#wizards chess

Houston 1959

The Great American Wizard’s Chess Open

It’s the grandest hotel you’ve ever visited, the walls are panelled with mahogany and the air smells faintly of expensive perfume, a vague mixture of fir and incense congealed with the faintly dry scent of melted candle wax and cigarette smoke. It was, you’d been told, a muggle hotel. The owners had been confunded, and the rest of the staff told the business was closed due to an infestation of rodents and was being cleaned out over the course of the week. Those circumstances had allowed for the entire hotel to be overrun by wizards and witches, all in their finest, adorned endlessly in the most delightfully absurd attire, star spangled cloaks and towing wizard’s hats. It was, shockingly, more popular an event than you’d ever anticipated.

Prodigious at chess as you’d turned out to be in your muggle- raised childhood, your fondness for the noble sport had grown infinitesimally since your discovery of the wizarding alternative, during your first year at Hogwarts. You hadn’t ever abandoned muggle chess, though, it’d stayed with you far beyond wizarding schooling, and at the age of nineteen, you’d won both the great british chess open, and then the Mexico City International Chess Tournament. Fame in the muggle world for your chess habits had been limited only to the folds of chess magazines, and wizardkind hadn’t seemed to ever notice your incomparable skill, murmurings of your talent had stayed confined to chess circles in the muggle world. Amongst your peers, your name was completely unknown.

When it had come to wizards chess, a whole other realm of the game, you’d shyly relegated yourself to small victories at small gatherings of players, muggle church halls filled with dotty old witches and wizards, of whom you could defeat with the most minimal of efforts. This, the US Wizards Chess Open, was the first of your forays into the illustrious world of wizards chess that you’d so shyly refused to infiltrate before today.

You approach the tired looking wizard at the welcome desk, a slightly muggle-ish appearance to his attire, a tweedy peacoat and an ill- matched pair of green velvet trousers, wondering why he’d even bothered attempting to disguise himself as a muggle, when the rest of the wizards were so flagrantly not even pretending to try.

“I’m here for the tournament…” You say, awkwardly, “I’m… um… My name's Y/N. I booked a room, too.”

The wizard looks down at his parchment, blinking lazily at it, before glancing up at you again. He seems to be giving you a puzzled expression, wondering what on earth you’re doing there, at a tournament designed for seasoned professionals, but he simply shrugs, and hands you one of the hotel's glamorously designed keys. “Here you are.” He speaks in a perky southern accent as you take the key from his hand, “Fourth floor, follow the signs for room 240. At the end of the hall. Magic is to be kept to a minimum, and tournament rules are all contained in here.” He flicks his own wand, impervious to the minimal magic guidance he’d given to you, handing over a glossy pamphlet, “Games begin tomorrow morning, but it’s all explained in there. Good Luck.” He drones, before returning to his lazy stare out at the busy lobby.

You scurry off, key and pamphlet in one hand, suitcase in the other, as you dart in the direction of your room. As you do, you immerse yourself in the glossy leaflet, a delicious shade of amethyst, emblazoned with the swirling words, Welcome to The Great American Wizard’s Chess Open. You slide the key into one pocket, freeing your hand, so you can absentmindedly begin to read over the rules- No Felix Felicis, No jinxed boards, hexes or curses result in disqualification and then, once they’d been thoroughly examined, the timings, First match, 9AM Saturday 17th of July, Finals 6PM Sunday 19th of Ju-

You’d barely finished scanning over the delightful treasure trove of information, when you slam, face first, into a very tall back, adorned with a dark brown linen shirt.

“Watch where you're going!” An exasperated voice sounds, as the male whom you just collided with turns to stare down at you.

You recognise him almost instantly. You’d seen him in all the periodicals, the wizarding ones, that was, reigning winner of the British Open, predicted victor of international titles, if his trajectory would continue in its endlessly upward spiral, possible grandmaster, and one of the youngest to be ordained with the title if all the predictions come to fruition. You bite your lip to stop the gasp that forms, half- fledged in the back of your throat.

In person, he’s somehow more imposing, tall, starkly ginger hair, a constellation of freckles and a pair of the most vividly blue eyes you’ve ever encountered. Ron Weasley. The most intimidating opponent you’d ever been able to imagine playing.

You straighten up, readjusting the case you’d been fit to drop, regaining the multitude of words that had lost themselves in a tangled web of speechlessness looming uselessly in your mind, and saying, with a casual air of someone thoroughly unintimidated by the presence of a personal hero, “Maybe you shouldn’t have been standing in the middle of the hallway.”

The male scowls, clearly puzzling a retort, when he apparently catches sight of the pamphlet in your hand. His brows raise in mild surprise. “You’re here for the Open, then? I haven’t seen you before. What’s your rating?” He says, shortly, examining you with incredulous skepticism.

You push back your shoulders, toss back your hair, allow your expression to grow harder, and with all the confidence you can muster, say, “Haven’t got one.”

Ron laughs, not derisively, like so many others had in your attempt to infiltrate the tournament, but instead in flabbergasted shock, staring around as if searching for someone to confirm that he had heard your ludicrous statement correctly.

“Haven’t got one? And you’ve turned up at the American Open.”

Defensively, you reply, dropping your suitcase to the floor at your side, and placing a hand on your hip to add greater effect to your statement, “I won the Muggle Open. And the Mexico City International. There I’m rated 2680. And I know that you’re only rated a-”

Before you can comment on the score of the wizard of whom you’d so studiously analysed the plays of, he interjects, with a shockingly immature snort of laughter, “Yeah… but that’s muggle chess. This is wizard’s chess.”

“The theory is just the same.” You snap back, frustrated at the ever familiar incredulity your status as muggle prodigy has so often been met with, adding, slightly scornfully “And your rating is 2640. Glossy magazine covers won’t mask the fact that I am a superior player.”

With that, you pick your case back up and turn to the staircase nearest to you, feeling rather ruffled that your meeting with the player you were most excited to face had been rather a disappointing ordeal.

“Wait! Stop.” His cry catches you off guard, and he says, quickly, disbelief clear in his voice, “If you’re so good, why have you been playing in all those muggle tournaments, huh?”

“I prefer the anonymity.” You respond, not turning around as a wry smile blooms across your face, “Not all of us like a cover spot on Witch Weekly, that just looks like you're trying far too hard.”

You don’t give him time to retaliate, heading immediately for your room, up the gilded staircase, down the hall, and into the comfortable expanse of glittering mirrored surfaces and plush bed sheets that is to be your home for the duration of the weekend.

Feeling slightly proud of your ability to hold your own against such a star player- in a verbal game of chess- anyway, you spend the remainder of the afternoon and early evening triumphantly examining chess magazines, and a few guides to popular wizard openings that you’d packed in your case- now lying- sprung open- on the bed by your side. It’d been hard enough to secure a place in the open, hesitant as they’d been to accept that your muggle rating, and a long list of testimonials from the local tournaments that you’d played in qualified you for such a prestigious event. The derision of others would do nothing, you determined, but fuel your desire for success. A title at such a prestigious event would be quite the feather in your cap, and all the more proof that muggle chess was just as difficult as the wizarding kind. Hunched over the board layed out in front of you, you quietly order a pawn forward, practicing, for the thousandth time, the same Sicilian Defence that had served you so well in Mexico City.

You pour over your books and boards and tiring queens and battling rooks, one of which had began to shout, furiously, up at you that it was fed up of being battered, until you, too, feel the beginnings of weariness, which, accompanied by the mysterious rumbling in your stomach, encourage a trip down to the hotel restaurant, both as a much needed mission of sustenance, and an opportunity to scope out the competition. Changing out of your slightly crumpled travelling clothes- dark blue pinafore and lace- collared shirt, into the much more stylish pea- green dinner dress you’d bought just for the occasion (you weren’t about to waltz down to dinner in dress robes) you make your way down to the dining hall, annotated book on muggle openings under one arm.

You order, from a wizard in black robes whose manning a bar full of muggle spirits, a vesper, the only thing, you think, worth ordering at a muggle bar, and when he blinks in confusion at the request, you change it, quickly, to a firewhisky and ginger ale. Drink in hand, you retreat to a slightly secluded alcove beside the enormous set of windows, magically enchanted so that you are rewarded with a perfect view of what lies beyond, but the muggles, all caught up in Friday Night fever, see only an empty hotel within.

Sipping your drink, idly, you open the book you’d brought with you as light reading, annotated to within an inch of its life, Wizards Chess appropriated, through your neat prose, to the muggle theory you’re so adept at. Each time you wish to turn the page, you tap dully on your wand, and the book responds in turn. You’re so lost in its depths, visualising the spirited pieces of your own board upstairs performing each of your familiar moves and plays, that you jump out of your skin when, on the near empty table in front of you, with a whip-like slam of air, someone has slapped down a magazine.

You look up incredulously, noticing, at once, by the telltale flaming hair, just who has accosted you. Once again, it’s Ron. This time, initiating conversation of his own, violent, accord.

“So much for anonymity.” He says, fiercely, and you examine the magazine that he’s laid in front of you. It’s a copy of Chess Review. Muggle Chess Review. You can tell by the stationary nature of the black and white photo, you stood triumphantly over a board, grinning as a depressed looking male slumps in the chair in front of you, a toppled king at the tip of his finger.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, with a scornful sort of giggle, looking up in shocked incredulity.

“One of those muggle grocery store things…” Ron grumbles, before resuming his tirade, “But that’s besides the point! You’re on the cover of this stupid muggle magazine, that’s no better than Witch Weekly.”

“This is a professional magazine, not a vanity piece. You’d know that if you read the article about me. Page four. Have a look. It’s impressive.” You say, flipping lazily to the page for him, which sports a series of illustrated diagrams of the game you played, and another, smaller, picture of you holding the formidable trophy assigned to the winners of the Mexico City International, captioned with the heading, Surprise Victory in Mexico for Y/N.

Ron glares down at it, taking a seat opposite you without asking your permission. You shoot him a displeased glare, and return to examining your chess book, a slight burn of pleasure rising in your chest at the knowledge you’ve flustered such a formidable opponent.

“What sort of game are you playing at?” He asks, after a moment of carrying silence, in a deliberately disgruntled tone.

“No game.” You reply, cooly, a trace of a smirk lifting up your lips, as you read over a passage on the daring Cochrane Gambit.

“Well it’s clearly something, showing up here unrated, nobody knowing you, and being involved in all this,” He waves his hands wildly, “Muggle stuff!”

You can’t help but smirk back, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were threatened.”

The red- haired male turns a violent shade of crimson, trying, and failing, to cover it, with a laugh that comes out as more of a choked gasp. “Threatened? No way! That’s not what’s happening?”

“No? What is happening, then? You went out of your way, into muggle society, to find that little magazine because you were what? Curious?”

“You knew my rating off by heart.” He retorts.

“I know everyone’s ratings. I like to know who I’m competing against.”

A pause, your words lingering in air so thick it sludges about like molasses, heavy with a sudden weighty tension. It’s broken, when Ron says, quickly. “You need to play me.”

“I’m sorry?” You ask, eyebrows raising in genuine concerned surprise as you pick up your glass and down the remaining sip, a shocked laugh passing your lips.

“You need to play me! Before tomorrow. I need to know what I’m dealing with-”

“I won’t give away any of my secrets.” You reply, with a tight- lipped smile, but the puppy- dog esque, tragically pathetic desperation in the male’s sky- coloured eyes tugs just the slightest on your heartstrings, willing the benevolent side of you to give him the slightest of chances.

“Please? Just one game. Just one? I’ll… buy you a drink?”

You laugh, “I can buy my own, just fine, thank you.”

“Then… I’ll… I’ll…” An idea flickers across his face, “I’ll tell you everything I know about the competition tomorrow. I’ve played half of these guys. You haven’t.”

“I’ve read just enough about everyone-”

He cuts you off, “No. It’s different. Books won’t tell you anything, real games, they will. Come on? Just one game with me and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Don’t you want to win?”

“Of course I do!” What’s left unsaid in his indignant declaration is the subtlest of notions that, in order to win, he’d have to beat you, and in order to do that…

“Fine. You want to know what you’re dealing with, I want the upper hand on the competition.” You get to your feet, surprised with how effectively you managed to keep your composure beneath the desperation of your practical Wizarding Chess idol, adding, in spite of yourself, “And you can get me another glass of Firewhiskey, too.”

You toss back your hair, watching as Ron gets to his feet, seemingly relieved that you accepted his plea, and follow him to the bar, over to which he is now heading, a few hovering wizards and witches sidling out of his way, awestruck expressions on their faces as he passes.

“A bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey, please,” Ron says to the bartender, nudging over a reluctant galleon. Startled at the acquisition of an entire bottle, but unwilling to show it, you add, in a hushed whisper, leaning up onto the bar to bridge the gap in height between you both-

“And a glass of ginger ale.”

Ron furrows his brow in mild annoyance at your additional request, but repeats it to the wizard manning the drinks, and he’s handed, in return, two glasses, and two bottles that he clumsily balances beneath both arms.

“There’s ice in my room.” He says, in an undertone tinged with frustration.

“Your room?” You scoff back.

“Well I’m not playing on your board!” He retorts.

“Fine. But I’m triple checking yours for hexes.”

“Fine.” He responds, in a tone trying far too hard to maintain composure, pushing past a long haired wizard in sapphire blue robes, and turning in the direction of the lobby.

The walk to his room passes in silence, which, you’re shockingly relieved for, heart now pounding at the very notion that you have proved intimidating enough to coerce one of the most formidably talented players you’d ever seen into a private game. You follow him down the hall, eyes piercing so hard into his back that you’re surprised you haven’t burt holes through it. When he pauses in front of a door on the first floor, he finally speaks again, “My room.” He says, blankly, messily unlocking the door with the key, prompting a vague grumble of something along the lines of this would be so much easier with magical locks and pushing it open.

The room is noticeably larger than your own, king sized bed filled with messily strewn sheets, upturned trunk leaving a trail of discarded clothes to and from the bed, a wizarding wireless churning some uninspiring jazz out from where it’s been propped up on the windowsill, and, finally, displayed on a coffee table like a work of fine art upon a plinth, a wizard’s chess set.

For a moment, you hover awkwardly at the door, watching as the bottles begin to levitate themselves into the formulation of drinks, floating idly above an ice box in the far corner of the room. You notice, when your attention finally diverts from the drinks, one now idling over to you, that one side of the bed is scattered, angrily, with a whole arrangement of muggle chess magazines. You scoff, immediately, ignoring the drink that trails you woefully, practically begging for your patronage, and seizing a handful. All of them are filled with illusions, tiny or momentous, to the games you played.

Ron goes to snatch them awkwardly away from you, but is halted by his own drink, nudging him in the side of the face, sending a slosh of ginger ale down his side.

You draw the magazines closer to your chess, voice sardonic as you say, “And I thought you weren’t threatened.”

Ron has turned a violent shade of red, snatching away the magazines and throwing them, helplessly, into a wastepaper basket that had been upturned beside the bed.

“Just looking at the competition. Like you said.” He responds, bright with humiliation.

You take your own drink from mid air, and it deadens in your grip, allowing you to place it peacefully on the coffee table beside the chess set. The little players, the white ones most significantly, begin admonishing you with a variety of rude gestures.

“Your set’s not exactly friendly.” You say, blankly, ignoring the red that still consumes Ron’s colouring.

“It’s loyal.” He snaps back.

You give one of the bishops, who is brandishing its crosier threateningly at you, a tiny flick, sending the pieces into peals of furious accusations. “Apparently so.” You take a lazy sip of the firewhiskey and turn your gaze back to Ron, who has mellowed into a flushed shade of pink.

“Do you want to play, or was this just some trick to get me alone so you could curse me?” You ask, with a faintly amused air, the situation deepening in wonder the more thought you dare to give it.

“‘Course I want to play,” Ron grumbles back, summoning the board over to him with a fierce flick of his want. It zooms by, pieces having fallen about in an angry heap as the board settles across from where he now sits at the edge of the bed. You down your drink, noticing, with mild bemusement, that Ron has done the same, and watch as it begins to refill itself quite independently, bottles happily clinking in mid air.

“I’m assuming you’ll play white. Those pieces look the angriest, and you’d love to give yourself the best chance of winning.” You say, crossing your ankles as you sit at the edge of the bed, calmly soothing the wrinkles out of your skirt, and carefully adjusting the black satin cuffs, so the dainty pair ribbons lay flat. You notice Ron’s glare as he stares at your regal composure, and he says, quickly,

“Did you go to Hogwarts, then?”

“Aren’t we playing?”

“Just wondering.” He grumbles, as the pieces begin to rearrange themselves in formation, hopping up with spirited remarks of action.

“Well, I did. I left last year.” You say, as two pawns begin to war over their position on the board, one snatching the others helmet and holding it threateningly above the other’s exposed head.

“What house were you?” He asks.

“Ravenclaw.” You respond, airily. “Like it accounts for anything…”

“Explains a lot.”

“Excuse me?” You reply, eyebrows raising.

Ron doesn’t follow up on that, taking another sip from his cup and saying, in a slightly more confident voice, now that the pieces have all settled down, “Pawn to E4.”

You watch, in mild surprise, as he begins with a move that you rarely see him play. Allowing you to- “Pawn to C5.” The black pawn waltzes over to the square you directed it, and you look up at Ron with a frown. “Why would you do that? You knew I’d play the Sicilian. You never-”

“I thought we were playing.” He replies, shortly, and you tighten your lips, parting them only momentarily to take a fierce swig from the bottle of firewhiskey, ignoring your freshly made glass completely.

Ron raises his eyebrows in vague surprise, “Bit enthusiastic…”

You gasp back the venomous burning in your throat, spurred on by the strangeness of Ron’s choice of opening, and in a slightly huskier voice, reply, “Just play.”

Silently, the two of you continue play for the better part of half an hour, the only sounds coming from the pieces themselves, or the clink of glass as Ron sips his drink. There’s a tension in the air, palpable determination, where every time one of you backs the other into a corner, you manage to slither fluidly out, until the game feels impossibly evenly matched. You’ve never played such a competent opponent, competent in sensing your moves before you’ve even considered them. The idea of it makes your skin crawl, like he can see right into your mind and extract every thought before you’ve even realised you’re supposed to be thinking them. Each time he makes one of these anticipatory moves, you reach for the firewhiskey, swigging furiously from the bottle. You’ll second guess him, and he’ll third guess you, until the entire game feels like a cat and mouse, where each of your roles reverse in an impossible to decipher pattern, so complex, and yet so simple that it has you reeling.

When you corner his queen, in a move you thought infallible, somehow, he manages to capture your offending rook, and, in a furious attempt to distract him, you snap, mind fuzzier than it should have been with the seafoam sloshing of firewhiskey to ignite your more frantic temperament, “Tell me about the competitors. And- Bishop to F4.”

“That was stupid-” Ron says, sending a pawn of his own to seize the bishop, making a perfect opening, a missed opening, for you to snatch up his queen. The first move he hadn’t anticipated, it seems. Your distraction worked, focus from the board and onto the opponent. Playing the player, not the game. “But there really isn’t that much to tell, the current US champion… he’s good, but.”

You silence him with a raise of your hand, “Rook to F5.” His queen is captured in a smooth siege, and, after a congealed exclamation of wonder and frustration, and a subsequent angry swig of firewhiskey of his own, Ron sends one of his own pawns after your queen. Or, at least, that’s what you think he’s doing, it’s what you would have done, it’s what- You block it. He hisses through his teeth, and resumes speaking, voice rough form the flame- like effect of the drink.

“But we’re better.”

“We’re? I didn’t think you thought that my muggle experience made me any sort of competitor.”

“I read your game against the Grandmaster in Mexico.”

“Oh.” You send your pawn scurrying to protect the remaining bishop, who you so deeply need for your plan to annihilate the king. “Well I didn’t…” Your words slur together at the edges, blurring into one long reproach, “Think you thought muggle chess games were real games.”

Ron ignores this, continuing to speak, as if he can’t even hear what you’re saying. “It’s like-”

“It was kinda like that game of yours a while back, the way you managed to capture his king,” You think back to the chess magazines you’d been studying, “The final in London… What was it? Against the winner of the Scottish Open. A few months back.”

“Exactly. Nearly identical plays.”

“What?” You start, suddenly, alarming the pawn you’d sent to capture his own into a frenzy, world lurching slightly as you do so.

“The game… they were nearly identical, different openings, but…”

“The same attacks…” You hum, the diagrams floating about in your mind overlapping to create one perfect board of near identical attacks.

Ron says a pawn to capture the attacking one. You send forward your queen. It grabs onto his remaining knight, and throws it with such force into the bedsheets beside the board that it causes a slight ripple. His king is defenceless. But he must have known? It was an obvious- “And now, you’ve got me in check.” He says, without even glancing at the board.

You sit up straight, a feeling of complete rufflement filling you, a strange congealment of nervous anger and terrified amusement, as you say, “What are you doing? That was the most-”

“Obvious mistake ever-” He replies, vaguely, taking a restrained sip from the near- empty bottle, and glancing back over at you. “The game was going to go on forever if i didn’t stop you.”

“Then what was the point?” You reply, flushing yourself, this time, with annoyance, and snatching up his writhing king with one hand, glaring into the marble piece’s beady eyes. “What was the point in asking for a game if you’re not even going to put up a fight.”

“I wanted to see how you played, that’s all, I’m serious. And… I was fighting!” He pries the tight fingers you have clasped around the king’s throat away, and you drop it at the instant your skin brushes his, burning confusion, firewhiskey and the complete cold shock at the game’s careless end, filling you until you fear it might just burst out of you in angry sparks of electricity.

“Well you’ve seen.” You shoot back, “Happy now?”

“Happier-” And you realise he’s smiling, albeit, slightly nervously, apparently completely satisfied at the outcome. “I looked through all those magazines, I thought, there’s no way she’s going to be any good, wizard chess is completely different, the strategy is… But I saw, you and me, we play… Playing you,” He sighs, eventually, “Was like trying to outhink myself.”

It’s exactly how it had felt. Strangely articulate, perfectly said. It wasn’t simply being three steps ahead of your opponent, but being three steps ahead of yourself. The most complex and combative match imaginable. A complicated dance, a two- step so organic and natural that it might as well have been breathing, but requiring the most painfully thorough anticipation imaginable. Your mind stumbles over itself, the fuzz of firewhiskey mingling with the confusing realisation that Ron Weasley is not just your everyday opponent. More so than you already thought, he’s the most terrifying adversary you’ve ever had.

The wizarding wireless crackles from across the room, a chirpy american voice announcing that, “It’s time for jazz hour! Who’s ready for a little romance?” As the music shifts genre to something infinitely more palatable, smooth and tinny all at once, contrapuntal combinations of fiery dance and sensual melodies that draw your attention so thoroughly into its musical depths, allowing you to sink into your blurred thoughts, piecing them together one by one until the puzzle seems complete.

“I have to beat you tomorrow.” You say, suddenly, the resolution fully formed in your mind as you begin to speak the words.

“Yeah… I figured,” Ron replies, with a quiet laugh, examining the board as it begins to reorganise itself in formation, ready to be played again. You watch as the pieces reform their neat lines, the haughty looking queens tipping back their cascading marble hair, the stout pawns crouching into positions of attack and the knights reassuming their horseback positions. “But! That doesn’t mean I’ll let you.” Ron says, quickly, “This was a one off, wasn’t even a real game anyway.”

But it was real, psychologically, it wasn’t the sort of chess game you ordinarily played, intimate, of course, but on a war- like level, one personal battle between an opponent in need of vanquishing. This game had been so much more, terrifyingly real, terrifyingly personal, introspective in a way that combat never ordinarily was.

Maybe it was the firewhiskey talking. It must be, you assure yourself, straightening your tangled limbs once again, smoothing the creases out of your dress, and shaking your head passionately.

“Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You say, quickly.

“No you won’t.”

“What… Of course I will, the open-”

Ron interjects, standing to full height once again, “The final isn’t until Sunday. That’s when I’ll see you.”

“And I thought muggle chess-”

“That’s to be decided.” He says, and you stand up, gaze lingering on the now pristine board, quiet jazz accompanying the scene, imbued with such a deep sense of mingled longing to play that fated game, and terrified anticipation that doing so will somehow be far more momentous than it really ought to be, that all you can think to do is run.

“Well, good luck.” You say, shortly, “Thanks for the game.”