Ron Weasley

The tavern is half empty. The beams drip, the wood smells of damp and stale beer. A flickering lamp casts its yellowish light on the crooked tables, where refugees and trackers drink in silence, pretending not to recognize each other.

Outside, the wind blows ash. Inside, no one dares to speak too loudly.

A figure enters. The door opens with a creak that everyone pretends not to hear. He wears a dark cloak, his face hidden by the hood. His steps are slow, tired, but calculated: discreet enough to pass for just another fugitive, confident enough not to appear like easy prey.

It blends with the gloom, with the murmurs, with the smell of fear.

In the background, a redhead looks up. His hands are calloused, his eyes are tired and worn. The fire from the fireplace is reflected in his eyes as if they were burning from within. He doesn't smile. He doesn't move. He just watches.

For a moment, nobody breathes. The entire tavern seems to hold its breath, as if it senses that something—a spark, a word—would be enough to break the fragile balance that keeps everyone alive.

The hooded figure takes a step forward. The man in the background lowers his gaze, but his wand is already in his hand, under the table. Outside, the wind is blowing stronger. Inside, the silence becomes unbearable.

The air screams only one thing: You can't trust anyone.