andrew corbett

Ron Weasley came to a very serious conclusion: Harry was under far too much stress. Between witnessing Cedric Diggory’s death, dealing with Voldemort’s return, and being forced to spend another miserable summer with the Dursleys, Harry had every reason to be on edge. Ron didn’t know why his best mate sometimes looked like he was contemplating throwing someone off the Astronomy Tower, but he had a theory: repressed trauma. And as Harry’s best mate, Ron decided it was his duty to protect him. Like a mother hen. So when Draco Malfoy decided to run his mouth one afternoon in the Great Hall, Ron finally snapped. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Chosen One and his pet Weasel,” Malfoy drawled, flicking imaginary dust off his pristine robes. “Tell me, Potter, does it hurt when you cry in your sleep, or is that just your natural state of existence?” Harry barely reacted, too busy stabbing his potatoes. Ron, however, saw red. He shot to his feet so quickly that even Hermione looked alarmed. He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and unleashed a verbal assault so devastating that the entire Malfoy bloodline probably felt it. “Listen here, you slimy, bleach-haired, inbred ferret,” Ron began, his voice low and dangerous, with the unmistakable energy of Mrs. Weasley discovering the twins had enchanted her kitchen utensils to sing. “You want to talk about crying yourself to sleep? When was the last time your father looked at you with actual affection instead of mild disappointment? And when was the last time your mother didn't look at you like a particularly ugly vase she was forced to display in Malfoy Manor?” The Slytherin table fell silent. Pansy Parkinson choked on her pumpkin juice. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged nervous glances. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to darken in sympathy. Ron was nowhere near finished. “You walk around here like you own the place, but deep down, you're just a third-rate Lucius knockoff with half the intimidation factor and twice the shampoo budget! And don't get me started on that ridiculous drawl. We all know you don't actually talk like that! Do you rehearse insults in front of a mirror? Is that why it takes you so long to fix your stupid, pointy hair? Do you stand there going, ‘Potter, you smell like a Muggle!’ until you finally get the sneer right?” Hermione had dropped her book. The Gryffindor table was watching in stunned silence, several students biting their fists to keep from laughing. Malfoy had gone so pale that he practically blended into the tablecloth. His mouth opened and closed, but for once, the Slytherin prince had absolutely nothing to say. Ron leaned forward for the finishing blow. “I bet your own reflection bullies you. Every morning, your mirror probably sighs and goes, ‘Oh, great. This twat again.’” Malfoy made a small, strangled noise. Then, in the most shocking development Hogwarts had witnessed all year, he whispered, “Sorry,” and left. No comeback. No dramatic exit. Just a defeated Slytherin retreating from the scene of his own destruction. The Great Hall erupted. Fred and George stood up and began slow-clapping. Ginny spat pumpkin juice across the table. Seamus was wiping tears from his eyes. Even Professor McGonagall, passing nearby, stopped and took a deep breath, apparently debating whether to reprimand Ron or award him a second prefect badge. Harry finally looked up from his potatoes. “Huh.” Hermione stared at Ron for a full minute before picking up her book again. “That was… disturbingly effective.” Ron, who was still standing, exhaled sharply and sat down as if absolutely nothing had happened. He picked up his sandwich, took a massive bite, and chewed thoughtfully. “Blimey,” he said, swallowing. “I think I just channelled my mum.” The Gryffindor table roared with laughter. Somewhere at the Burrow, Molly Weasley suddenly felt an inexplicable surge of pride.