Emeralds and Scarlet 🐍
not all snakes bite
Ron Weasley x slytherin!reader
Warnings: Minor canon-typical peril (Dementors, Sirius Black mentions), typical teenage angst and mutual stubbornness
wc: 2k
Era/Setting: Prisoner of Azkaban
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The common room smelled of damp stone, old parchment, and whatever tea Professor Snape forced everyone to brew during detention.
You didn't mind it though. Being a Slytherin meant you learned early on how to turn cold spaces into your own private fortress. While the rest of your housemates were huddled by the fire whispering about Sirius Black breaking into the castle and dementors, you had your back pressed against the coldest stretch of wall in the corner, a smuggled copy of a Muggle paperback open in your lap, and a pocket full of Fizzing Whizzbees.
Life was fine. Until Weasley showed up.
It all started in October. The third-year schedule was an absolute nightmare, and the library was the only place quiet enough to escape the collective panic attack the entire school was having over a mass murderer breaking out of Azkaban.
You were sitting at your usual table in the back shadows, avoiding unnecessary attention, halfway through a chapter where a fictional duke dramatically declared his love in a thunderstorm, when a familiar shadow fell across the page.
You looked up and Ronald Weasley was standing there, his red hair a messy halo of static electricity, his school robes rumpled and his tie messy and unsnug, his blue eyes narrowed into the kind of suspicious glare usually reserved for Dark wizards, but recently, it’s been the only look he gives you.
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a loud whisper.
You marked your page with a folded scrap of parchment.
"Reading, Weasley. It’s what books are for?” you sighed. “Though I wouldn't blame you for not recognizing one outside of a textbook."
His ears instantly flared bright red.
"I know what a book looks like! I’m looking at one right now!” He rambled. “But you’ve been sitting here every Tuesday and Thursday doing... whatever it is you're doing, and you're always writing things down. What are you plotting?"
"Plotting?" You snorted, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.
"Please. My biggest plot right now is figuring out how to smuggle a sugar quill past Filch without him confiscating it! If I wanted to overthrow the Ministry, I’d start with someone who had better posture."
He opened his mouth, clearly ready to shout an insult, before thinking better of it and glaring harder.
"You're a Slytherin."
"Astute observation. Want a badge for noticing colors?"
"You're up to something. Harry and Hermione think—"
"I don't care what Harry and Hermione think," you interrupted, your tone dropping a fraction. "Tell your little fan club to mind their own business, and take your freckles somewhere else. You're blocking my light."
He muttered something about slippery snakes under his breath and practically stomped away, his heavy boots echoing off the stone floor.
You watched him go, rolling your eyes, though a strange, warm flutter lingered in your chest.
He was completely ridiculous. Loud, clumsy, hopelessly loyal, and entirely too easy to wind up.
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By November, the cold had settled deep into the stone of Hogwarts, and the library encounters had somehow disastrously become a routine.
He didn't yell anymore, instead , he just appeared. Sometimes he pretended to look for a textbook on transfiguration; other times he sat at the adjacent table, glaring at your parchment as if your creative handwriting formulas were Dark magic.
"Is that a Muggle book?" He asked abruptly one Tuesday afternoon, breaking a twenty-minute silence.
He was leaning over the edge of his table, trying to peek at the cover.
"None of your business," you said, not looking up from the page.
"It has pictures of people in waistcoats."
"Because it’s historical fiction, Ronald. Not that you'd understand the concept of history that isn't about goblin rebellions."
"I know history!" he protested, dropping into the chair across from me without an invitation. "I know all about the 1289 Convention of Warlocks."
"Fascinating. I'm sure that makes you a hit at parties." You replied sarcastically.
A reluctant twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth before he quickly forced it into a scowl. "You're annoying."
"And you're persistent. Why are you even talking to me? Your friends think I'm a dark witch in training, remember?"
"Hermione thinks you're just secretive," he mumbled, looking down at his own hands, suddenly very interested in an ink smudge on his thumb as he fiddled with it.
"And Harry... well, Harry has a lot on his plate with the Dementors and everything."
Your chest tightened slightly. You might have been a Slytherin who kept to yourself, but even you knew how terrifying the Dementors were, especially lingering around the Quidditch pitch, you made sure not to show it though.
You looked at him—really looked at him, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders were permanently tense.
Without thinking, you reached into your pocket, pulled out a wrapped peppermint toad, and tossed it across the table. It hit him square in the chest.
He yelped, catching it clumsily. "What's this?"
"Nerve tonic," you said softly, turning back to your book. "You look like you're about to pass out, Weasley.
Eat it or don't. But stop staring at me, it's weird."
He didn't say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, the rustle of candy wrapper foil filled the space between you.
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December brought the Hogsmeade trips, thick blankets of snow, and the constant, suffocating weight of Sirius Black's shadow over the castle.
You spent most of the weekends hooped up in the common room, but on the occasional Monday, the hallways were buzzing with whatever the Golden Trio had gotten up to over the weekend, always on adventures.
You were walking down the third-floor corridor near the charms classroom, deep in thought about an upcoming essay you needed to prepare for when someone grabbed your elbow and yanked you sideways into an empty alcove behind a tapestry.
You let out a gasp, your wand slipping halfway out of your sleeve, ready to hex whoever had ambushed you, when a hand gently clamped over your mouth.
"Shh! It's just me," a panicked voice whispered.
You shoved the hand away, glaring in the dim light. It was Ron.
His face was flushed, his breath coming in hot puffs in the freezing corridor, and his grey-blue eyes were wide.
"Are you mental?" You hissed, rubbing your arm.
"You could have lost a finger doing that!"
"Listen to me," he whispered urgently, ignoring your complaint.
He wasn't letting go of the space near your shoulder, crowding you against the stone wall. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and peppermint on him, heat radiating off his skin.
"I need to tell you something, and you can't tell anyone—not even your housemates."
"Why would I tell anyone anything you have to say?" You snapped.
"Because," he stammered, his cheeks turning a violent crimson that stood out brilliantly against the dark alcove.
"Because it's about... well, it's about danger. And I didn't want you getting caught up in it."
You blinked, all your snappy comebacks suddenly stalling in your throat. "You... what?"
"I don't trust Slytherins," he blurted out in a rush, running a hand through his already disastrous hair.
"My brothers told me never to trust a snake, and everyone knows your house is full of gits who think they're better than everyone else…” He continued. “But you... you're not like that. You just sit there reading those stupid Muggle books and eating sweets and being... brilliant."
The word slipped out before he could stop it. He froze, his eyes widening in horror as he realized what he'd just said.
His mouth snapped shut, and he looked like he wanted the stone floor to open up and swallow him whole.
Your heart did a completely unauthorized, ridiculous flip against your ribs.
"Brilliant?" You echoed, a slow, teasing smile spreading across your face despite yourself. "Did Ronald Weasley just call a Slytherin brilliant? Shall I mark the calendar?"
"Shut up," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Just forget I said it. Forget everything. never should’ve said anything. I just... I heard some fifth-years talking about hexing people in the corridors after dark, and I didn't want you wandering around alone."
You stared at him. The fierce, stubborn loyalty that defined him wasn't just reserved for Harry and Hermione anymore.
It was right here, pointed directly at you, wrapped up in awkward stammers and flushed skin.
Before you could reply, a loud voice echoed down the corridor, shattering the heavy, charged silence.
"Ron? Bloody hell, mate, where’d you go? Mum sent another howl—oh."
Footsteps stopped right outside the tapestry. A moment later, Fred and George Weasley pulled the heavy fabric back, grinning like a pair of absolute maniacs.
Fred raised an eyebrow, leaning against the stone archway. "Well, well, well. Look what the Kneazle dragged in."
"Ronald," George said in a mock-dramatic whisper, placing a hand over his heart. "Hiding in dark corridors with a Slytherin? What would Percy say? What would mum say?"
"We're corrupting the pure-blood lines, Georgie," Fred added, nodding sagely. "Mother will faint."
Ron’s face went from red to a terrifying shade of maroon that matched his hair.
"Shut up! Both of you! We weren't doing anything!"
"Oh, of course not," Fred chuckled, exchanging a knowing smirk with his twin.
"You were just discussing the finer points of transfiguration history behind a tapestry,” he giggled. “Carry on, then. Just keep it PG-13, we have standards to uphold in this family."
"We're leaving!" Ron sputtered, grabbing your wrist—gently this time, as if suddenly remembering you were a real person and not a textbook, practically dragging you out of the alcove past his grinning brothers.
Fred and George called out cheerful goodbyes as you practically jogged down the corridor, their laughter echoing off the high stone ceilings.
By the time you reached the safer, more populated stretch near the Great Hall, Ron finally let go of your wrist, though he didn't move away. He stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking down at his boots.
"I'm sorry about them," he muttered, his ears still burning. "They're massive gits. They don't mean anything by it, but..."
"It's fine, Weasley," you interrupted softly.
He looked up, meeting your eyes for the first time since the alcove. The usual defensive wall he put up around you was completely gone, replaced by something soft, uncertain, and entirely sincere.
"Are you actually worried about me getting hurt?" You asked, testing the waters, tilting your head.
Ron swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, quiet murmur that barely carried over the noise of the hallway.
"I am. Even if you are a snake."
You couldn't help the small, genuine laugh that slipped past your lips. You reached into your pocket, pulled out the remaining half of a honeyduke chocolate bar you'd been saving, and pressed it directly into his hand.
"Keep your eyes open, Weasley. The castle's dangerous enough without you worrying about me," you said, stepping backward down the corridor toward the dungeons. You offered him a small, rare smile, the kind you didn't give to anyone else. "See you in the library on Thursday."
He stood there holding the chocolate, watching you walk away, a slow, dopey grin finally breaking through his embarrassment.
And for the first time all year, the cold stone of Hogwarts didn't feel quite so freezing anymore.
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