Morning came, as it always does, no matter how late I’d gone to bed. I woke early anyway, unable to shake my restless thoughts—wondering if I’d done the right thing by starting all this... But what was done was done.

Before breakfast, I brought the promised Basilisk skin to the shaman and had a chat with Charlie. He suggested that after selling the venom, we should arrange Portkeys for everyone, as a fallback. That’s what I liked about him—he was genuinely decent. He insisted war was an adult matter, and sending half-trained teenagers into battle was out of order, no matter how noble the cause. He even mentioned it might be best if Hermione and Harry left Britain after fifth year. Back home, people would brand him a coward for saying that, but in my book, he was one of the most sensible wizards I’d ever met. And I was relieved to have him in my corner.

Harry woke up half an hour before breakfast but skipped it altogether, hurrying straight to the shaman. He got a few potions to ease the aftermath of the dissolution, and no doubt the old man gave him some sage-like pep talk. Even so, Harry still looked miserable.

“How’re you holding up?” I asked after dinner. He’d barely touched his meal and then wandered off to the lake, leaving me to calm a worried Hermione before dashing after him—on the shaman’s advice, I wasn’t about to let him brood alone.

“Not great, Ron,” he muttered, refusing to meet my eye, tearing at the grass under his fingers. “I can’t get past what happened yesterday.”

“If you want to talk,” I offered, “I’m all ears.”

“I’m worried you won’t want anything to do with me if you realise who I really am,” he said, shooting me a pained glance. “I’m a monster… I saw it…”

“A monster, are you?” I joked. “Then you’ve obviously never met the twins.”

“Ron, be serious,” he snapped, clearly upset.

“Alright, if you insist,” I replied, softening my tone. “You’re not going to tell me anything so awful no one’s ever done it before. Believe me, everything in the world—good or bad—has already happened a hundred times over. You’re not that special,” I added with a faint grin. “So what’d you see that scared you so badly? Did you torture a cat, or refuse to help an old lady cross the street?”

“I saw my childhood, stuff I’d forgotten,” he whispered. “It started off like the Mirror of Erised, and I was looking at myself. Then this other kid showed up—he said we were alike—and showed me the Dursleys and me, only younger. I remembered hating that they loved Dudley, not me. Back then, I didn’t know I wasn’t theirs, so I was jealous of my ‘brother.’ I actually wanted Dudley gone or dead, just so they’d love me instead. A bookcase nearly fell on him once—it was sheer luck he only got some bruises.”

“Maybe it wasn’t you,” I suggested.

“It was me!” he said angrily, jumping up and pacing. Then he sank back down with a defeated sigh, voice spilling out in a sudden rush:

“I thought it was some ‘fairy of justice,’ like they told us in primary school, punishing rotten people if you complained. You’ve no clue how I despised the Dursleys, wanted them all to hurt. Whenever their stuff broke or got ruined, I was secretly pleased. My aunt reckoned I was just making hair change colour or floating objects around—‘freaky tricks,’ as she’d say—but she never guessed it was me causing all those other accidents: the shorted wires, Dudley crashing his shiny new bike, Uncle Vernon breaking his leg after stumbling over nothing…

“I just stood there, enjoying it. That’s why they tossed me in the cupboard and ignored me. I used to nick Dudley’s new toys too—bury them in the yard or chuck them in the pond—because I was jealous he got presents and I didn’t. And whenever I fried bacon for them, I’d wish they’d choke on it. But after I found out I wasn’t actually their son, I just felt relief. My hate fizzled out.”

“That’s it?” I asked, brows raised.

“Then the boy said if I joined him, I could take revenge on those pathetic Muggles. All I had to do was agree, and nobody’d ever hurt me again—I’d never be alone again, and that was what we both needed.

“But then the mirror showed all these people… probably my ancestors, and the boy vanished. Dad turned up next—Voldemort killed him right in front of me—then Mum. She was screaming, ‘Not Harry… kill me instead,’ shielding me with her body. He laughed and hit her with green light. The voice kept whispering, ‘They were brave but foolish. If you don’t obey, the same will happen to you.’ He murdered more and more people, and the blood, the screaming—then it was all of you lying dead, covered in blood. He said it was my fault because I wouldn’t give in, and he’d kill everyone I cared about… I hated him, wanted him dead…”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I cut him off, resting a hand on his shoulder. “They were just visions. Simply tricks.”

His eyes were wet when he looked up, though he might not even realise it.

“He’s brilliant, that Dark Lord,” I said with grim admiration.

“What?” Harry asked, blinking and wiping his glasses.

“The shaman reckons the Horcrux can only merge with you through nasty emotions—rage, fear, hatred. First it tried stoking your anger at the Dursleys. When that failed, it tried frightening you, then turning that fear on yourself, then turning it against him. But you managed to resist, and that’s what matters.”

“I’m just as much a monster as he is,” Harry said despondently, covering his face with his hands.

“Rubbish,” I countered firmly. “You’re just human, Harry, like the rest of us. Think only saintly folk never have nasty thoughts? Doesn’t work that way. They just don’t act on them. Half the population sometimes wants to knock the head off someone for hardly any reason, but only a tiny fraction actually does it. Lucky for us, they all end up in prison. The rest of us would rather fight our demons and beat them.”

“Do you really think so?” Harry lifted his head.

“Of course,” I said with a small grin. “When I was seven, the twins nearly did me in with one of their new inventions. You’ve no idea how I wanted to finish them off. I even gave them a solid beating once. Now I think they’re great guys. And sometimes I resent my parents for having so little money, because I’m tired of wearing everyone else’s hand-me-downs. Why do they have to save pennies specifically on me? But still, I’m glad Mum had me. Life’s worth living, Harry. So it’s not as if you’re the only one who struggles with dark feelings. The important thing is you know they’re dark, and you fight against them.”

“But Voldemort said we’re alike. I can’t ignore that,” Harry pressed, though he seemed calmer now.

“Alike how?” I asked. “You were wanted by your parents—he was raised in an orphanage. And if you’re talking about your aunt not loving you, well, she didn’t have to. At least she gave you a place to stay. You had every right to be upset with her too. But there’s nothing else you have in common with the Dark Lord—unless you count speaking Parseltongue, which came from him only because he decided to show up at your house.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“So I’m not the Heir of Slytherin now?” Harry asked out of nowhere.

“Couldn’t tell you. You might share ancestry through the Peverells, but an heir? Doubt it. And to be honest, he wasn’t one, either. He’s half-blood, and Slytherin would’ve recognised only pureblood descendants. So, yeah, chatting to the basilisk… but do you really want all that fanfare that comes with the title?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Just curious whether Zara’ll still listen to me now.”

“As if she’s got a choice,” I sighed. “Far as I know, you’re the only Parselmouth left in Britain. Let’s get something to eat; I’m famished.”

“Fine,” Harry perked up a bit. It’s quite something how his mood swings.

“Ron,” he stopped me, grabbing my arm. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” I said, a bit sheepish. “Just don’t go hiding things again, Harry, or you’ll end up hatching another stupid idea.”

The rest of the holidays were a good laugh. Admittedly, for the first couple of days Harry’s mood was all over the place—he’d run off for a cry, or get angry, or stare at nothing for ages. But I got Hermione on board, and she wouldn’t let him mope.

The shaman said he’d be fine in a month or two. He even came to see us off in brand-new boots before we headed back, one day before the train home. That evening, Charlie turned up with a bag of money for me, and I just gawked. An ounce of basilisk venom fetched a thousand Galleons—five thousand a flask.

“Charlie, how much to hire someone to neutralise the ring?” I asked.

“Five hundred Galleons,” he said, “but that’s a non-starter, Ron. Anyone coming into Britain has to register. When I sent lads to you for that dragon egg, I went through smugglers in Knockturn. But this business with a Horcrux—no one can know about that. Maybe talk to Snape first; if that fails, we’ll see.”

“Charlie, you never did explain this ‘blood traitor’ business to me. Look at Potter—why isn’t he a traitor, since his dad married a Muggle-born? Or Black, who ran off from home. Or his cousin, who also married a Muggle-born and nothing came of it. Then there’s Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, both half-bloods, and Snape’s mum married a Muggle, though her surname Prince is in ‘Ancient Houses of Britain.’”

“Wait, slow down,” my brother cut me off. “One thing at a time, Ron. First of all, women never inherit the family line, so if a daughter marries someone ‘unsuitable,’ she’s considered to have left that House. And any question of ‘traitors’ never comes up. Usually they’d just disown her so her kids wouldn’t inherit. Had a daughter—no daughter, basically. And no one chucked Black out—Walburga wasn’t daft enough to ditch her own flesh and blood, which is all that family cares about. Most likely he just gave up his birthright to Regulus and they let him bugger off with a bit of pocket money, leaving him to his shenanigans. But if he’d married a Muggle-born, that’d be different. This way he didn’t actually break anything or taint the bloodline. As for the Dark Lord, I’ve no clue. If his dad’s side never claimed him, he’s just a bastard, not an heir. Who else did you bring up? Potter and Dumbledore?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “neither of them is called blood traitors.”

“Don’t know about Dumbledore—his family’s not that old, never made the official ‘sacred’ list, so they may not have banned Muggle-born matches. Potter's different. His line’s massive, branched out in the twelfth century and doesn’t share inheritance. The main branch’s heir was Henry, but he got killed in the first war along with his folks. His parents, Carlus and Dorea, were dead set on staying pure—prouder than the Blacks, those folk. Dorea was a Black, actually. Meanwhile our Harry is descended from Fleamont and Euphemia, heirs to another branch. They lived in Godric’s Hollow, not the family seat, and built up their wealth on their own.

“Harry Potter’s great-grandad—the one he’s named after—was a direct descendant of Hardwin and Iolanthe Potter. He caused uproar, publicly shaming the sitting Minister for banning wizards from helping Muggles in the First World War. Everyone saw it as Muggle sympathies, so they booted him from the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ as ‘unfit conduct for a pureblood wizard.’ So the Potters of the main line don’t inherit from him anyway, and what they do in their own House is their business. Not all pureblood Houses cling to blood quite so fiercely as the Blacks. Or did you think Britain only had twenty-eight pureblood families?” he scoffed. “They’re just the ones who’ve never bred with Muggles—at least, so the records show. That’s all.”

“What about us, then?” I ventured.

“Prewetts—on mum’s side—were completely wiped out in the first war. Only our mother and aunt survived. The more extreme purebloods couldn’t forgive the fact that our grandfather let his daughter marry a blood traitor and didn’t disown her—saw it as squandering pure blood. Besides, Uncle Ignatius and Grandad both refused to join the Dark Lord. They were both killed along with their families, and our closest relations, the Bulstrodes and Flints, were supposedly involved. But that sort of thing happened a lot back then—plenty of pureblood lines died out completely. Mum and Dad were still at Hogwarts, had to ask the Order of the Phoenix for help. I still remember the time we lived in Dumbledore’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow, staying hidden. Then, once the uncles avenged the murders, we moved to the Burrow. But Mum’s brothers ended up losing their lives in a fight with the Death Eaters soon after.”

“And what about the Weasleys?” I asked.

“You’ll have to get that story from Dad,” he deflected, clearly not keen on the topic. “And trust me, it’s even nastier.”

“Hard to imagine worse,” I muttered, deciding I’d push a bit more—only for Harry and Hermione to stroll back from a final souvenir run, forcing me to drop it.

The very next day, after breakfast, we left for Britain. None of us really wanted to go back yet, but we all thanked Charlie no end.

“That was just brilliant,” Hermione gushed over and over when we dropped her off at home, turning her back over to her parents. “I didn’t expect it to be so amazing. Learned so much. Thanks, Ron! Your brother’s fantastic!”

“I wouldn’t mind going again next year,” Harry agreed. “I really warmed to Charlie—and those dragons! I’m almost set on working in a reserve someday.”

“You’ll have to get in line,” I teased. “I’m planning it first. Right then, Hermione, see you soon. We’ll write…”

“’Bye, Hermione,” Harry added, “had a great holiday together.”

“Bye, boys… Mr Weasley, thanks for your hospitality,” she said as Dad, waiting in the open car window, nodded at her. Then we drove off to Privet Drive. Dumbledore had already warned Harry he’d need to come back here after the trip.

Harry was thoroughly upset about it—he’d hoped they’d let him stay on, and I felt terrible for him, after all he’d been through. It was like chucking a kitten out in the rain after sheltering it. But when Mum and Dad and Dumbledore are all in agreement, there’s not much you can do, never mind that I’d sworn I’d find some way to spare him a miserable summer.

At least he wrote me, the same evening. He was relieved his uncle allowed him to keep his trunk in his room, so he could read magical books. Three days later, right in the middle of our lunch, an owl delivered a letter saying we’d won some grand prize. Mayhem broke loose in the house.

At first, everyone pitched in their bright ideas for spending that heap of money—seven hundred Galleons in total. Once we’d talked ourselves hoarse, Dad suggested we all take a trip to Egypt—have ourselves a holiday and visit Bill as well. Oddly enough, everyone jumped at it, but I found myself unexpectedly hacked off and stomped outside before I lost my cool. Dad eventually found me out there.

“What’s the matter, Ron?” he asked calmly, settling next to me on a battered old bench. “You’re not on board with everyone else’s decision?”

“You know, Dad,” I started, “sometimes it feels like I’m not the same as all of you. I just can’t get my head around blowing that much money on a vacation when, only a couple of years back, we could hardly scrape together enough to buy Percy a wand. I look around here—these shabby benches, the endless mending of clothes. And at school I can’t help but notice everyone else. It drives me mad that people call me a blood traitor from a huge, penniless family. I love you all, but I can’t stand being poor. It’s not fair. Where does all our money go anyway? My brothers have moved out, yet I’m still stuck wearing Percy’s hand-me-downs,” I burst out, glaring up at him in frustration.

Dad heard me out without interrupting or showing any sign of anger. When I’d finished, he stood up and held out a hand.

“You’ve never done Side-Along before, have you?” he asked. “Brace yourself, Ron—it’s a bit unpleasant.”

He pulled me close, and I felt the yank of Apparition.