Ron's Ambition

Harry's steps were somewhat heavy.

He walked into the Great Hall, went straight to the Gryffindor table, and sat down next to Ron and Hermione, looking paler than usual.

Ron was stuffing bacon into his mouth when he saw Harry's expression and almost choked. He patted his chest and asked in surprise, "My God, buddy, what's wrong? You look terrible!"

Harry glanced at his two best friends, hesitated for a moment, and the image of Filch's heartbroken expression flashed through his mind. He ultimately decided to say nothing, only coldly stating, "It's nothing, I'm probably just too tired lately."

Hermione frowned, clearly disbelieving, but she didn't press further. She simply sat up straight and said, "Then you'd better adjust your schedule. We have a lot of homework today. You haven't finished Professor Sprout's paper on self-pollinating shrubs, have you? Also, Professor McGonagall requires us to practice the Inanimate Conjuring Spell. If you don't practice, you might embarrass yourself in the next class."

Before Harry could answer, Ron let out an exaggerated wail, "Hermione, please! Today is such a wonderful Quidditch day, sunny and with just the right amount of wind, how can we waste it writing papers?"

Hearing about Quidditch training seemed to lift Harry's spirits. He tried to suppress the unpleasant memories in his mind and chimed in, "Yeah, Hermione, no matter how hard we try, we can't surpass you in our studies, but Quidditch is our strong suit."

Hermione rolled her eyes in dissatisfaction. "But you guys should at least show some sense of responsibility, shouldn't you?"

But the two boys had already started discussing tactics for the new season, completely ignoring her advice. Hermione pursed her lips, stood up with her books in hand, and said coldly, "Suit yourselves, but don't blame me for not warning you, Professor McGonagall is being much stricter with this practice than ever before."

Harry and Ron remained unmoved, quickly finished their breakfast, and excitedly headed to the Quidditch Pitch. They flew for two whole hours, enjoying the thrill of free flight, until hunger struck again, at which point they returned to the castle for lunch.

Hermione sat at the other end of the long table, a book in her hand, giving them a disapproving glance. When Harry and Ron sat down, she finally couldn't hold back any longer, put down her book, and said coldly, "You two really have no sense of responsibility whatsoever."

Ron took a nonchalant bite of his pie and mumbled, "Hermione, stop nagging. We have formal training this afternoon; we can't be like you, burying ourselves in books all day."

Hermione's lips tightened. She took a deep breath, stopped arguing, and continued reading. She felt a deep, indescribable disappointment—not only with Harry and Ron's immaturity, but also with the academic atmosphere of Gryffindor as a whole.

Under Skylar's leadership, Slytherin was showing a promising trend. She had heard that Slytherin students not only excelled in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions, but even the Hogwarts library's borrowing records showed that Slytherin students had recently borrowed far more academic books than other houses.

And Gryffindor? When it comes to studying, everyone either avoids it or does a perfunctory job.

Hermione gripped the quill tightly, a strange thought popping into her head for the first time—perhaps, if she had joined Slytherin, there might have been a better possibility than what she was experiencing now...

On the Quidditch training ground, the Gryffindor players were engrossed in their training, the air filled with the whistling wind and the rapid currents of their brooms.

Angelina Jensen was in the center of the court, loudly directing her team and waving her arms to adjust their formation. Katie Bell and Spinnet worked together seamlessly, accurately passing the Quaffle, and each precise pass brought a satisfied smile to her face.

However, Ron Weasley, the goalkeeper, was clearly distracted. He gripped the broom handle tightly, his face paler than usual, and his movements were slow and flustered every time Quaffle came his Accio. Several times he barely managed to touch the ball, completely lacking the agility expected of a competent goalkeeper.

Just then, four figures slowly entered the stands of the training arena. Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Cassius Warrington, and Graham Montague all quietly appeared.

Instead of loudly mocking them as usual, they stood quietly in the stands, attentively observing Gryffindor's training.

Draco stood at the front, arms crossed, his blond hair shimmering in the morning light. His expression held no disdain, but rather a calm, analytical air. Compared to his former arrogant demeanor, he now resembled a competent Quidditch team leader, capable of calmly observing and analyzing his opponents.

His gaze swept over the Gryffindor Quidditch Team players during training, observing their teamwork, passing angles, and speed, occasionally exchanging a few words of advice with Cassius in a low voice.

Pansy, meanwhile, diligently used a quill pen to record every piece of data and idea Draco spoke of.

Ron spotted them at a glance, and his already tense nerves instantly tightened even more. His breathing became rapid, his heart pounded, and his palms were so sweaty they almost soaked the broom handle.

"It's Slytherin, they're watching me... They must be waiting to see me make a fool of myself..." Ron's mind was buzzing, and his fingers clenched tighter and tighter.

He forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the Accio Quaffle, but in his peripheral vision, the figures of those Slytherin always seemed like a heavy weight on his shoulders, making it difficult for him to even breathe.

The next second, Angelina raised her hand and hurled the Quaffle, which hurtled towards the goal with a powerful gust of wind. Ron instinctively reached out to block it, but missed, and the Quaffle slammed into the goalpost with a dull thud!

"Ron!" Angelina roared, "Concentrate!"

Draco observed everything from the sidelines of the training field, but his expression remained calm, without revealing any mocking smile.

Pansy gave a soft hum, turned her head to look at Draco, and said with a hint of amusement, "Their goalkeeper seems to be—"

Draco slowly shook his head, his voice steady and calm. "Don't rush to conclusions. His problem isn't technical, it's psychological."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Psychology?"

"He's too nervous, so nervous that he can't perform at his normal level." Draco's gaze remained fixed on Ron, his eyes sharp and cautious. "He's been insecure from the start, especially after he realized we were watching him; his performance got even worse. The more afraid he is of failure, the more likely he is to make mistakes."

Cassius chuckled and said with interest, "So, in the actual match, we won't have to put in much effort at all; Ron Weasley will just hand the match to us himself?"

Montague nodded in agreement. "Indeed, it seems that Gryffindor's defense won't be a problem this year."

Ron on the field clearly hadn't heard their conversation, but he could feel their gazes on him. His fingers grew increasingly stiff, and sweat trickled down his forehead. As he tried to regain his balance, a Quaffle suddenly came from the side. He hurriedly reached out but missed, losing his balance and nearly falling off his broom!

The Slytherin students below didn't utter a single laugh, but the tension in Ron's heart had completely snapped. He flew erratically, his face flushed, his eyes filled with embarrassment and frustration.

In the stands, Draco turned and left, saying without interest, "Let's go, there's nothing more to see."

He strode away first, followed closely by the others. Pansy glanced back at the Gryffindor training ground, sneered, shrugged, and left as well.

In front of the goal, Ron stared intently at their departing figures, his face burning with shame and anger. He gripped the broom handle tightly, muttered a curse under his breath, and was filled with frustration.

Ron's face was extremely pale, his heart was still pounding, and he stared intently at his Broomstick, his hands turning slightly white from being clenched so tightly.

He gritted his teeth and shook the broom handle violently, as if trying to shake off some unwanted thought. But the feeling of resentment still lingered in his mind.

"This isn't my problem at all... it's just that this broken broom is terrible!"

His broom was secondhand, old and worn out. The wood on the handle had become rough and even cracked in some places. The twigs at the end of the broom were messy and uneven, making it somewhat unstable when flying, as if it might fall apart at any moment.

If I had a Firebolt...

His gaze involuntarily fell on Harry's Firebolt. The broom's obsidian-smooth handle, its exquisitely streamlined design, its speed and agility in the air like a dragon... If I had a broom like that, I might be able to do even better Harry!

Once the thought surfaced, it grew wildly in his heart, like a long-buried seed that finally sprouted.

Money.

A strange, inexplicable longing welled up inside Ron. He thought of his family's circumstances, how his parents had to rely on hand-me-downs for new clothes, and the days when he would look at his brothers' old books and robes and feel worried every time school started...

He even thought of Percy.

His older brother, whom he used to dislike the most, moved out after a falling out at home and worked hard at the Ministry of Magic, trying to prove himself. Ron had always thought Percy was too snobbish, but now, he suddenly understood Percy a little.

Having wealth means having choices, it means freedom, it means no longer being forced to accept charity from others.

His gaze lingered on Harry's Firebolt, a complex emotion, unnoticed even by himself, flashing deep within his eyes.

If I had a Firebolt... if I had money...

Ron lowered his head, gripped the broom tightly, his nails almost digging into the rough wooden handle, his desire for money stronger than ever before.