At the critical moment, Ron's wand once again turned against him.
From that day forward, it earned the title of "Rebellious Wand" because no one—not even Ron—could predict what spell it would cast or where it would land.
The curse Ron had attempted came from an old, worn-out magic book in his family's collection.
The Weasley family, despite being poor, had a long history, and their collection held some powerful—if outdated—spells.
This particular one, the "Slug-Spitting Curse," was anything but a standard hex.
It was obscure, complicated, and clearly not meant to be cast with a faulty wand.
Unfortunately, Ron's wand had other plans.
Instead of hitting Malfoy, it backfired and struck Ron himself.
The result?
An unstoppable, gut-wrenching stream of slugs spewing from his mouth.
Dark magic was a dangerous field.
As the saying went, "The master leads you to the door, but the journey is your own."
Ron was quickly learning that lesson—painfully.
Oddly enough, he had an unexpected talent for dark curses.
When he did manage to cast them, they were twice as effective.
Unfortunately, that also meant when they backfired, they hit him three times as hard.
Now, Ron had become a relentless slug-spewing machine.
Ted tried everything to help.
He even consulted Professor Flitwick, but this wasn't just a simple jinx—it was a curse backlash.
At this point, Ron was lucky he hadn't been turned into a roast chicken.
With no immediate solution, Ted found a wooden barrel and placed it in front of Ron.
"Alright, mate. New plan—speed up the process. The slugs are fixed in number, so if we make them come out faster, you'll be done sooner. Long-term pain or short-term pain—your choice."
Ron, pale and miserable, had no choice but to accept his fate.
For three and a half grueling hours, he hunched over the barrel, retching up slugs while his friends tried to keep his spirits up.
Malfoy, of course, wasted no time spreading rumors, making up jokes about "Weasley's new diet."
Ted, unwilling to let Ron sink into self-pity, clapped him on the back.
"Look on the bright side, mate! Diagon Alley sells untreated slugs for a Galleon a barrel. Processed ones go for three. You're practically sitting on a fortune. Blind luck meets opportunity!"
Ron groaned and glared at him.
"Ted, during the holidays, you said you'd help me make money, but this was not what I had in mind—urghhh—"
By the time the curse finally wore off, Ron had unwittingly "earned" six Galleons and twelve Sickles in slugs.
"Not bad!" Ted grinned. "You're close to affording a new wand."
Ron stared at the money in his hand, torn between triumph and horror.
He couldn't believe his first real earnings had come from projectile slug-vomiting.
"Merlin's beard," he muttered. "I never want to hear the word 'slug' again."
Despite everything, Ron walked away with a new lesson: Curse backfires were no joke.
Many famous wizards had met their end that way.
His rebellious wand was officially unusable.
Everyone urged him to replace it—even offering to chip in—but for a twelve-year-old boy with a tight family budget, that offer stung his pride more than it helped.
Ted pulled him aside one evening.
"Listen, Ron. You need a new wand. Without it, you won't learn a thing this year."
Ron laughed bitterly. "Oh, sure. And how exactly do I explain that to my parents? 'Mum, Dad, my wonky wand from the speeding car crash is now totally useless. Can you buy me a new one?' Yeah, right."
His voice wavered.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
Ted sighed. "I get it. But don't worry—you'll have enough money before the holidays. I promise."
Ron swallowed hard and nodded. "Thanks, Ted."
...
Although Ron's slug incident became a running joke for a few days, Ted made sure to distract him with other things, hoping he'd move on sooner rather than later.
Meanwhile, detentions had already begun.
Ted and Malfoy were personally assigned to patrol the Forbidden Forest—courtesy of Snape, who insisted they needed "proper discipline."
The others weren't any luckier.
Professor McGonagall was furious when she found out about the brawl.
Harley, for once, wasn't called in for a Snape lecture.
Actually, Snape hadn't been seen in days.
Their Potions class was self-study.
Instead, Harley and Neville were sentenced to answering Lockhart's fan mail.
A punishment Neville suffered through while Lockhart doted on him as his "favorite pupil."
Harley, meanwhile, endured it with gritted teeth.
Ron and Jerry weren't so lucky.
They ended up scrubbing the castle under Filch's supervision—again.
"Tell me," Jerry groaned, scrubbing at an enchanted stain, "is there a single toilet in this castle we haven't cleaned?"
"Just leave me out of it next time!" Ron muttered, dunking his rag in soapy water.
"This is not an achievement worth bragging about."
Meanwhile, the remaining Gryffindors and Slytherins were sent to the greenhouses to shovel dragon dung as fertilizer for the magical plants.
That's right, dragon dung is a highly potent fertilizer, and the greenhouses need loads of it every year. But the smell—Merlin's beard—it could bring a troll to tears.
It was rumored that at least seven or eight first-years had lost their lunch on the first day of detention.
A fitting punishment, really.
One that would stick with them far longer than a simple lecture.
Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ted walked briskly toward Hagrid's hut, his wand casting a steady glow in the dimming light.
A few paces behind him, Malfoy stumbled along, his own Lumos flickering weakly.
He hadn't wanted to walk with Ted—heaven forbid—but after his wandlight failed him for the fifth time, leaving him in near darkness with nothing but the sounds of rustling leaves and distant hoots, he abandoned his pride and followed at a safe yet cowardly distance.
Ted knocked on the door, the sound solid in the quiet night. "Hagrid, it's us."
A few heavy footsteps thudded inside before the door swung open.
Hagrid peered down at him, then glanced behind him.
"That one in the distance… that's the Malfoy boy, isn't it? C'mon in, both of yeh!"
As they stepped inside, Hagrid busied himself slinging a massive crossbow over his shoulder, muttering, "
Yeh lot gettin' sent into the forest again. Thought last year was the last time!
Merlin help us—last time, the Ministry sent a search party fer three days! Never found yeh, but they did find bits o' poachers…"
Malfoy, who had just stepped over the threshold, froze mid-step.
His face went several shades paler, his legs trembling as if they might give out right then and there.
By the time Ted and Hagrid were a good distance ahead, Malfoy was still lagging behind like a lost duckling.
Ted turned back, exasperated.
"Oi, Malfoy! Hurry up! If something grabs you back there, we won't have time to save you."
Malfoy let out a strangled yelp. "AHH! Wait for me!"
In an instant, all thoughts of keeping his distance vanished.
He practically tripped over himself in his hurry to catch up, sticking so close to Ted that he might as well have been a second cloak.
Coward.
Unlike last year, there were no teams this time—just Ted, Malfoy, and Hagrid in the deep silence of the Forbidden Forest.
The ground was thick with rotting leaves, making each step feel like treading on the spine of some unseen beast.
Occasionally, the underbrush rustled as small creatures darted through the shadows, sending Malfoy into near fits every time.
Hagrid moved with practiced ease, stopping now and then to examine footprints, pluck herbs, or inspect the health of the trees.
The soft glow of Ted's wand followed his movements as he crouched near the ground.
"Ted, look here!"
Ted knelt beside him, illuminating the spot. "What kind of tracks are these?"
Hagrid scratched his beard, eyes narrowing. "Centaur."
Ted glanced up. "Centaurs? This close to the edge?"
Hagrid nodded, his tone more serious.
"Aye. They don't usually stray this far. Dumbledore's got an agreement with 'em, but… if they're movin' closer, somethin' might be pushin' 'em out. Let's hope it ain't somethin' nasty."
They pressed on, the occasional snap of a twig keeping Malfoy on edge.
He jumped at every noise, his breath coming out in sharp gasps.
Ted, smirking, turned to him.
"Malfoy, relax. The forest is dangerous, sure, but we've got Hagrid."
Hagrid puffed out his chest.
"That's right! Any beastie comes near, they'll have me to answer to!"
Malfoy swallowed thickly, shame flickering across his face.
He wanted to scoff, to dismiss Ted and Hagrid both as beneath him, but the truth gnawed at him—Ted, a Muggle-raised orphan, was more competent in magic than he'd ever admit, and Hagrid, a half-giant he'd mocked countless times, was the only thing standing between him and whatever nightmares lurked in the trees.
It was an odd feeling, being ashamed and utterly reliant on them at the same time.
The moon cast twisting shadows through the branches as they moved deeper into the woods.
Ted and Hagrid strode ahead, their conversation shifting between magical creatures and plants.
Malfoy trailed behind, sulking, with only Fang—the massive, two-tailed dog—trotting beside him.
Even the dog wasn't giving him any attention.
Malfoy glared at the hound. "You dare ignore me?! I'm Malfoy! You're acting like I don't exist!"
Fang, unimpressed, sniffed the ground and kept walking.
_______________________________
Word count: 1558
Comment below on what you think so far.
Also, if you're interested in reading some advanced chapters, you can support me on my patreon.
patreon.com/Rai_jin
Thanks for reading guys.