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Ron had never believed that having breakfast at the same table every day could become a threat to one’s sanity. And yet, there he was, sitting opposite Harry and Malfoy, wondering whether he ought to have brought some sort of protective shield. Or at least a detector for awkward silences.
Because it was painfully awkward.
Harry shifted in his seat, eyes fixed on his teacup as though it were about to reveal the meaning of life. Draco, for his part, sat with a straight back and that stupid expression he wore as Head Healer of the ward, as if even the cinnamon bun he was cutting with his fork were beneath his dignity. Neither spoke. Not a word.
And Hermione, of course, was far too calm, leafing through a St Mungo’s report as if nothing were amiss.
Ron cleared his throat. “Hello, Harry, how are you? Good, aren’t you? I’m doing great as well. Hello, Draco… same to you.”
Nothing. Silence.
Ron banged his fork against the table with deliberate force. “Is anyone going to say something, or do I have to start singing?”
“Please don’t,” Draco interrupted with a look of pained suffering. Then he arched an eyebrow—slow, serpentine—and turned to Harry. “Potter, aren’t you going to tell them about last time?”
Harry choked on his tea and nearly spilt half of it. “No!”
Draco smiled with that infuriating calm. “I promise it doesn’t hurt quite so much after the third time.”
Hermione lowered the paper just enough to glance sideways at them. Ron caught the look, the expression that said this is exactly what you think it is , and decided it was better not to ask. Not yet. He’d interrogate her later.
Harry’s ears were scarlet. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
“Why?” Draco tilted his head. “It was a fair wager. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”
A wager? What kind of bizarre wagers are these two making?
Harry buried his face in his hands. “It wasn’t a wager, it was—”
“Oh, of course it was,” Draco cut in smoothly. “You said you could last. And we’ve all seen you couldn’t.”
Ron froze mid-bite of his toast. Last at what?
Harry pressed his lips together. There was a sharp thump beneath the table. Ron saw Draco twitch slightly, as if he’d been kicked in the leg, but instead of frowning, he smiled. Smiled as if he’d rather enjoyed it.
Ron swallowed hard. Does he actually enjoy being kicked? This man’s worse than I thought.
Draco leaned forward a little, still smiling. “You’ve a fine foot, Potter. You ought to use it more often.”
Harry leaned in too, his face twisted in a grimace caught somewhere between fury and embarrassment. “I hate you.”
Draco puckered his lips and blew him a kiss—brazen, utterly shameless.
Ron blinked at Hermione in bewilderment, but she merely folded the report and slipped it into her bag.
He looked from one to the other—Harry, red as a tomato, and Draco, thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Of course you hate me,” Draco echoed, as though the word were honey on his tongue.
In Ron’s head the cogs were already turning. Malfoy had said wager . Harry had answered with it wasn’t a wager . And then: last longer than me .
There were definitely wagers. And probably very strange ones. Perhaps something to do with vomit? Both of them had ended up in the autopsy ward.
When was the last time he’d eaten? He was walking down the Trauma from Grief corridor towards the loo with the calm of someone who’d managed two and a half slices of toast without anyone nagging him. It was finally lunchtime and he wanted to share it with Mione. He was adjusting his robes when he heard something.
Voices.
The first—clearly Harry—sounded agitated. “Draco, I’m not going to keep betting on… this!”
Ron froze, halfway to the door.
Betting. That word again? He’d been thinking about it all morning.
He pressed himself against the wall as though he’d suddenly become a professional spy. His heart was hammering faster, though not out of fear of anything serious. Harry and Malfoy were involved in bets? They were arguing inside the loo. The loo !
Ron pressed his lips together. He needed witnesses. He needed Hermione.
He dashed down the corridor until he found her poring over a scroll at the waiting table. “Mione!” he panted, grabbing her arm. “Come on. You’ve got to hear this.”
Hermione looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Ron, what are you doing?”
“Shhh. Don’t make a sound. It’s important.” He half-dragged, half-shoved her towards the door of the men’s loo.
Hermione resisted, her heels scraping against the gleaming floor. “Ronald Weasley, if you think I’m going to put my ear to the door of a men’s bathroom, you’re completely mad!”
“Mione, just listen.”
“Listen to what? The cistern? It’s lunchtime, let’s go.”
Ron huffed. “Harry’s in there with Malfoy.”
Hermione raised her brows, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “And the strange part? Look at the sign—it’s the men’s loo. I’d be surprised if it were the women’s.”
“Just listen!” Ron insisted, jerking his head towards the door.
Hermione sighed, muttering something about “living with a paranoid redhead” , and leaned in with obvious reluctance.
And then the voices came again. Harry, lower now but furious. “If Ron or Hermione find out, they’ll be angry.”
Ron’s eyes went wide. He looked at Hermione as though he’d just uncovered a murder. “See? He said it! They don’t want us to know!”
Draco’s reply came, slow and mocking. “Then keep your mouth shut, Potter. Or I’ll use it for something else.”
Ron nearly choked on his own breath. “Did you hear that? He threatened him!”
Hermione, who had gone very quiet with her cheeks flushed, straightened at once. “I didn’t hear anything unusual.”
“Nothing unusual?!” Ron flailed his arms. “He just told him to keep his mouth shut or… or he’d use it for something else. That’s clearly a threat of… I don’t know. What if they’re going back to how they were at Hogwarts?”
Hermione covered her face with one hand, muttering something unintelligible.
Inside the loo, Draco spoke again, low but firm. “Admit it, Potter, you can’t resist another round.”
Harry’s reply was through gritted teeth. “Betting with you was the worst mistake I ever made, you massive git.”
Ron felt his heart skip a beat.
He turned to Hermione, thrilled. “Mione, did you hear? Harry’s caught up in some betting mess with Malfoy. And he regrets it. But Malfoy manipulates him to keep going.”
Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though she needed the patience of the entire planet not to murder her boyfriend right there and then. “Ron, honestly… This is Harry’s business. He’ll tell us when he wants to.”
But Ron wasn’t listening. Pressed against the door, he was mentally recording every phrase as though it were a paediatrics case. “I’m not going to keep betting on this. Crystal clear! And that mouth business… Merlin, Malfoy’s worse than I thought.”
Hermione opened her mouth but bit back the words. All she did was tug Ron by the elbow to drag him away from the door. “That’s enough spying, Ronald.”
“But Mione!” he protested, though he let her pull him along. “What if Harry’s in trouble?”
“He’ll tell us,” Hermione muttered under her breath, her cheeks still flushed. Ron only gave her a strange look.
There was no doubt about it: Harry and Malfoy were up to something shady.
Very shady.
And the worst part was, it always seemed to happen in the same place: the loos at St Mungo’s.
Coincidence?
Ron doubted it.
“This doesn’t look good, Mione,” he said as they picked up their trays. “I’ll bet you anything they disappear into the loo again today.”
Hermione gave him that saintly patience she’d cultivated after years of dating him. “Ron, do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?”
“Ridiculous, no. Worried about Harry, yes. It’s like when you suspect goblins cheat at Gringotts. You know they do, you can’t prove it, but you just know.”
He opened his mouth to go on, but then he saw it: Harry and Draco walking together towards the loo corridor. Draco was far too close—practically brushing Harry’s shoulder—and he wore the expression of a cat about to devour a songbird.
Ron swallowed hard. “See? The loo!”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Because it’s a loo, Ron. People go into loos.”
“At the same time!”
She sighed, gathered her things, and stood with resignation. “All right, we’ll check your theory. But if you make me stay more than two minutes with my ear pressed to that door, you’ll regret it.”
Ron grinned like a man who’d just won an argument with his girl. “I knew you’d believe me.”
The corridor was half-empty. The door to the men’s loo closed with a faint creak just before they turned the corner. Ron threw himself against the wall, leaning theatrically, and gestured for Hermione to do the same.
Hermione, of course, remained standing in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed. “You really do look like a first-year, Ronald.”
“Shhh. It’s starting.”
And indeed, the voices came—muffled but intense. First Draco, his tone sharp. “What did I tell you about provoking me, Potter?”
Then came a loud thud against the door. The wood rattled as if someone had shoved Harry with their whole body.
Ron’s blue eyes widened like balloons. “He shoved him!”
Hermione tensed, a little pale, but didn’t move.
Then came a low sound. Barely audible, but full of something Ron interpreted as pain.
Beside him, Mione covered her face with her hand, red to the tips of her ears. Ron stepped towards the door. “He’s hurting him!”
She grabbed his arm. “No, Ron. Trust me. Harry will be fine.”
“Fine?” Ron rounded on her, indignant. “It just sounded like he had a rib cracked!”
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but another burst of sounds came from within. This time, Draco’s voice was full of satisfaction. “Admit it, Potter. You love betting.”
And Harry’s breathless answer: “Shut up… what do you want tonight?”
“See?” Ron whispered, scandalised. “Malfoy’s intimidating him, just like at Hogwarts. I told you, I knew it.”
Hermione’s face was scarlet. Very scarlet. “He’s not… he’s not suffering, Ron.”
“What do you mean, not suffering? Didn’t you hear? It was crystal clear.”
“I’d say it’s… something else. Either way, it’s Harry’s business.” Ron stared at her, baffled. Hermione pressed her lips together, visibly uncomfortable. “Trust me. Harry will be fine.”
Ron flailed his arms, desperate. “But he’s being mistreated.”
She sighed, closing her eyes as though she wanted to vanish from existence. “Yes, he’s being mistreated, but he’ll be perfectly fine.”
Ron blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course it does.” Hermione clasped her hands. “Let’s go.” She tried to resist his hesitation but pulled him with force, nearly dragging him.
“Mione, wait! What if he breaks his nose right now? Or forces him to sign some sort of betting contract?”
“Ron,”
“What?”
“If Harry were really in trouble, trust me, I’d already be in there.”
Ron stopped, processing. “So… you know what’s going on?”
Hermione blushed harder, looking away. “Let’s just say I’ve got a fairly clear idea.”
Ron frowned. “And you’re not going to tell me?”
“Let’s wait for Harry to explain.”
“But I’m his best mate!”
“Precisely. That’s why. Let’s wait.” Ron opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment another noise came from behind the door: a rhythmic, sharp thumping, followed by ragged breathing.
Ron went white. “They’re fighting with their fists!”
Hermione nearly tripped in her haste to drag him away. “Come on, Ron.”
“Mione, we can’t just leave them! Harry needs help.” He was panting to keep up with her—she moved far too quickly for someone with short legs.
“Trust me, Harry’s getting all the help he needs.”
Ron stared at her as though she’d spoken in Martian. “What?”
“Nothing.” She kept tugging him along the corridor, while Ron glanced back one last time, convinced he’d just left his best friend at the mercy of an abusive gambler with violent instincts.
Later, at the cafeteria table nearly four in the afternoon after the day’s shift had ended, Ron was still dwelling on it. Harry appeared with his hair in disarray and his robes fastened with a button out of place, accompanied by Draco, who wore a feline smile.
Ron stared at them, horrified. That is exactly what someone looks like after losing a bet and taking a couple of blows.
Draco sat down as if nothing were amiss, and while stirring his tea, murmured just loudly enough for Harry to hear. “You ought to give in already, Potter. You’re not going to beat me.”
Harry shot him a glare, cheeks flushed. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
Ron clenched his fist beneath the table. Definitely fights. Definitely bets. Definitely Malfoy is the devil.
Hermione, beside him, merely sipped her coffee with pursed lips and reddened cheeks. Was she really going to feign ignorance and not ask them a single question about it?!
Ron had convinced himself that his theory was not only correct, but that he was duty-bound to act. Harry was his best mate, and if someone was cornering him, shoving him against doors and forcing him to lose bets, that someone had a first name and a surname: Draco Malfoy.
And if Hermione didn’t want to acknowledge it—well… perhaps she too had been blinded by Malfoy’s so-called charm.
Ron bit into his toast with fury. “I won’t let Malfoy ruin my friend,” he muttered to himself.
Hermione looked up from her report, raising an eyebrow. “Did you say something?”
Ron swallowed and shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Just… thinking about Misaías and his fungus growing on his shoulder.”
Hermione sighed, not even bothering to ask further. And Ron, resolute, silently plotted how to rescue Harry from Malfoy’s clutches.
He was resolute: that afternoon he was going to talk to Harry about his “gambling problems.” He couldn’t stay silent any longer—not after everything he had seen (or rather, overheard) these past weeks.
Draco shoving Harry against the loo doors as if they were a pair of fourth-year bullies, shouts that to Ron sounded like back-alley brawls, Malfoy’s malicious smirks in the middle of the cafeteria. It all fitted far too neatly in his head: Harry had fallen into something shady and, to make matters worse, Malfoy was neck-deep in it with him.
As he climbed the stairs of the building where Harry lived, Ron rehearsed his speech in his head. Something encouraging, like “you don’t have to hide anything, we’re your friends,” mixed with a hint of warning: “if Malfoy drags you into trouble, I’ll split his head in two.” Hermione had told him not to interfere, but he was convinced that this time he was the sensible one.
He knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times. Smiled confidently, as if he were about to save the day.
“Hi, Harry,” he greeted when the door opened—and Ron barely managed to raise his hand before someone shot past him like lightning. Draco Malfoy. This time the ever immaculate Malfoy had his hair completely tousled, a blond lock plastered to his forehead with sweat, his shirt half-untucked, somewhat rumpled, and he hadn’t even bothered with a greeting. He was a whirlwind of expensive cologne, tie conspicuously absent. Not even a “hello,” not even an insult—nothing. He simply brushed Ron’s shoulder and tore off down the stairs.
“Er… Malfoy…” Ron muttered under his breath, when the blond was already far too gone to hear him.
He stayed there for a second, staring in disbelief at the empty corridor. What the bloody hell…?
He turned his gaze back inside the flat. Harry was in the sitting room, visibly nervous, his hair even messier than usual and a strange flush on his cheeks. He didn’t look ill, nor exhausted… he looked trapped. Literally.
“Hi, Ron,” said Harry, with that tense voice he always used when he was trying to sound normal.
And that was when Ron saw it: a dark, exquisitely elegant tie, knotted around Harry’s left wrist like an improvised bracelet.
Ron’s heart skipped a beat. He recognised it instantly. That tie was Malfoy’s. There was no room for doubt. He had seen it a thousand times, perfectly adjusted at Draco’s throat in the office, part of his ‘I’m unbearable’ uniform. And now it was tied around Harry’s arm as though…
Oh, bloody hell.
“Harry,” Ron began, with a mixture of horror and wildly misguided understanding, “I think… I think I already know what’s going on.”
Harry’s eyes went wide, and he took a step back. He looked mortified, as though he had just been caught stealing at Gringotts. “Ron, I—” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t want you lot to know. I didn’t know if you’d support me… And I didn’t want to lose you…”
The poor bloke sounded utterly sincere, almost desperate. Ron felt the weight of worry tightening in his chest. Of course Harry was right: he was neck-deep in those bets, and Malfoy—the bastard—was dragging him down even further.
Ron nodded firmly, stepping forward like a proper brother. “It’s all right, Harry. You don’t have to hide anything from me. I know how hard it must be.”
Harry frowned. “How hard it must be—?”
Ron lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “Having to carry this on your own. Look, you shouldn’t have to put up with Malfoy mistreating you, all right? If he’s the one lending you money for the bets, or the one taking you to those dodgy dives, you don’t have to endure it.”
Harry blinked. “Bets? Mistreating me?”
“Yes!” Ron pointed at him, indignant. “I heard it with my own ears! That day in the loos, when he slammed the door—” He broke off, waving his hand as though replaying the scene in his mind.
Harry covered his face with his palm. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake…”
“You don’t have to deny it, Harry. I know everything. The betting, the secrets, Malfoy. I know he’s dragging you into the worst of it, but you’re not alone.”
Harry lowered his hand slowly, staring at him with a mix of resignation and the urge to laugh. “Ron…” he began in a low voice, as if trying to find the words, “what the bloody hell are you talking about?”
The silence stretched for a full second, thick, before Ron delivered his theory with utter seriousness. “Your gambling problems.”
Another silence. This time not thick, but absurd. Harry blinked twice, then looked at him as though he’d just claimed frogs ran the Ministry of Magic. “Gambling… problems?” he repeated, almost incredulous.
“Exactly,” Ron nodded with the conviction of someone solving a mystery. “It all fits. Malfoy, the loos, the shouting, your weird faces in the cafeteria.”
Harry cut him off with a laugh—first muffled, then unrestrained—until he was doubled over, clutching his stomach.
Ron stared at him, baffled. “I don’t see what’s so funny,” he grumbled, though part of him felt relieved to see his friend laughing. “I’m telling you, you don’t have to hide anything—you can count on us.”
Harry tried to rein it in, breathing unevenly, though the grin still lingered, mocking. “Ron,” he stepped closer and clapped him on the shoulder, “honestly, thank you. Really.” He said it with such warmth that Ron felt he must have got it right, even though Harry was still laughing like a lunatic.
“Can you tell me what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”
Harry chuckled a little more. “Draco and I. We’re dating.”
Ron dropped his head heavily. “You and Malfoy? Dating?” he repeated, his voice pitched higher than usual.
Harry nodded, still wearing a half-nervous smile. “Yeah. For a while now. In secret, because… well, you know what Draco’s like, and I didn’t want to drag you into trouble either.”
Ron felt his ears burn; he wasn’t sure if it was from shock or because, all at once, every single “clue” he’d gathered clicked painfully into place in his head.
“Wait, wait, wait…” He raised his hands. “So the betting…?”
Harry covered his face with his hand, as though he knew exactly where this was going. “Oh, Merlin,” he muttered into his fingers, then, looking Ron straight in the eye, admitted, “The ‘bets’ weren’t about games or money.”
Ron’s stomach lurched. “What?” he asked, though he dreaded the answer.
Harry laughed—this time more openly, as if there were no point pretending any longer. “They were about… you know… sex.”
Silence settled over the room. Ron stared at him as though he’d sprouted another head. “WHAT?!”
“Yes, Ron.” Harry almost seemed to enjoy his mate’s reaction, though his cheeks were blazing. “Draco calls them ‘bets’, but really they’re challenges. Like who can… hold out longer without… well, you get the idea.”
Ron went scarlet—literally, from the roots of his hair down to his neck. “Harry!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands over his ears. “I don’t need graphic details! How did I not see this?”
Harry laughed outright now, that infectious laugh of his. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to give you details. I just didn’t tell you when it started because I care so much about what you think.”
Ron fixed him with a look, his ears still burning. “So… all this time… I thought you were caught up in some horrible gambling vice, and it turns out you were—” he made a hopeless, flailing gesture with his hands, as though trying to sketch in the air something he didn’t want to name, “with Malfoy!”
“Exactly.” Harry no longer looked embarrassed, flashing him a dimpled smile.
Ron slumped back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Hermione’s going to kill me.”
Harry eyed him cautiously. “Why?”
“Because I was absolutely convinced Malfoy had you trapped in debts and bets.” Ron buried his face in his hand. “She told me not to get involved—Merlin, I even tried to convince her we should intervene because I thought he was mistreating you!”
Harry burst out laughing so hard he doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Malfoy… mistreating me?” he managed between fits of laughter. “Well… not exactly in the way you think.”
Ron looked mortified. “Harry! For Merlin’s sake, stop!”
But Harry was crying with laughter now, and Ron—though utterly mortified—couldn’t stop a small smile escaping. In the end, he ran a hand over his face and muttered in defeat, “Blessed Merlin… You and Malfoy. I really didn’t see that coming. Honestly, it never even crossed my mind for half a second.”
Harry, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, asked, “So… you’re all right with it?”
Ron considered for a moment, then huffed as though accepting the hardest mission of his life. “I’m all right with you being happy. But please, never—ever—ever tell Hermione this. Tell her I figured it out on my own.”
“Deal.” Harry nodded with a grin, and Ron slumped his head onto his shoulder, utterly defeated.
“Hermione knew before I did…” he groaned miserably.