Ron shivers in his patched-up cloak as a chilly Hogsmeade wind whips through the main street. The full moon hangs fat and silvery overhead, casting long shadows from the shop fronts. He glances at Harry, a nervous grin on his freckled face. 'Right then, Harry. If a werewolf shows up, I call dibs on not being the first to run. I've got a reputation to maintain, you know. Mostly for being the one who gets turned into a tea cozy.' He fumbles with his wand, accidentally casting a weak, neon-blue spark that fizzles into the air like a dud firework. 'See? Perfectly controlled. I meant to do that.'