Polyjuice Potion and the Infiltration Plan (8)

Harry's heartbeat quickened. He felt Ron tremble slightly beside him—

It wasn't from cold. It was anger.

Ron was holding back, using Goyle's dull exterior to desperately suppress the volatile Weasley temper inside him, one that could erupt at any moment.

"I've seen her a few times," Zabini said lazily. "In the corridors, head down, carrying a few books, with that little pony following behind her, right? I called out to her once, but she ignored me completely." He rubbed his chin. "She's not bad-looking, just too skinny. Does the Weasley family not feed their kids properly?"

Nott let out a short laugh, as though he had choked on something.

Ron's fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white. Harry could see his forearms trembling beneath his robes—not from fear, but rage. That anger was like a wild beast trapped in a cage, hurling itself against the walls, roaring, desperately trying to break free.

Malfoy glanced at him, and there was something in his gaze—not surprise, not curiosity, but an almost cruel anticipation. He was waiting. Waiting for Ron to explode. Waiting for the fake Goyle to tear off that disguise and reveal the red-haired, hot-tempered Weasley beneath, the kind who blew up at the slightest provocation.

But he didn't get what he was waiting for.

A thick hand belonging to Crabbe pressed down on Goyle's fist. Harry said nothing and didn't look at Ron. He simply left his hand there, like a stone weighing down a sheet of paper. Ron's hand trembled a few times beneath Harry's palm, then slowly, slowly relaxed.

Malfoy's gaze swept over that hand. The curve of his lips did not change, but the light in his eyes dimmed slightly. It wasn't disappointment. It was interest.

"Then again, people like the Weasleys aren't worth paying attention