Chapter Text
The Great Hall was just as beautiful as it had been yesterday—perhaps even more so, now that he wasn’t tired and worn out from the train. Walking past the Gryffindor table felt strange for reasons he knew all too well. He was expected to sit there with his brothers, alongside Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, as part of the Golden Trio. But he feared that would never happen.
Breakfast was already served, still hot and steaming. The plates, however, were different from the ones used yesterday. These were white, adorned with what seemed to be runes written in gold. Ron brushed his fingers over them, noting how different they felt from the ceramic plates at his house. They were incredibly smooth to the touch, cool with a slight sense of softness, giving a silky, almost glass-like finish. The plates were likely expensive, crafted to endure the runes from the Founders’ time. They resembled those seen by him in Scandinavian films, at least in appearance. When touched, the runes on plates seemed to shine, perhaps imbued with even more magic. After all, it’s said that the young often struggle to control the amount of magic they release into the world. Schools like this one were created for that very purpose—to protect children, and everyone else, from the dangers of uncontrolled magic. Though, in the beginning, it was a solace, especially for children who might otherwise have been burned alive by witch hunters.
The food was amazing and hearty. His mother always said it was essential for children to eat well, as magic burns through energy quickly. Ron helped himself to sausages, beans, and toasted bread with scrambled eggs. The beans, slick with savory sauce, wobbled slightly as he nudged them with his fork. He picked up a piece of toasted bread, the edges crisp and golden, and slathered it with a generous helping of beans and scrambled eggs. As he lifted it to his mouth, the toast crunched satisfyingly, some of the beans falling off the bread, still he took a hefty bite. The flavor burst in his mouth—savory, with a hint of spice that mingled perfectly with the rich, buttery softness of the egg.
Between bites, Ron washed it all down with a goblet of compote, burgundy liquid shimmered in the morning light, small pieces of dried fruit swirling within. He took a deep drink, the sweet-tart flavor washing over his tongue, refreshing and familiar. The fruits—plump slices of apple and pear, along with a few dark cherries—floated lazily, their softened textures adding a pleasant contrast to the meal. He fished out a piece of apple with fork, enjoying the way it practically melted in his mouth, so his mother’s is far more delicious.
Around him, the Great Hall buzzed with the chatter of first-year students, wide-eyed and eager. Prefects moved through the rows, distributing schedules and lists of equipment needed for the day's lessons. The first-years, some looking overwhelmed, others excited, huddled in small groups as they examined the parchments handed to them.
"Make sure you’ve got everything," one of the prefects, a tall boy with a stern expression, instructed a nervous-looking student. "You’ll need your wand, textbooks, and don’t forget your cauldron for Potions. I bet Snape won’t even let you touch his precious ingredients until you’ve learned the safety measures. Still, you need to bring it. Make sure your names are written on parchment, so Snape doesn’t have to ask for them."
Ron nodded to the warning, his eyes flicking over the list. The first lesson was Charms with Professor Flitwick—a class he was eager to attend. Potions with Professor Snape followed, a class he would rather skip if he could. Snape from the books and movies had always struck him as unfair, reminding him of a real teacher he had in second until fourth grade. That teacher eventually got rid of him by bumping him into a class of “hooligans,” as the other classes called them. They weren’t bad students, just ones who displeased the teachers. Ron remembered barely talking to anyone in second grade, struggling with words in a language that wasn’t his own, which made studying difficult. He suspected this had led to the problem with the teacher. He also remembered the fights he got into, just to stop others from bothering him. The situation with Snape and the Slytherins felt similar—how Ron from the books and Harry wanted to avoid Potions just to escape Snape's scrutiny. Today, he would find out why, and see if he might consider to do the same.
There were only five subjects on the schedule today. The most surprising was the last one—Introduction to the Magical World—a subject that hadn’t even been mentioned in the books. Did they really introduce students to magic? And just didn’t throw them into the deep end and expect them to swim?
As the students got up, the prefects began pairing them off to walk back to Ravenclaw Tower, also known as Mistral Tower among the other houses. Ron felt like he might actually pass out if he had to climb and descend the stairs again. His breath was heavy, his chest ached on one side, and his knees nearly buckled under his weight when his feet finally touched the main floor. The mere thought of ascending the Grand Staircase to attend Charms was exhausting. He contemplated staying in his dorm room all weekend, just to sleep through it and avoid the exertion.
The wide corridors emitted a slight chill, sending shivers through the thin fabric of his summer robes and uniform. The wind howled loudly as they moved further down the Tower, away from the inconspicuous entrance with the bronze eagle hidden behind one of many similar doors. Ron considered switching to his winter set for good. He remembered the first time he tried them on after receiving them from Will. The thin material had been deceiving; the heat increased rapidly, flushing his face red. The delicate silver threads sewn in rune patterns seemed to trap his body heat, preventing it from escaping and warming the surroundings. Or perhaps they simply maintained and amplified the warmth when worn. Whatever the reason, the robes were certainly well-suited for cold weather, even though it was still only early September.
They walked through the fourth floor toward the Grand Staircase. The thought of climbing up to the sixth floor, especially in the morning, already felt exhausting. By the words of the prefects, their tower was quite secluded from the others. While it was easy to access the lower floors without using the Grand Staircase, they would need to use it to reach other floors up to the seventh one.
The Grand Staircase was the most massive stairway in the entire castle, providing access to each floor, including the dungeons. It was Ron’s first time stepping onto the Grand Staircase, located in the main area where he had seen the Gryffindors pass by the day before, suggesting their dorm was nearby. Yesterday, they just walked through the ground floor and past the Courtyard. The stairs didn’t move outrageously as they did in the film; instead, they were more like the ones described in the books. According to the prefect, Hogwarts had a hundred and forty-two staircases. Some were wide and sweeping, others narrow and rickety. A particular staircase that always connected to the third floor on the left side, near a portrait of an old gentleman in rich clothes reading at a desk—ignoring both the living and the dead—could lead to a different route on a Friday. It was exhausting, the prefect mentioned, especially if you needed to get from a late History class to the Great Hall for dinner. Ms. Prefect agreed, adding that walking to dinner from any late class was a real pain.
The prefects seemed to work in perfect sync, with just a glance between them enough to divide the students into boys and girls. The girls were led away as the prefect showed the boys the nearest lavatory to the Charms class, pointing out the cupboard with spare small towels and toilet paper. He warned them always to check if there was any paper in the stalls, as the house elves only restocked and cleaned at night and early morning. He also urged them to keep things tidy, as professors used the same toilets, and they wouldn’t want to see the consequences of neglect. “They might gather all of us in the Great Hall and lecture for hours,” he said, pausing before adding, “At least Snape might.”
"If you need anything, feel free to ask me," the prefect offered.
"What year are you in?" one of the boys asked, enthusiastically jumping with his hands up in front of the prefect, who laughed and pretended not to see him for a moment. The boy had unruly, curly, thick black hair that framed his face, just brushing his ears, giving him a lively and playful look. A watch, themed with a bright yellow silhouette of a bat [1], hugged his naturally warm brown skin, and his tie had a matching clip that glowed green in the dim light [2]. He bounced lightly on his feet.
"Sixth year—the penultimate year of school," the prefect replied, guiding them toward the exit. "I can only be your prefect for two years."
"Only two years?" asked another boy, plump with a brand-new satchel slung over his shoulder. Ron thought he might be one of his roommates, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He had forgotten them as soon as his head hit the pillow, and they hadn’t really introduced themselves, just keeping to themselves. Perhaps, it might take some time for them to warm up to each other's nearly constant company. It seemed unbelievable that they will frequently leave their rooms. Glancing at the schedule, exhaustion already loomed over the thought of all the walking they'd have to do.
"Do you know who might be our next prefect?" asked another boy, his voice unfamiliar and serious. His buttoned-up shirt and cufflinks practically screamed wealth, and his slicked-back hair added to the impression. "Do we have any say in it? Is there some kind of voting system?"
"No, I’m afraid not," the prefect responded, as they waited for the girls to catch up. "The Headmaster decides who will be the next one."
"What are the criteria?" the serious boy pressed.
"Academic performance, and how well you can manage your duties during the fifth year when you take your OWLs [3]," the prefect answered, pausing briefly as if calculating something. "But I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to apply. The Headmaster chooses students in their fifth year, and they serve until the end of their seventh. Considering I’m graduating next year, that means for 1992 to 1993, they’ll choose from the current fifth years, who will hold the position until 1995 [4]. You’ll be in your sixth year when they’ll need new blood."
"What if something happens to a prefect? Or they decide to resign because of NEWTs [5]?" the soon-to-be-criminal boy with the unsettlingly serious expression asked, his brow furrowed as if he was thinking over something.
The prefect laughed awkwardly. "It’s a bit worrying that you brought up the first scenario before the second," he said, scratching his head before quickly brushing it off, trying to act like the question hadn’t unnerved him. “I am afraid.” He hesitated, then added under his breath, nearly a whisper, “It is possible for the prefects to change under certain circumstances.”
Ron turned his head, stifling a laugh at the prefect’s troubled expression. He could easily imagine the prefect one day recalling this moment with dread, especially if this boy ever got the chance to act on those dark thoughts. Ron pictured him hunting a Basilisk and tying up the futures to be prefect as bait, or serving him up as a late-night snack to the Dementors, or even "accidentally" pushing him toward a dragon or into the Black Lake.
With only 30 minutes left before lessons began, the prefects left the group near the Charms classroom. The students dispersed across the corridor, staying within sight of one another, occasionally glancing around before resuming their activities while they waited for the teacher to arrive and open the door. Ron pulled out the book he hadn’t finished the day before and began reading, squinting slightly as the faint light from the wall torches and the dim crepuscular rays streaming through the windows provided just enough illumination.
“Sackerryfice?” A voice behind him read the word slowly, uncertainty evident. Turning, Ron saw Avery looking at him with curious, mismatched eyes. Closing his book, Ron placed his wand between the pages to mark his spot.
“A sackerryfice is required to appease the Naughty Kitty-Mouse,” Ron explained with a serious expression, deliberately repeating the mispronounced word from the book Little Men. His tone remained straight, as if fully believing the nonsense he was spouting. “You have to sacrifice something dear to you in a bonfire to calm the wrath of the Kitty-Mouse. Didn’t you know? I thought every child, at some point, drank milk at night and triggered the fury of the Kitty-Mouse—scratching at walls, wailing, causing chronic sleep disturbances…” He trailed off, recounting the ghoul in the attic above his room, adding random details to make the story even more absurd. For a moment, he nearly forgot the word’s pronunciation, but quickly sped through the syllables, hoping it went unnoticed. “…that magically cures after a sac-ker-ry-fice.”
Avery's lips parted, about to say something, but before he could utter a word, the door creaked open. A flood of warm light spilled into the corridor, revealing the Charms classroom beyond. The room was awash with a golden glow, the source of which was the magnificent, towering windows that lined the far wall. Each pane was a masterpiece of ancient glasswork, casting intricate patterns on the stone floor as the sunlight filtered through.
It was strange how the atmosphere in the corridor and classroom differed so drastically. Perhaps it was magic—a charmed window, casting illusions, or drawing in the sunlight despite the weather. Or maybe the glass itself, so different in appearance, transformed the dim light into something much brighter.
Beyond the windows, the view was breathtaking—a panoramic sweep of the other side of Hogwarts grounds. As Ron stepped into the classroom, his eyes were drawn to the vivid green of the Quidditch pitch, which contrasted sharply with the deep blue sky. The towering stands sparkled in the morning light, while the far side of Hogwarts rose majestically in the distance. Its spires and turrets reached toward the clouds, their shadows stretching long across the grounds.
Speechless, Ron stared out the window, his mouth agape, oblivious to the others greeting the Professor. Realizing his lapse, he quickly closed his mouth and turned to the small, elderly man standing atop a pile of books. The Professor was impeccably dressed in formal Victorian attire—a black, tailcoat-style jacket, a white waistcoat, and a neatly tied black bow tie, paired with striped trousers. The fabric looked so rich that Ron wondered if the clothes were actual remnants from the Victorian era. It could be.
The Professor smiled at Ron’s awe, nodding in acknowledgment. Snapping out of his reverie, Ron quickly greeted him in return.
“Good morning, Professor Flitwick.”
Figure 1. A photo that inspired me.
Figure 2. A map of Hogwarts. (I must admit that I’ve made changes to the Hogwarts map due to an error in describing the layers of the castle. Rather than rewriting everything, I found it easier to redraw the map. (Ha-ha-ha. Let’s just admit I liked how I wrote the sentences). This is a reflection of my tendency to avoid admitting mistakes. I decided to not include the partially constructed map I made on Inkarnate. It just too much.) The darker brown shade on the map represents the ground floor. One limitation of this map is that it doesn’t indicate the number of floors or their specific locations. For reference, the Hogwarts castle has seven floors according to the books. Additionally, the Mistral Tower is named by me as such for its association with strong winds (not canon).