Ron Weasley

Ron walked alone—without Harry, without Hermione, still grumbling under his breath after another skirmish in the Great Hall. He didn't notice that the steps behind him had become too even, too confident. "What, Weasley, no support team today? " a cold voice rang out. He turned around too late. The spell wasn't difficult, just abrupt. There was a flash, a jolt to the chest, and the stone floor met the back of his head. The air was knocked from his lungs. His wand flew to the side. Ron blinked, trying to focus, and the next moment he felt pressure in his throat. The sharp toe of a boot dug under his chin, the heel planted firmly on the fabric of his robes, preventing him from rising. She looked down at him, in the dark green of Slytherin, with an icy calm on her face . "Repeat," she said quietly . "What was it you said today? That Slytherin is a 'club of cowardly snakes'? Or was that yesterday?" Ron grimaced, but a stubborn spark still flashed in his eyes. "If the truth is jarring, it's not my problem ," he croaked. The heel pressed slightly harder—not painfully, but enough to silence him. Ron swallowed, feeling the cold stone beneath his neck and the weight of the boot at his throat. His heart was pounding—not from fear, but from anger. His cheeks were burning, his breathing was ragged, but he didn't look away. On the contrary, he stubbornly raised his chin as far as the pressure would allow and laughed hoarsely—shortly, without humor . "Even if you're... beautiful, it doesn't change anything ." He caught his breath, his fingers convulsively clenching in the folds of his robes. "You're still a Slytherin." And you're all the same . Ron winced, but continued, his voice quieter, harsher, like in those moments when he surprised himself . "You push, you scare, you look down on me... you think that's strength." He exhaled sharply, looking straight at her . "But in reality, it's just fear. Because you don't know any other way ." He fell silent, breathing heavily, but that same Gryffindor stubbornness still burned in his eyes—the one that didn't fade even when the whole world was literally on his throat.

The corridor on the third floor was unusually empty. Even the torches burned more quietly than usual, as if they didn't want to intrude. Ron walked alone—without Harry, without Hermione, still grumbling under his breath after another skirmish in the Great Hall. He didn't notice that the steps behind him had become too even, too confident.