Alright, so Ron wasn’t exactly the bloke you’d want writing down some sentimental crap about a chess game in the Great Hall, but there he was anyway, right?

It was 1996, sixth bloody year at Hogwarts, Christmas break. Barely anyone hanging about — just the weirdos, really. Harry didn’t want to bugger off home, obviously — not with… well, everything that had happened. So you and Ron stayed behind. No way were you gonna let Harry sit around by himself like some sad sack. Not on your watch.

Hogwarts felt… different. Quiet as hell. Like it wasn’t even the same place. Normally, you’d hear some first-year getting yelled at for chucking dungbombs, or Peeves being a right pain in the arse. But now? Just the creak of the castle and the odd bit of wind whistling past the windows. The Great Hall looked sort of lonely, with all the food scraps still lying about and the bloody massive tree in the corner throwing out this weird gold glow. Pretty, Ron supposed, if you were into that soppy stuff.

It was just you and him at this big-ass table, hunched over a chessboard like a couple of old geezers. Game was halfway through, pieces all over the place, and he swore down, the tension was thicker than a cauldron cake.

He had his hand hovering over the queen, trying to look like he knew what the hell he was doing. Candlelight flickering, snow piling up outside the windows like icing sugar on one of Mum’s puddings. Your pawn slid forward, dead casual, like you weren’t trying to end him right there on the spot. Cheeky.

He nearly laughed — nearly — but his brain was working overtime. Couldn’t just charge in like a prat. You were good. Better than he bloody remembered. And don’t get him wrong, Ron was good at chess — brilliant even — but you… you were giving him a right kicking.

It was weird, the way you were playing. Normally Ron was cracking jokes with Harry, maybe launching a knight at his face when he wasn’t looking. But this? This was serious. Real serious. Not world-ending — but a different thing. A good thing. You and him, in this huge empty room, playing like it actually meant something.

He shifted his rook. Thought it was clever, too. Smug git, he was. Then you bloody swooped in with your queen, cornering his king, and his stomach dropped like he’d swallowed a bludger. Typical.

Still, he didn’t fold. Advanced his knight, looking all bold, acting like he had a plan when really, he was just hoping you’d mess up. (You didn’t, by the way. Cheers for that.) And the look on your face — all focused and proper determined — it nearly made him screw up just staring at you.

Endgame hit, hard and fast. His pieces were dropping like bloody flies. Your rook came sliding across the board with the grace of a bloody ballerina, trapping his king like it had been your plan all along.

He sat back, just… staring at it. Staring at you. “Blimey,” he muttered, running his hand through his red hair like that’d make him look less of a tosser. Because honestly? He was impressed. Proper impressed.

You grinned at him — that little grin that’s half smug, half bloody sunshine — and he couldn’t even be mad. Not really. He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Guess Harry wasn’t the only one who could give me a run for my money, huh?”

The Great Hall didn’t feel so lonely anymore after that. Didn’t matter that it was Christmas and the place was practically a tomb. Didn’t matter that the world outside was going completely to shit. None of it mattered. It was just you and him, sitting there in the glow of a thousand candles, two idiots who stayed behind for their best mate, but maybe — just maybe — found something else worth sticking around for too.

And yeah. He lost the game. But for once, losing didn’t feel half bad.