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At that moment, students from other houses gathered around, eager to see what was going on.
Surrounded by so many onlookers, and with Ron's undeniable 2-16 record looming, Draco felt he couldn't back down.
He had to fight! He couldn't let Slytherin lose face!
"How about we change the stakes?" Draco, already convinced of Ron's mediocre skills due to his 2-16 record, said proudly, "Here's the deal: whoever loses has to shout, 'Old Bat, I'm going to wash your hair!' How's that?"
At Draco's words, the young witches and wizards present were stunned.
Merlin's beard, was he really that bold?!
The Slytherin students, never ones to shy away from a spectacle, began chanting Draco's name loudly.
"Brilliant, Draco!"
"That's the spirit!" "You're not shaming Slytherin!"
Buoyed by his housemates' cheers, Draco felt a rush of exhilaration. He completely forgot that if he lost, he'd be the one shouting those words.
For now, he was lost in the fervor of their encouragement.
Ron, too, was shocked—shocked that Draco was genuinely this daring.
Merlin, were you that eager to meet your doom?
"Fine, then," Ron said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves. "Since Potions class is the day after tomorrow, why wait? With all these students as witnesses, how about we play a game of chess right now?"
"Am I supposed to be scared of you, a 2-16 Gryffindor, Weasley?" Draco's temper flared. "Let's get one thing straight! The one game you did win was against Barry Winkle! He's 776 years old and couldn't handle a four-hour marathon, so he lost to you!"
"You're just jealous I won!" Ron snapped, his face reddening with irritation.
"Heh," Draco retorted with a smug scoff.
Seamus and Neville had already dashed back to the dormitory earlier, and now they returned, triumphantly carrying a Wizard's Chess set.
"Here's the chessboard, Ron," Seamus said, handing it over. "Come on, mate, it's time to prove you're not rubbish!"
As Ron took the board, his entire demeanor shifted.
No matter what, he was a competitor who'd participated in a Wizard's Chess tournament. He had every right to exude a bit of confidence over his peers.
Still, Ron didn't let his guard down. As the saying went, even a lion uses its full strength to hunt a rabbit. He had to give this smug Slytherin brat a proper thrashing!
Draco noticed the change in Ron's aura, and a shiver ran through him.
Worried Draco might back out, Ron devised a plan to goad him. He knew Draco was prideful—there was no way he'd back down in front of such a crowd. His ego wouldn't allow it.
"Malfoy," Ron sneered, "if you're scared, you can still walk away now."
"What did you say?" Marcus Flint bellowed from behind. "There's no coward in Slytherin! Malfoy, if you beat Weasley, I'll personally approve you for the Quidditch team as our Seeker!"
Draco had been wavering, but Marcus's promise sealed his resolve.
"Fine!" Draco slammed his hand on the table. "What's a 16-time loser like Weasley got on me? I've been playing Wizard's Chess since I was three—am I supposed to be afraid of him? Bring it on! Let's settle this!"
With that, he plopped down on the Slytherin bench, while older students conjured a table between them using Transfiguration.
"Don't you think we should intervene, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked from the staff table, eyeing the growing crowd with concern.
Dumbledore, however, shook his head, a wistful smile on his face. "Ah, the restless energy of youth…"
The referee for this Wizard's Chess match was Ernie Macmillan, a fellow chess enthusiast, who stood excitedly at the scene, clearly thrilled to be at the heart of the drama.
"Let's get started, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy," he said.
Draco gave Ernie a slight huff. Though Ernie was a Hufflepuff, he hailed from the pure-blood Macmillan family, so Draco didn't outright disdain him.
And since Ernie was a Hufflepuff—not a Gryffindor rival—Ron was fine with him as referee.
"Alright," Ron said to Draco. "You take white. I'll let you go first."
Given Draco's prideful nature, he'd normally refuse to be given the first move. But the stakes were high, and the cost of losing was steep, so Draco swallowed his pride and chose practicality over ego.
The Malfoy family's principles had always been… flexible.
"Very well, very well!" Ernie announced loudly. "Draco Malfoy of Slytherin, playing white, faces off against Ron Weasley of Gryffindor, playing black. This is a battle between houses, and I'm thrilled to commentate this match. I'm Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff!"
"Now, let's see—Mr. Malfoy opens with his pawn from e2 to e4. Likewise, Mr. Weasley responds with his pawn from e7 to e5."
"A classic opening, both sides playing cautiously—oh! Malfoy moves his knight from g1 to f3, and, would you look at that, Weasley's knight moves from b8 to c6!"
"This is shaping up to be a tense match!" Ernie shouted.
Most of the students watching had at least a passing knowledge of Wizard's Chess, so they could follow Ron and Draco's moves to some extent.
After about five or six minutes, Ernie suddenly clutched his head and exclaimed, "Merlin's beard, what an utterly catastrophic blunder! How could Malfoy let black gobble up his pawn like that?"
"Check," Ron said with a grin, his victory all but assured. One more move, and Draco's king would be his.
"Slytherin never surrenders!" Draco roared, tugging at his hair.
Ron shrugged and moved his rook forward, cornering Draco's king.
Technically, checkmate didn't need to be declared, but Ron, ever gracious in victory, said, "Checkmate!"
With that, the pieces on Ron's side of the board sprang to life, brandishing their weapons and pummeling Draco's king until it collapsed.
"You've lost, Malfoy," Ron said, chuckling. "Time to honor the bet, don't you think?"
Before Draco could respond, Marcus shouted, "Hold on! Proper matches are best of three. One game doesn't cut it—play again!"
At Marcus's words, a spark of hope reignited in Draco's eyes.
"Fine! One more game!"
But this round collapsed even faster than the last. Draco sat frozen, staring at his king, now shattered into pieces, unable to speak.
"You get it now, Malfoy," Ron said smugly. "I was going easy on you. If I'd wanted, I could've won even faster."
Draco's lips quivered as he stood. "I'm done. I'm going home!"
"Oi, not so fast," Ron called, stopping him. "What's the rush? You haven't fulfilled your promise yet. You're not planning to welch in front of the whole school, are you, Malfoy?"
"Don't worry!" Draco snapped, fuming. "Just wait—I'll keep my word!"
"Really?" Ron teased. "Because it looks like you're about to back out."
"I never back out!" Draco shouted, livid. "I swear on my ancestors' names, I won't back out!"
With that, he stormed off.
Harry, watching the commotion, suddenly remembered that Cassandra was one of Draco's ancestors.
His heart skipped a beat. They had to make sure Draco followed through, or if this oath somehow tied back to Cassandra, things could get messy…
No, they had to keep an eye on Draco. He couldn't be allowed to break his word!
Ever since losing the match, Draco seemed to have lost his spark.
It wasn't the bet that weighed on him—it was the humiliating ease with which he'd been crushed by Weasley.
Merlin, wasn't this the guy who won only two games in the Wizard's Chess tournament and then spectacularly lost sixteen in a row?
How was he this good?
What Draco never realized was that simply qualifying for such a tournament meant Ron had considerable skill—at least entry-level professional. Draco, a mere hobbyist, had been outclassed from the start.
In the days that followed, a few bold students challenged Ron to chess, only to be swiftly dispatched.
As Ron put it, "I might not beat those ancient geezers who've lived Merlin-knows-how-long, but you lot? No problem."
Fun fact: in the last Wizard's Chess tournament, aside from Ron, the youngest competitor was already in their forties.
By that metric, Ron's two victories marked him as exceptionally talented.
What Ron didn't mention was that his win against Barry Winkle was less than honorable—he'd worn the old man down until he fell asleep.
Ron's decisive victories earned him renewed respect at school. The 2-16 jabs didn't stop, but they took on a tone of admiration rather than mockery.
Beating Slytherin had Ron walking on air. He strutted through the Gryffindor common room with a swagger, unfazed even by Percy, who begrudgingly admitted Ron had done well.
Time flew, and soon it was Friday.
Time is relative. Everyone else felt it dragged, eagerly awaiting Potions class for the first time ever. But for Draco, it sped by—he dreaded facing Potions and fulfilling his bet.
But there was no escaping it. Sooner or later, he'd have to face the music.
The Gryffindors, in an unprecedented move, arrived at the Potions classroom twenty or thirty minutes early, eagerly watching Professor Snape teach the sixth years.
When class ended, Snape spotted the crowd and glanced back at the calendar.
"What's wrong, Professor Snape?" Veratia asked as she left the classroom.
Snape snorted. "I was just checking if today is April Fool's Day…"
As Veratia exited, she spotted Harry and pulled him to a quiet corner.
She hugged him and whispered in his ear, "What's going on? You've got Snape so spooked he's checking if it's April first."
Harry quickly recounted the events to Veratia. She paused, then lowered her voice. "Telling Snape you'll wash his greasy hair isn't that bad. Lily once told me your dad hung him upside down with Levicorpus, showing off his filthy, blackened underwear…"
Harry looked at Veratia, stunned. He'd always known she had a sharp edge, but this? She was downright ruthless!
"Anyway, I've got Muggle Studies now," Veratia said, ruffling Harry's hair with a smile. "Oh, and I need to use the Time-Turner to jump back forty-five minutes so I don't miss Professor Hawking's lecture."
"Aren't you studying at the London School of Economics?" Harry asked, baffled. Even he knew Hawking was a scientist, not an LSE professor.
"I can take classes at multiple universities," Veratia said with a wink. She summoned Fiona, her phoenix, and vanished with a flash.
Harry stood there, dazed. He resolved to step up his game—Veratia was leaving him in the dust.
If this kept up, he, a modern wizard, would know less about the modern world than her!
As he walked from the corner to the Potions classroom, Harry ran into Poppy Sweeting, who was practically bouncing with excitement.
"Poppy," Harry called, "why aren't you inside?"
"I was waiting for you!" Poppy said, sidling up to him. She tucked her horn away and nuzzled into Harry's arms.
After a moment, she froze and lifted her head, sniffing.
"Something's off. You smell like Grindelwald's perfume!"
"I was just helping her replenish her magic," Harry said, chuckling as he patted Poppy's head. "Besides, Veratia doesn't wear perfume—it's just her…"
"Enough!" Poppy huffed, snorting indignantly. "Stop talking! Let's just go to class!"
"Alright, alright," Harry agreed.
He and Poppy entered the classroom together.
Snape's gaze landed on Poppy, then shifted to Harry, his eyes dripping with disdain.
"I should remind you, Mr. Potter," Snape drawled in his oily tone, "pets are not permitted in the Potions classroom. I would hope your glossy little brain comprehends the danger pet hair poses to potion-making. I understand your need to flaunt a unicorn as a pet, but this is Potions."
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