gossip here at Hogwarts—bullying first-years, no less. Think anyone’d still want to date you then?”
"You...!" she started, her face going red.
"Yeah, me," I cut in, keeping my tone calm but firm. "Hope you’ve got the message loud and clear. And don’t you dare try anything with Luna, or I’ll be adding my own little touch. You know who my brothers are, right? Wouldn’t take much to get a recipe that'll have you going bald and spotty for life."
By dinnertime, Luna’s Puffskein was back on her shoulder. Later that evening, though, three blokes cornered me. Turns out it was the lad who’d been sweet on Cho Chang and his mates. If they’d come at me with magic, I’d have been done for, but the daft git decided to use his fists. Lucky for me, I’m decent at that sort of thing, especially since I’d learned to add a bit of magical oomph to my punches. The rest of the Gryffindor lot stayed out of it, of course. All four of us ended up in the hospital wing, but I came out of it the least worse for wear.
Then the older Ravenclaw lads decided to have a go at "teaching me a lesson" about sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Tried three times. Would’ve worn me down eventually—fists are no match for older students—but word got out about why I was doing it. I’ve got a feeling the twins might’ve had a word with them. Say what you like about Fred and George, but they’d bury someone with a shovel if it meant sticking up for family. After that, they left me alone.
Not that it ended there. I lost count of the number of Luna’s things I had to get back. Seems her house was full of people who fancied "borrowing" what wasn’t theirs. I was knackered from all the fights and never-ending detentions. Hermione kept having a go at me for losing points, saying I was reckless. But I wasn’t about to explain it all to her—it was my problem to deal with.
Then Percy got wind of it and went absolutely mental, even wrote to Mum about it. She sent a Howler that could make your ears bleed, ranting on about me brawling left and right. Ginny, of course, strutted around like her brother was some kind of superhero, while the lads from other houses kept their distance, and the girls started giving me these curious looks. Shame we were still kids—could’ve made the most of the attention. Mum really did me a favour with that one.
Still, it didn’t fix Luna’s problem. It wasn’t just the lads nicking her stuff; it was the girls in her dorm, and I couldn’t exactly belt them or scare them off.
Then I had an idea. Went straight to Penelope, Ravenclaw’s prefect, and gave her a piece of my mind about how useless she was at her job. Told her if she didn’t sort it, I’d take it to Flitwick and have her replaced by someone decent. She got all teary and ran off to tattle to Percy, who had a right go at me. Apparently, she sulked for two weeks after that. I didn’t let up, though—gave Percy an earful about choosing a girl over his family. Honestly, it was a proper mess.
But can you blame me? Here’s an example:
"Why’re you so late, Luna?" I asked one evening, catching her sneaking back to her tower just before curfew.
"My dragon’s wing got broken by the Nargles," she said softly, stroking the tiny figure. "We went to the healer."
"There’s a healer here?" I asked, my chest tightening at how sad she looked.
"Of course," she said, brightening a bit. "Professor Kettleburn. He can fix any creature. Hagrid could too, but only the really alive ones, since he doesn’t have a wand—just his umbrella. The professor taught me a spell so that if Layel ever breaks his wing or leg again, I can fix it myself. Isn’t that brilliant?"
"Yeah," I said, gritting my teeth and vowing to get rid of every bloody Nargle I could find.
Then she frowned at me. "Ron, my charm isn’t working for you. There are too many Wrackspurts around you. Here, take another one." She pulled off her necklace of radishes and handed me a few more. Without a second thought, I slipped them onto my cord. Didn’t even ask why she had so many—it was just Luna being Luna, I suppose. Maybe she needed the sunlight and warmth they represented just as much as I did.
Strangely enough, after that, I felt calmer. I still threw punches and stood my ground, but it became less about the anger and more about doing what was right.
I did try to cheer her up. Took her to see Hagrid a couple of times, even gave her a ride on my broom before curfew. But the cold set in, and even warming charms weren’t enough, so we had to stop. Didn’t want her catching something.
At least people got the message—mess with Luna, and I’d be there to break a jaw. Shame that my sticking up for her didn’t win her any friends. Might’ve even made things worse. But it’s alright. Luna’s tough; she’ll manage.