Autumn's rich colours were fading fast now across the grounds; grim, proper winter was closing steadily in behind it.
In the last days of October, a damp, piercing chill hung heavy over the grounds and seeped its way into the castle on the back of a biting wind that found every gap in the old stonework.
Every year at this particular time, the castle filled up reliably with sniffling, red-nosed staff and students, keeping Madam Pomfrey run off her feet without a moment's rest between patients.
Her Pepperup Potion certainly worked fast on the symptoms, everyone agreed—the only real catch was that anyone who drank it down would have thin plumes of smoke pouring out of both ears for a good few hours afterward, much to everyone else's amusement.
The moment Ron got out of bed; he knew instantly that something was wrong. His head felt thick and foggy straight through, and his nose was clogged solid, not a breath of air was getting past it.
"Bloody hell—"
He blew his nose hard, but it did nothing to clear the blockage—if anything, the mucus running back down his throat afterward set his whole nose stinging sharply, and unwelcome tears sprang to his eyes from the effort.
This genuinely wasn't supposed to happen.
Everything had been perfectly fine last night before he'd gone to sleep, no sign of a cold coming on at all.
The dormitory around him was empty, the wind was moaning outside the glass, and when Ron glanced blearily around the room for some explanation, he found the window by Harry's desk left open a good half-foot, cold air was pouring bit by bit through the gap. He nearly rolled his eyes clean out of his head at the sight.
There was the culprit behind his cold.
Looked like he'd be making a trip to the hospital wing later on, then.
That extra, unplanned errand added a fresh urgency to his whole morning—because today, of all days, he actually had real things to get done, things that couldn't easily wait.
Wrapped tight in his blanket against the cold, Ron braved the last of the draft to shut the window, then dragged his trunk out reluctantly from under the bed and rummaged through it until he found the sweater his mum had knitted him last Christmas.
The sweater was already a bit too small for him now. Never mind that, though—Christmas was coming round again soon enough, and if nothing went badly wrong between now and then, he'd likely get a new one to replace it.
Though, honestly, that wasn't a sure thing either.
He'd heard from Ginny that the Ministry had given its officials a raise at the very start of this term, and after Dad had taken up his new post as Deputy in the Oversight Office, his salary had more than doubled overnight.
The family's finances were noticeably more comfortable now than they'd been in years and years, honestly—maybe this particular year he could actually look forward to some properly generous Christmas presents from Mum and Dad.
That was probably another one of Minister Bones's "good policies" since she'd taken office—though, of course, Professor Watson had played no small part himself in this whole run of prosperity.
Ron turned all these small, comfortable thoughts over lazily in his own head as he got dressed properly and washed up at the basin.
Just as he was finally heading for the dormitory door, something occurred to him suddenly and he doubled back at once to grab his school bag off the floor, nearly forgetting it.
"Oi, you lot, what d'you think you're doing!"
The moment he stepped down properly into the common room below, an unearthly, high-pitched shriek nearly startled him clean out of his skin.
He caught sight of something streaking past at speed just ahead of him—a Fanged Frisbee was whirring through the air!
The thing was now lodged in the common room's battered old chest of drawers standing against one wall, its small teeth still whirring away furiously, chewing through the wood into fresh splinters, while the drawers themselves rattled open and shut in a frantic jerking motion, like something wailing in real pain.
Ron strode over immediately and yanked the Frisbee free from the splintered wood with a tug, then turned to fix a small cluster of second-year boys, caught red-handed, with a hard stare.
"Bit much, don't you think, the lot of you?"
The boys froze on the spot, too scared to make a single sound in response, and even the other kids nearby who'd been watching the whole spectacle with delight a moment before shrank back now, heads dropping while suddenly finding the floor very interesting.
It was as if a full-grown lion had wandered into a den of cub-pups still at play—the common room, so raucous and loud only a moment ago, went completely silent all at the same time.
"Sorry, Prefect Weasley—"
One boy, apparently the actual owner of the now-confiscated Frisbee, looked up at Ron with a pitiful, pleading expression on his face.
"Mm?"
Ron's nose twitched at the sound, his cold making the small gesture look rather more menacing than intended.
"I promise there won't be a next time, honestly—"
the second-year said quickly, then added, a little hopefully,
"So... about the Frisbee, though—"
"Confiscated. Full stop."
Ron said it flatly, leaving absolutely no room for further argument in his tone, and stuffed the still-buzzing Fanged Frisbee into his own bag right there in front of the whole crowd of watching young wizards.
"It's contraband. I'll be handing it straight over to Filch after this—"
Ron nodded at the boy who'd been playing with it moments before,
"You lot can sort the rest of this mess out yourselves, before someone else steps on a splinter."
Hearing that Ron had no actual intention of dragging Professor McGonagall herself into the whole business, the boys all let out a collective breath of relief.
If McGonagall ever found out, it'd mean at least a full week of detention for the lot of them.
They watched Ron now with something close to admiration as he headed off toward a sofa positioned by the fireplace, where a small group of older girls sat beaming at their favourite prefect's approach.
But halfway across the room, Ron abruptly turned back, one eyebrow raised, eyeing the Frisbee's owner with suspicion.
"Actually—hang on—how exactly did you manage to get this thing into the school in the first place?"
Ever since Hermione had been attacked out in Hogsmeade and Professor Watson had personally taken over the whole of the school's security arrangements, smuggling contraband in past the gates had stopped being anywhere near so simple as it used to be.
Everyone's belongings were searched thoroughly now before they were even allowed onto the grounds at all, no exceptions were made.
Even ordinary packages sent by owl post were first collected by Filch and then personally inspected by Professor Watson himself, and only handed over to their intended owners once fully cleared as safe by him.
Not even the staff themselves were exempt from the same procedure.
So how, exactly, had a mere second-year, of all people, managed to smuggle a full Fanged Frisbee past all of that screening?
Unless, Ron thought suddenly, the boy actually knew of some secret passage leading out of the school that Ron himself didn't know about?
The second-years' faces changed all at the same time at the direct question, their eyes were darting about nervously in every direction, unable to meet Ron's suddenly stern, searching gaze.
"Oh, I see how it is—"
Ron didn't lose his temper at the obvious evasion. He simply gave the whole cluster of boys a lazy, knowing sidelong glance instead, letting the silence stretch a moment.
"You'd rather have Professor McGonagall interrogate the lot of you about it instead, would you? Let's think through what she'd actually do in that case.
Losing a few House points and a spot of detention is nothing much to be scared of, of course. But if she went and wrote a letter to your parents herself about it—or worse still—"
Ron lowered his voice deliberately at that, a genuine thread of menace creeping into his eyes now,
"—if she went and suggested to Professor Dumbledore and Professor Watson both, that you ought to be expelled over it."
The boy was far too inexperienced, far too young yet, not to be rattled by a threat like that.
The Frisbee's actual owner—a boy with a few red pimples dotting his young face—caved instantly.
"I'll tell you, Prefect Weasley—"
He glanced around nervously first at the rest of the common room, where everyone present had their ears pricked up trying to catch the answer, then mumbled it low,
"But only to you. Just you."
Ron raised an eyebrow at that, then finally leaned down so the boy could whisper the answer directly into his ear.
These kids, honestly.
Once he'd left the common room behind him—once the Fat Lady's portrait had swung shut with a soft thud behind him, safely out of sight of all those wide, awestruck stares he'd left in his wake—the grave, authoritative look Ron had been wearing on his face melted away instantly into a wide grin.
"Tell me, Ronnie! Come on, tell me!"
Lavender looped her arm through his, her eyes were shining with admiration.
"How did those kids manage to get it into the school?"
"They broke into Filch's office!"
Ron still couldn't quite believe it himself, shaking his head as he said it.
"That boy—Chazelle, I think his name was—said all it took was one simple Alohomora charm to get Filch's office door open, just like that.
Oh, but that's not even the maddest part of it—I always thought only Fred and George had the nerve to try something like breaking into Filch's office!"
Lavender giggled at that, delighted by the whole story.
"Well, we are Gryffindors, aren't we?"
"Too right—"
Ron grinned back at her warmly, the very picture of Gryffindor pride passed down a whole generation of troublemakers,
"So I let the little troublemakers off rather easy."
Lavender laughed harder at that, and leaned up on her toes to plant a small, affectionate kiss on his cheek right there in the corridor.
Ron took it in stride, walking on with not a trace of his old awkwardness showing on his face anymore.
That kind of open affection had made him plenty uncomfortable at first, but these days, he found himself enjoying it more and more.
Lavender never hid how much she liked him, how much she admired him for who he was—and that was a feeling, honestly, he couldn't quite get from anyone else in his life.
"Sweetheart—"
She seemed to notice, only now, the way his nose kept sniffling beside her, and asked with concern,
"I really think you ought to go get yourself a Pepperup Potion from Madam Pomfrey, you know, before it gets any worse."
"Oh, I'll go and sort it out later today, promise—"
Ron hitched his bag up a little higher on his shoulder and quickened his pace down the corridor.
"But right now I've got to get to the Great Hall first—I need to spot Malfoy and Pansy while I'm down there, see if they show. Harry and Hermione asked me specially to keep a close eye on the pair of them, and it's genuinely important—I can't go and mess this up!"
Of course, not for a single moment did Ron consider letting Lavender get in the way of his friendship with Harry and Hermione.
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