ᴀ ᴅ ʀ ɪ ᴇ ɴ ɴ ᴇ [1]

18. worth twelve

chapter eighteen

WORTH TWELVE

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RON AND HERMIONE SHOVED THEIR WAY to the front of the stands, ensuring a front-row seat. Hermione must've had a very clear message on her face - Ron couldn't see from behind - because people didn't say a word as they were unceremoniously shoved from their seats. Ron had to give Hermione that - she may not've been as outgoing or fun as Ada, but she sure had resolve, and Ron truly thought she could do anything if she put her mind to it, which was saying a lot.

Come to think of it, Ron couldn't remember ever knowing someone as smart or ambitious as Hermione - at least not someone who wasn't a Slytherin. Hermione probably could have gone into Slytherin, Ron thought, but he was glad she didn't. He definitely took back what he said about Hermione and her house at the start of term feast, and after that fateful Charms lesson. Hermione wasn't all that bad once you spared the time and patience to get to know her. Actually, she was probably one of the most brilliant friends Ron could ever hope for. The two made it to the front row, shoving Malfoy out of the way to squeeze into a seat beside Neville. Hermione completely ignored Malfoy's spiteful comment, something silly about his father being able to hear - Ron didn't catch it.

"Why're you holding your wands?" asked Neville from beside Ron, looking warily at the thin sticks of wood in the duo's hands, Harry's only chance if his broomstick played up again. Correction - if Snape decides to have another attempt at completely unexplained murder, Ron reminded himself.

"You won't understand," said Hermione, confirming the unspoken agreement between her and Ron.

"You're right," Neville shrugged. "I probably wouldn't."

Hermione went on to dully tell Neville that he could achieve anything if he put his mind to it, which Ron didn't really think was true, and so zoned out, thinking about the Leg-Locker curse, which he and Hermione had been practicing. They'd gotten the idea from Malfoy, who'd performed it on Neville only a couple of days earlier, and were now ready to do the same to Snape, should he show any sign of wanting to hurt Harry, Ada or anyone else. For all Ron knew, Snape was just out for blood, not Harry in particular.

"Locomotor Mortis," Ron whispered under his breath, practicing the swishy wand movement.

"Don't forget to make the 'o' in Mortis nice and short," whispered Hermione, ever for correct pronunciation.

"I know," Ron snapped back, stressed. "Don't nag."

Ron twiddled his wand between his fingers, agitated and ready for the match to start. To end, really. He looked up to the teachers' stands, where Lee Jordan usually commented. He was deep in discussion with McGonagall, who, Ron thought, looked like she was ensuring he kept his thoughts to himself this time. Someone came up behind McGonagall, perhaps to ask when the match was starting, and Ron realised with a start that it was Professor Dumbldore.

"Dumbledore's here!" he hissed at Hermione, grinning - there was no way Snape would even lay a finger on Harry, what with Dumbledore there. Ron could have jumped with joy.

"What?" asked Hermione, looking up to the teacher's stands and, surely enough, finding him. "Oh! Oh - that's great! Snape wouldn't dare hurt Harry with Dumbledore watching!"

"I know!" smiled Ron, letting out a large breath. "Now all we've got to worry about is whether or not Hufflepuff will trashed!"

Hermione smiled, obviously not bothering to scold Ron for her relief for Dumbledore's presence. Ron smirked to himself, and returned his gaze to the pitch, where Snape was silently fuming as the teams walked onto the pitch. Perhaps because he'd recognised Dumbledore up above him, too.