Chapter Text
"Eternal glory!" boomed Dumbledore's voice across the Great Hall, making the hairs on Ron's arms rise.
"that is what awaits whoever wins the Triwizard Tournament," At those words, Ron knew, with every fiber of his being, what he had to do to finally be his own person. Among the endless accolades of his older brothers, from Headboy, 12 OWLS, Quidditch captain and champion, prefects, class clowns, none of these were quite on par with Triwizard champion. Then everyone would remember him.
"But the tournament," continued Dumbledore, eyes twinkling under the brilliant starry night sky "is not for the faint hearted. The champion must face three, deadly, dangerous trials. For this:" Dumbledore gestured beside him, where a gleaming cup rested, it glowed with a magnificent, ethereal light, and made Ron's heart ache with longing.
Ron thought about it as he trudged up the steps of the moving staircase to the common room, almost falling for the trick step, he thought about it as he made small talk with his dormmates, and Harry droned on and on about Cho Chang. He thought about it as he absent mindedly shoveled bacon and eggs down his vacuum of a mouth, and as Snape (that git) screamed at him for stirring clockwise instead of anticlockwise. He dreamed about it in his naptime (history of magic and divination), and missed Trelawney's first and only ever prediction of trials and trebulations besides Harry, for himself. He imagined hoisting the cup into the air, as the crowd (suspiciously consisting of a large female populace) chanted his name, before Hermione smacked a bit of parchment on his head for 'ignoring her'.
Then it hit him. Like a flying ford anglia to the chest. He was a mediocre wizard at best. How would he, Ron Weasley, realistically win a tournament against the best wizards and witches the schools had to offer? As of right now, Ron could foresee (with the help of his inner eye, take that Trelawney) making a bumbling fool of himself in front of the school, of his ears going red like they always did when he got embarassed, and of everyone pointing at him, namely the smarmy git who was Malfoy making fun of him. No. He couldn't let that happen.
He snuck out one night, while everyone was snoozing. Creeping down the eerie corridors, the flickering candles guiding his way. He felt like such a geek, heading to the library. What was he, Hermione? A loud meow brought him back to his senses. Shite, thought Ron, and he made a run for it, barelling into Filch.
"Student outta bed! Student in the corridor!" he shrieked like a banshee.
"Alright alright shush you caught me, but why in merlin's saggy left (cough) do you need to wake up the entire castle!" Ron whispered loudly.
"I'll be seein' yer 'ead of 'ouse abou' this!"
As Filch dragged him by his collar to the common room, and whined about the 'good old days' when he used to string up misbehavers by their ankles down in the dungeons and flog them, and Mrs Norris hissed at him, Ron knew, he needed a better strategy. He was a chess prodigy after all.
He skipped lunch in favor of the library the next day. Madam Pince was actually surprised to see him.
'They'll all be surprised when I'm champion' he grumbled to himself. He really very hated studying, but he had no choice. It was, as his uncle Bilius said, "A small price to pay for salvation". An hour later, (in which Ron found out first hand how much he hated the library and all its dusty tomes), he plopped Disguise and Disappearance onto the desk and began reading. The book was basically: waffle waffle waffle yap yap yap waffle waffle I wonder what's for dinner, waffle waffle yap yap-
Ron's eyes zoomed into the page like a bald eagle. It read:
"A brilliant bit of magic which may save you quite a few galleons, is the disillusionment charm. While not as reliable as invisibility cloaks which conceal you entirely, the charm allows you to blend in with your surroundings, perfect for nighttime escapades and not attracting any attention. Follow the wand movement below:"
'Bloody hell this is complex' thought Ron, as he analyzed the strange wand movement. 'No incantation either'. This was by far the most difficult bit of magic Ron had ever attempted in his life, and the only thing he had to go by was the described "S shaped flick". Unfortunately for Ron, he couldn't ask any of the teachers like Flitwick, as he would definetely suspect he was up to something, nor could he ask Hermione, who would interrogate him like an auror. He couldn't risk word getting out that he was competing, and deep down, as shameful as he felt, he didn't want his brothers Fred and George, or his best mate Harry to find out. Yes, he would admit it, he was a selfish prat.
His wand sputtered and sparked, but nothing happened. He was currently in the second floor bathroom, Moaning Myrtle was whooshing about the place, giggling at his failure. This had been going on for three days now, and still nothing. However, Ron wasn't wholly surprised. If he was being honest, he hadn't ever practiced or applied himself to anything in his entire life. He sighed and half-heartedly pointed the wand at his head, followed the same blasted wand movement which had his wrist aching at this point, and stared glumly back at his lanky figure, still very visible in the large ornate mirror.
"You shouldn't try so hard."
Ron jumped a mile, and turned around, only to find himself face to face with the weirdest looking girl he had ever seen. She wore raddish earings, a butterbeer cork for a necklace, and her dirty blonde hair was tied back with, was that a clothes hanger? Her protrubent blue eyes seemed to stare right into his soul.
"W-what?" Ron stammered, averting his eyes from the girl he knew to be 'Loony Lovegood'.
"Daddy says that magic works best when you enjoy it, let it flow, instead of straining yourself." She said, before staring wistfully at Myrtle's ghost, and walking out of the bathroom. Ron sighed.
"This is the lady's lavatory by the way, thought you ought to know." Loony Lovegood whispered conspiratorially, her head sticking through the door.
A few hours later, with nothing to lose besides missing even more meals, Ron took the crazy girl's advice, not really caring much. If the spell worked, great, if not, meh. As he followed the wand movement for about the thousandth time, he was drawn once more into his daydream, of him hoisting the Triwizard cup into the air, of him dominating the tasks after sneaking around invisible and practicing. A wet feeling at the top of his head made him start. If Fred and George were pulling his leg or something he'd-
"What the bloody hell!"
He was gone! Well, not exactly. In fact, upon closer inspection he could still see himself, a shimmering blur of black and orange. But hey, it was an improvement. Now all Ron had to do was figure out exactly what he had been thinking of...
There was the cup, then the tasks, then walking around invisible. Aha. Apparently, Lovegood wasn't entirely correct. Not exactly anyways. Ron surmised, and later confirmed upon asking Mcgonagall the next day, that picturing what you wanted to occur, was just as important as the incantation or wand movement. But of course! His strict head of year and transfiguration teacher had drilled the importance of 'visualization' into their heads since their first lesson. When he looked back, he was back to normal, a loss of focus no doubt had caused the spell to wear off. Ron sat there for a moment, contemplating how best he should go about entering his name.
That night, the Gryffindor boy's dormitories were free from the snoring of one Ron Weasley. One of them, a bespectacled boy with messy black hair who had just awoken from a nightmare, noticed.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
"Shut it off! Shut it off for god's sake!" Yelled Dean's muffled voice from under his pillow.
"Why're you waking us up at four bloody o'clock in the morning you fookin fewl?" Slurred Seamus.
Neville just sat on his bed, hugging his knees.
Despite setting an alarm to wake up at four in the morning, allowing himself only three hours of sleep, Ron's genius plan to buy himself more brainstorming time went right out of the window. He ended up trudging down with the boys to breakfast with five minutes to spare of breakfast, hair disheveled, uniform messy, with an irritated Hermione buzzing in his ear. Harry, much to his surprise, hadn't said anything to him at all, nor had he reacted when he accidentally woke everyone up. Weird.
There was a loud clamoring, and in burst Fred and George into the Great Hall. Cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table, as they walked up to the goblet, just barely a toe outside of Dumbledore's age line.
"Ready Fred?"
"As I'll ever be, George."
"Bottoms up." They said simultaneously, before chugging down their aging potion. They stepped cautiously into the age line...and began celebrating! It had worked!
'Why didn't I think of that?' thought Ron to himself. At least now he wouldn't have to come up with a new-
The flames of the goblet almost screamed. Fred and George were tossed like sacks of potatoes, clutching...beards?!
"I did warn you." Said Dumbledore, though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement. Heck, maybe Ron was imagining, but he could almost swear that Dumbledore's eyes seemed to rest on him just a split second more than everyone else. Did he know? Was he warning him?
Ron sat under the invisibility cloak that night, Harry's cloak, one arm was hugging his knees, while the other clutched a slightly crumpled, and yellowed bit of spare parchment paper, in the corner of the Great Hall, moping and sulking. For once in his life, he had actually tried. Fully and genuinely tried his best. To no avail. His theory failed miserably. The cloak did not in fact allow him to enter his name. As he gazed mesmerizedly at the flames of the goblet, and basking in the pale moonlight which sliced through the windows, he thought he heard something. A distant echoing. The volume increased, and it became clearer. It was a rhytmic pattern. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. And Ron realized with a start, that someone was coming. He hastily stood up and straightened the cloak, grateful that it hid him entirely from whoever it was. After all, he was in no mood for another detention with Filch. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and the hairs on his arms stood on end, as the doors to the hall creaked open slowly...
In walked the most horrendous looking man Ron had ever seen. There was a large chunk missing from his nose, and his mouth looked more like a messy line drawn with crayons. His face was decorated with scars which travelled down his chin and eyes, and his eyes! A small electric blue eye was whizzing around the room, luckily ignoring Ron who was concealed, while his other was beady and black, steadily glaring at the goblet, which he made his way towards, peg leg thudding behind him. Ron knew, of course, that this was none other than his defense teacher, Professor Moody, ex-auror, and one of the most decorated in fact. Practically half of the cells in azkaban were full because of this man. In all honesty, Ron found him absoluetly creepy, especially after his unforgivable curse demonstration in class.
Ron watched curiously as the man cast a series of spells he recognized from Bill, probably privacy wards, around the hall.
"Homenum Revelio" Whispered Moody, and Ron held his breath. He was of half a mind to just turn himself in, perhaps get a detention or two for sneaking out, but luckily for him, the spell came back negative. This cloak really was something, eh Harry?
After a few more seconds of silence, where Ron made a great effort not to sneeze, Moody finally turned both of his disturbing eyes to the Goblet of fire. From his position in the corner, Ron saw moody point his wand at the goblet. The only thing Ron could hear was something that sounded like: "Confundo", and, much to Ron's amazement, the fire spiraled and swirled in a massive inferno. He gaped as the flames reached within a few inches of Moody, who was sweating profusely, barely managing to control the tempest of flames. Eventually, the old grizzled auror grit his teeth, and wrestled the goblet's flames into submission. Moody stood there, panting for a few moments, before, from his coat pocket, he pulled out a small inconspicuous bit of parchment paper. Moody then cautiously approached the goblet of fire, whose flames now lay dormant and submissive.
'What's this old codger doing?' thought Ron. 'Why's he entering someone into the tournament?'
But before he could linger on those thoughts, another struck him like a slap to the face, like a flying ford anglia to the chest. The words of Mcgonagall earlier that day pushed their way to the forefront of his mind.
'Neville, do not mention to any of the Beauxbatons or Durmstrang delegation that you cannot even perform a simple switching spell.' Her stern scottish accent echoed loudly in his head.
In a moment of pure Gryffindor courage tinged with Slytherin resourcefulness, Ron pulled his wand out from his too-short pyjama's pocket, poked his wand out of the cloak's narrow opening, took a deep breath, and as the parchment left Moody's hand, he performed the basic, simple switching spell they had learnt in their first year Transfiguration class, all those years ago.
His breath caught in his throat.
He knew it was now or never.
The goblet of fire roared in approval, accepting the chosen champion.
'Bloody hell' thought Ron, as his as well as Moody's shoulders sagged in relief. He trodded on the hem of the cloak, and stumbled slightly. Moody's head snapped in his direction.
In that moment, he thought a lot of swear words that would make Hermione blush.
Moody was walking towards him, reaching out madly for the cloak. Ron remained still as a statue, not even breathing, his chest aching from the pressure. Fortunately he stopped. Right in front of Ron. The paranoid auror cast one long lasting look, as though trying to pierce through the cloak with his eyes, before he turned and stomped out of the Great Hall. But the ginger teen was no fool. He did not remove the cloak, nor did he relax. As someone who loved strategy and chess, if it was him, he'd lead whoever it was into a false sense of security, and then come back. Sure enough, no less than thirty seconds later, the door creaked open once more, and Moody peaked his head in. Seemingly satisfied, he clunked off. Ron let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and slumped down to the floor, smiling brightly. He was one step closed to being chosen as a Triwizard champion.
Ron thought it must be fate, and was in a cheery mood all the way through the empty castle to Gryffindor tower. Then he decided to take a detour. The candles flickered along the corridor, bathing the bowl of fruit painting into warmth. Ron tickled the pear, and the portrait swung open, revealing a sparsely populated kitchen, a fee straggling house elves were cleaning the place up. One such house elf came up to him bright eyed.
"Hello there sir! Is you needing a midnight snack?" The house elf asked.
'Ahhh, this is the life.' thought Ron, as he took a seat at the round table.
'A house elf'd be a good thing to spend a thousand galleons on...'
"You couldn't make me a batch of cookies could you?" he asked, smiling.
As he was about to eat the warm baked goods, his stomach urging him on, Ron noticed his fist was still clenching something tightly. Inside was an inconspicuous bit of parchment. The original parchment Moody was going to enter. There were two words on the paper.
Harry Potter
He lost his appetite.
For once in his life, Ron wasn't hungry. He had settled for poking at the alien meals of France and wherever the hell Durmstrang was, his eyes flickering nervously from Dumbledore, still eating with gusto, to the goblet of fire which stood tall and proud in front of the staff table.
"My money's going on Diggory" said Seamus, much to the disapproval of the Gryffindors.
"Nah mate, I heard this Ravenclaw, Fawley, is pretty damn talented." countered Dean.
"God, I hope its you Angie." said Katie Bell, throwing an arm over her shoulder.
"Alright, I'm calling in all bets." said his older brother Fred, who began picking up sickles, knuts, and a rare galleon fro: outstretched hands.
Ron just felt sick to the stomach.
"Can Dumbledore just finish his bloody food already?" Grumbled Ron.
"Relax, Ron." said Harry, as he added another serving of treacle. "We just got here"
"Ron, is everything alright? You look...green." asked Hermione concernedly.
"m'fine." He replied, but she didn't seem to believe it.
Ron had decided to withhold the shocking revelation of Moody trying to enter Harry's name into the tournament for the time being. In all honesty, Ron suspected Harry's involvement. Had Harry asked Moody to enter him? Then again, defense teachers kind of had a habit of trying to off him, but Moody was the most decorated auror, he hated dark wizards! Why would he be out to hurt Harry? No. Harry had maybe somehow convinced Moody to enter him into the tournament.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden vanishing of the dishes before them.
'I have to ask Dumbledore to teach me that.'
"A few minutes, and I believe the goblet is ready to choose." said the headmaster, and the hall was thrown into darkness. A few first years squeaked. Almost nothing could be seen, save for the turquoise flames that were dancing up ahead.
All of a sudden, there was a sizzle, and the flames turned a deep menacing scarlet. A single piece of parchment shot up from it, and was caught by Dumbledore like a seeker.
"The champion for Durmstrang will be...Viktor Krum!" boomed Dumbledore, and the hall, specifically the Slytherin table occupied by the Durmstrang students, burst into thundrous applause.
Soon after, another parchment shot out on a flame.
"The beauxbatons champion is...Fleur Delacour!"
The applause was certainly less than before, and a girl stood up from the Ravenclaw table. A fountain of silvery blonde hair leaked through her shawl, drawing the attention of most males in the crowd. Well, save for Ron, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the edge of the table, hands under the table to hide their nervous shaking.
When the wolf whistles subsided, another parchment was caught.
"The champion for Hogwarts will be..." began Dumbledore, and the hall collectively held its breath, one could hear a pin drop. Ron had to grip his trousers to stop shaking.
"Cedric Diggory!"
Ron cursed loudly, but nobody heard him, as all sounds were drowned in the roaring of the Huffelpuff table, as Cedric stood up, shook hands, and smiled proudly.
'Effing pretty boy Diggory.' thought Ron heatedly. He had never wanted to throttle someone so badly in his life before. All his dreams, all his back breaking work, just to get outshined by some stupid 'Puff.
Dumbledore beamed at the talking students,
"Now that the champions have been chosen, I hope you will all-"
But Dumbledore went silent. As did everyone in the hall. Everybody's attention seemed to be fixed on the goblet, like it was a magnet, attracting their stares. It was flaming, turning a brilliant blood red. A small, inconspicuous bit of yellowed old parchment flew out on a ball of fire, which Dumbledore instinctively caught. He stared at the paper for a moment, then paused, then he read:
"Ronald Weasley?"
And with that, every head in the Great Hall turned to him.