Gryffindor boy - Ron Weasley x male oc

28

As Harry, Ron, Harper and Hermione climb the stairs, they find a crowd gathering on the Seventh Floor landing.

"What's the hold-up? Only Neville ever forgets the password." Ron said, letting Harper lean his head on his shoulder.

"Let me through, please. Excuse me, thank you, I'm Head Boy..." Percy stopped dead in his tracks. "Back! All of you! No one is to enter this dormitory until it has been fully searched!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchange dark glances when Ginny emerges from the crowd, her face ashen.

"The Fat Lady... she's gone." Ginny said.

"She's probably somewhere talking with her friends." Harper said, shrugging his shoulders, undisturbed by this whole thing.

"No. You don't understand--"

Hermione gasps, grabbing Harry's arm. He looks and sees the Fat Lady's portrait has been slashed viciously, great strips of canvas hanging from the frame.

Just then, Professor Dumbledore appears. "Mr. Filch. Round up the ghosts. Tell them to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady."

Just then, there is a scream. The students dash to the landing, where all the paintings whisper fearfully. Mr. Filch's rheumy eyes peer up, searching the upper shadows, then narrow. "There'll be no need for ghosts, Professor..."

Mr. Filch extends a crooked finger. High up, near the ceiling, the Fat Lady cowers in a portrait not her own, trembling.

"Dear lady. Who did this to you?" Professor Dumbledore asked.

"Eyes like the devil he's got. And a soul as dark as his name. It was him, Headmaster. The one they talk about. He's here. Somewhere in the castle. Sirius Black." Fat Lady said.

As the students react, Professor Dumbledore's voice cuts through. "Secure the castle, Mr. Filch. The rest of you... to the Great Hall."

》* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ * 。° 。 • ˚《

Professor Snape pulls down a screen over the blackboard, turning. "Turn to page 394."

As the students eye Professor Snape with guarded curiosity, Malfoy finished scrawling something on a bit of parchment and balls it up in his hands. As he opens them, a moth flutters from his palms.

"Excuse me, sir, but... where's Professor Lupin?" Harry asked.

"That's not really your concern, is it, Potter? Suffice it to say, your Professor finds himself incapable of teaching at the present time. Page 394." Professor Snape said, waving the moth away, blows out a candle and a slide show begins. An ancient woodcut of a horrific beast flickers at the front of the room.

Ron frowns down at his book. "Werewolves?"

"But, sir, we've only just begun learning about Red Caps and Hinkypunks. We're not meant to start nocturnal beasts for weeks--" Hermione's words was cut off by Professor Snape.

"Quiet!" Professor Snape exclaimed.

"When did she come in? Did you see her come in..." Ron whispers to Harry.

"Now. Which of you can tell me the difference between an Animagus and a werewolf?" Professor Snape said, head turning to Harper who hesitantly raised his arm. "Mr. Granger."

"An Animagus is a wizard who elects to turn into an animal. A werewolf has no choice in the matter. Furthermore, the werewolf actively hunts humans and responds only to the call of its own kind--" Harper's words was cut off by Draco's howling.

"Quiet, Malfoy!" Professor Snape said before turning to Harper. "You are correct, Mr. Granger. Five points to Gryffindor!" He said, shocking everyone in the class.

Harper's shoulders relaxed, sighing out softly.

Professor Snape turns to Harry. "Passing notes, Potter?" He asked, and snatches the drawing from under Harry's nose and eyes it. "Not exactly Picasso, are you? I hope you demonstrate more talent on the Quidditch pitch this weekend than you do as an artist."

"If not, I fear you'll perish, given the weather forecast. Until that time, however, you'll forgive me if I don't let off homework. Should you die, I assure you... you need not hand it in." Professor Snape said, turning away.

》* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ * 。° 。 • ˚《

A stitch of lightning strikes one of the golden Quidditch rings and the clouds bloom with icy blue light. Far below, in the stands, rain lashes the sea of umbrellas. As one flies free, soaring end over end into the sky, the crowd explodes and two Quidditch squads-- Gryffindor in Scarlet, Hufflepuff in Canary-Yellow-- shoot into the air.

Twin bludgers fire skyward, and the match is on.

Ron squints upward, the players little more than a streaking blur from his vantage. A stitch of lightning strikes the tail of Angelina's broom. As it burst into flames, she plummeted to the pitch. Ron looks down at his own hand. In the highly-charged air, the hair above his knuckles rises.

In the sky, Harry flies fearlessly, searching for the Snitch as Bludgers pierce the clouds above him and Chasers flit in and out of view far below.

Suddenly, in the stands opposite, a black umbrella flies from the hand of a Ravenclaw boy. For a moment, it sails wondrously through through the heavy air, a Magritte dream, then abruptly picks up speed, rotating like a hatchet.

Harry ducks, turns, and watches it disappear into a bank of clouds. Then something glimmers: the Snitch. Instantly, Harry jets off closing fast on the tiny, glimmering ball, chasing it through one cloud, then another, and another, until he breaks into a clear patch of sky, only to find the Snitch is gone.

Angrily, Harry whips the Nimbus back around, searching the horizon frantically, when he spies something.

In the stadium's highest tower, something enormous flickers briefly in silhouette, then is obscured by a veil of mist.

Harry turns. In the distance, the stray umbrella spins into view, harpooning a player. Harry's eyes shift. The Snitch shimmers like a firefly in the dark underbelly of a cloud. Harry begins to go when the veil of mist shrouding the high tower shifts and-- for one brief moment-- a great dog is revealed. As this mist closes, Harry frowns and jets away.

As Harry pelts after the Snitch, the crowd rises to their feet, roaring. Ron grins over the binoculars, watching Harry shred the mist as he urges his broom on.

The trace of a smile forms on Harry's lips as he closes on the Snitch, only yards away, reaching out, when a thin glaze of ice clouds his glasses.

He wipes at them, then flinches: Blood trickles down his cheek. The rain is turning into needles. Needles of ice. Harry glances at the handle of his broomstick. The water sluicing through the grain is freezing. Vapor streaks from his mouth and nose.

A dark silhouette passes on his right. He turns. A twin silhouette passes in his left. Harry sees neither, looking down. The layers of mist are parting below. Lightning strikes, revealing an army of silhouettes drifting onto the pitch. A vast legion of Dementors.

A distant whistle weaves into the wind, rises in pitch, not a whistle at all, but a scream. A woman's scream. Harry's eyes flutter, and wisps of silvery white light float from his mouth. His glasses glaze over completely. His fingers, rigid, can no longer grip the broom and he falls.

The last thing Harry sees is an Otter gliding gracefully through the air, its silver form shimmering with ethereal light, driving off the Dementors off of him.