Chapter Text
Yeah, you could say that. But there’s their fault in it too.
He was born into the family consisting of seven members at that time. He is the sixth son of a seventh son. It wasn’t the first time he was part of such a large family, but in this situation, he became one of the youngest after his little sister was born.
IIn his previous life, he was the firstborn child. He was the living example of the quote, “You never love anything in the world the way you love your first child”. The change in dynamics was drastic. Everything felt unfamiliar to him: the situation, the shifting relationships, the mood of the family, the behaviors! He didn’t know what to do.
He is not the eldest anymore. He is not the middle child either. He is not the youngest. He is just there… between the middle and the end.
His first parents are nothing like Molly and Arthur Weasley, his second parents. His current siblings are different from his previous three. Everything is louder, he can say that for sure. Not like his quiet, comfortable home. Not at all.
He has red hair and blue eyes. He is a wizard. His family are all wizards.
He is Ronald Bilious Weasley, his favorite character. But he never dreamed or wanted to be him. Ron’s life is tough and it really negatively affects his confidence.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Ron sat alone in front of the painted-on-the-floor chessboard, the improvised pieces from his father’s garage laid out in their starting positions. With a focused expression, he carefully considered his opening move, weighing the potential outcomes and strategies. His hand moved confidently as he made his first move, a colored bolt advancing two squares.
Then, shifting to a different vantage point, Ron's gaze swept over the chessboard once more. Methodically and slowly, he studied the board. He had all the time in the world in the quiet of his room. He mentally mapped out potential strategies, visualizing the movements of each piece with precision.
Just as Ron was deep in contemplation, he heard his mother’s voice calling out about breakfast. Startled, Ron's hand jerked, causing him to accidentally drop the nut he had picked up as a makeshift chess piece. He sighed. In neither of his lives is he safe if he does not move to the kitchen and his mother continues to scream.
The thought of descending the stairs left him feeling weary; it seemed so troublesome to leave the room, knowing he would return some time later. He waited for a bit near the door listening to the sounds of others going down, especially waiting for twins pass by. He didn’t want to encounter them on the stairs. They can be tolerable separately, but not together, especially during those moments when they seem to share only one brain cell between them.
Ron never knew he would develop arachnophobia due to their antics. The spider wasn't the typical one he had envisioned while reading the book; instead, it was magical, with more eyes than he could have ever imagined any creature possessing. Once, his teddy bear had transformed into a terrifying black creature in his hands, Ron accidentally poked some of its eyes. The creature's eyes were located not only on its head but also on every leg, its belly, and back. They blinked at different times, creating an unsettling sensation. Ron could still feel the eyes slowly blinking where his hands had been. It was awful.
Finally, he cautiously pushed the door, standing slightly back from the entrance. The box filled with flour slid, spilling its contents onto the floor and dirtying his socks. Ron grabbed the mop near the door for just such an occasion, moved forward, and pulled the rope that was tensioned at the bottom of the door. Water cascaded onto the floor. This time, the bucket didn't fall either. They were definitely improving their skills. Next time, they should consider using cooked oatmeal; it would stick in the hair longer. Even so, flour can also be quite sticky as well.
Ron entered the kitchen and gracefully sidestepped a flying flour-dusted teapot, accustomed to anything flying right and left, from crochet equipment to food.
He picked the deep plate from the table in side with free seat, put the sausages, beans and fried eggs and pushed William and Charles aside and squeezed into the seat between them. He then reached for a deep plate from the table, finding a free spot beside it.
Seating himself far from George and Fred, Ron used Will as a living shield. It would be amusing to see how the twins would attempt to sneak something onto his plate through him. Apologies to William, but these measures were necessary. Ron was certain the twins had reserved this seat for him since all the others were occupied, except for the one near George, who was more skillful in blending with his surroundings close to his twin. Often, he uses this to their benefit, slipping through unnoticed, yet still being there near to complete the whole picture of "Fred and George”. Ron did stumble once on that, and he learned from that mistake ever since after visiting the hospital with a burned tongue.
The red-haired boy had undoubtedly overheard that they had recently completed a new project. He always comes last to eat, and they know it for sure, which means that the "no-good" project is something edible. For the next few weeks, he would definitely need to inspect his food every time before eating. It’s so exhausting.
Ron couldn’t wait for school to start, where the twins could focus on other gullible students who still fell for their smiles and 'kind' nature. One year was definitely not enough to shake off their charms. It took him three years until the incident with the spider, and that's saying something. He knew they were little tricksters ahead of time, even before they started messing with everyone else, and still, you know what happened.
"Eat quickly," Mother said, gently placing the plate inside the sink. Bad sign. "We need to pack up and head to Diagon Alley after we receive our letters, which should arrive before noon. You have one hour to change your clothes, and I need to see you standing in the living room by that time." Then she snapped, noticing someone suppressing a laugh as George mimicked her with a humorous expression and exaggerated mannerisms, purposely emphasizing the absence of a sound of 'r' after vowels. "Fred! Can you behave yourself for once?" With that, she walked out of the kitchen.
"What have you two already done? It’s only morning!" Ron whispered, glancing at their furious mother ascending the stairs. She didn’t even bother to distinguish between the two, and responding to Fred's usual saying his favorite line, ‘Honestly, whoever-they're-talking-to, call yourself our mother/father/brother, etc.’ They had done it plenty of times, and everyone was starting to just brush it off, especially with how they changed their behavior and looks to pass as the other twin. "And Fred, stop stretching; it won't add any extra centimeters to you to disguise as George! And you, George," he pointed his finger at him, "stop hunching all the time, or you'll end up with the same hump as the Hunchback of Notre Dame!”
“Who?” George mouthed, looking questioningly at Fred, who shrugged and, with one look of his eyes, sent the message, “Who knows? It's just Ron with his strange references.”
"Ron!" William chimed in strictly, his tone cutting through the banter.
"Why me? I didn’t do anything!" the boy exclaimed, raising his arms in a gesture of surrender. "Thanks to George and Fred, now we will go shopping with an angry mom." Ron was sure that sneaking out would be even harder, and he wanted to buy a wand, not go with Will's to school. He knows it's unreasonable to be mad at him. It's not his fault, after all. Not even Charlie's, for being granted the title of head boy. Nobody's, really. But the thought that all of them, even Ginevra, will never feel like the last choice doesn't fail to upset him. (It bothers him that George and Fred got their first wands when Charlie became prefect. Why is it that he is the one who needs to sacrifice this first experience?)
Ron glanced over at William, noting the stern expression on his face. The ugly feeling reared its head, and he tried to suppress it. Guilt creeping through. (He’s wanted one. The golden child of Weasley family.)
(Stop it.)
"Sorry, Saint William," Ron sarcastically said, rolling his eyes and shooting a quick apologetic glance towards the parents’ room for noise as he ascended the stairs. Aware that they were pushing the boundaries with their antics, he was determined not to exacerbate matters further. He made sure to avoid the creaking stairs to prevent further upsetting his mother’s boundaries.
At times, Ron finds himself too hot-tempered and easily ignited for his own well-being. Even a slight irritation can push him over the edge, causing him to snap. Honestly, they all seem to have moments like that. And as Oscar Wilde once said, None of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. Living under one roof sometimes feels like a battlefield, with no party willing to surrender. Hopefully, tomorrow will bring the usual peace and harmony before the next storm.
Suddenly, grief washed over him, stirring memories of his first siblings and their arguments. He used to compare them, and only them, to this quote. It felt like a worse betrayal than some are capable of: to replace someone. Even so, years have passed, and for six of them, he didn’t remember some of the parts. Nonetheless, Ron welcomed the feeling of grief with open arms, as it reminded him of his love for them, all the unexpressed affection he carried within. Despite his efforts to share this love with his new siblings, the grief lingered. (Deep down, it makes him feel relieved. )
(It isn’t fair to them, isn’t it? To grief, to mourn, to try to search for the same qualities as his previous family possessed. But they are not fair to him either.)
(Stupid. It’s so stupid. Stop it. They can be good. They are good.)
Carefully, he tiptoed into his room, sidestepping the puddle made from flour and water, and gently pushed open the window. Instantly, a rush of fresh morning air brushed his red hair, bringing a sense of peace and carrying with it the soothing melody of the farm.
Outside the Burrow, the sounds of the farm welcomed him with a comforting embrace. The rhythmic clucking of chickens filled the air, accompanied by the low, contented moos of Diggory's cows grazing in the distant pastures.
But it was the garden gnomes who truly captured his attention with their high-pitched giggles, animated chatter, and the faint hum of enchantment in their veins. Mother was undoubtedly aware of their presence; soon she would send the more bothersome ones off for de-gnoming to redirect their energy. It was evident that this was the only reason she hadn't erected any magical barriers. However, if you think about it, father’s soft spot for these creatures could be a close second.
The view outside calmed something inside him as he breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and just listened to the soothing sounds of nature. He began to change his clothes, all the while searching for the old grandfather's suitcase from the attic with the burned sign "Septimus W." inside, feeling a sense of tranquility wash over him with each movement.
In the streets of London, the weather remained steadfastly rainy, enveloping the city in a perpetual drizzle. The city's old buildings stood as silent sentinels, their weathered facades adorned with a delicate tapestry of moss, a testament to the relentless downpour. The rhythmic patter of raindrops against the car window provided a soothing melody, easing the discomfort of the silence.
They left the car in a silence that had persisted throughout the entire journey. A faster and more comfortable way would have been via the Floo Network, but the rare purchased powder had been depleted during the accident when Ginevra dashed into the burning barn to retrieve her secretly kept broom for a nighttime flight, away from her mother's watchful eye. Three people were injured in the chaos, including the two obvious troublemaking twins whose experiments had ignited the barn. He never heard his mother screaming so much before.
"Ron," his mother's voice drew his attention back to the present. The rain had stopped falling on him, and he looked up, noticing the shimmer of a transparent barrier casted by one of his parents and observing how muggles walked by as if nothing was happening under their noses. "Hold one of your brother's hands.”
"Yes, Mother," he said, reaching for Charles' outstretched hand and grasping Percival's above the elbow to ensure he wouldn't accidentally wander into the road while engrossed in his pulled out from air book. He watched as Will attempted to calm the twins and take their hands, while they engaged in a quieter discussion than usual about cars, street lights, and speculative assumptions about how they work. Compared to them, Ginerva is swiftly grabbed behind mother’s skirt and hid behind it. Rarely does she venture beyond the magical quarter of their village in Ottery St Catchpole, and prior to that, she had never seen the pub from the muggles’ side. The only encounters she had with cars were with father's, and those near the train station for a matter of second before going to 9 3/4 platform. Though she is not the only one who was rarely going outside of the village.
Ron strolls curiously along the streets of the Muggle part of London, a place he has never visited before, yet it feels oddly familiar, as if it’s where he belongs. The streets and buildings seem to sing to him, or perhaps it’s his heart singing to them. Ron is mesmerized, quietly embracing these feelings within himself, knowing he will never share them with anyone. They are his to cherish.
They walked past the gleaming building adorned with red and yellow letters spelling out "cinema" at the top. Rows of posters line its walls, catching Ron's attention as he walked by. Among them, he recognized one immediately. In the poster, a young boy with wide eyes and an open mouth appeared, as if captured in a moment of daring mischief. His hands pressed against his cheeks in shock or disbelief, yet a glimmer of mischief twinkled in his eyes. Behind him, thieves were wrapped in Christmas lights. "Home Alone. Soon in theaters.” Ron didn't realize that the movie was released at this time. He longed to see it, but unfortunately, when it would be screening, he would be in school. Moreover, even if he managed to find a way, sneaking away to see the movie would be incredibly challenging. The village was far from the city, making it difficult for him to access the cinema without drawing attention to his absence.
The gentle patter of rain further soothes him, and life suddenly feels less daunting under the enchanting, gloomy atmosphere of London. Softly, under his breath, he hums the melody and lyrics of a calm, random song from his previous life. If someone noticed, they prefer not to say anything out.
(The black hole of the window where you sleep
The night breeze carries something sweet
A peach tree)
He had always dreamed of visiting London, yet opportunities were rare, even to explore the magical part of the city. In magical families, it is prohibited to expose children to the outside world before the age of five, as a precaution against tainting their developing magic and protecting them from hexes and curses. According to one of Percy’s books, once belonged to their mother that she purchased during her first pregnancy, titled ‘Shadows of Sorcery: A Guide to Magical Child Rearing,’ there’s a significant risk of even minor hexes that are harmless to adults proving fatal to young children. Since then he guess their mother also followed the suit.
(He could imagine his mother, filled with tears of joy, knowing she wouldn’t be alone when his father went to work, leaving her to stay at home alone. He could envision the young girl, longing for a warm and large family, but instead left in the company of house-elves and, perhaps, a governess, in a cold house she couldn’t call home. He could imagine her contemplating being forsaken by her family for not obeying their orders and choosing to marry her love. The young girl, unaware of motherhood and not taught by her own mother, bought the book to learn what to do. Ron doesn't know if it's true or not. He pieced it together from fragments of information he once heard. Perhaps, it's best for him not to dwell on it, to let it remain solely hers—those moments when she stopped and gazed with shining eyes at something that belonged to her. Even though he yearns to know his mother better, perhaps some things are better left untouched. What’s saying? We know our parents only as our parents, not as the children they once were.)
“Ron, come on!” Ginevra grabbed his arm and pulled him further into Diagon Alley, guiding them through the disintegrating bricks that formed the entrance to the Alley, creating a large archway. In a familiar situation, his baby sister kicks the door open with her foot announcing everyone that it is her.
In the pouring rain, the building appeared magical and enchanted, its bright colours standing out against the backdrop of gray skies. The wet cobblestone street added a touch of coziness to the scene. Ron took a deep breath as Ginevra pulled him towards Quality Quidditch Supplies (QQS), a dark pink building with Edwardian architecture style. Ron was certain that this style of building was typical of the early twentieth century, yet the Wizarding streets were established even earlier than that. He couldn't help but wonder why it appeared this way. Maybe, due to the war with Volandemort… Voldemort or is it Voldamort? He couldn't even ask for the correct version of his name without risking a hiss of disapproval, let alone muster the courage to say it aloud or, in his case, pronounce the right version. In the book, Volandemort could supposedly hear when someone pronounced his name and tracked the person down. For now, he even has a vessel for his sinister, creepy spirit.
“Look at that, Ron! Ron!” Ginevra exclaimed, tugging on the sleeve of his, Will’s former, blue-green parka, his favorite one. William’s taste in clothes is impeccable—always neat and perfect. The boy is happy that most of the time, everything from Will goes to him. The twins aren't as fortunate, receiving clothes from Charles, who adores dangerous magical beasts. However, George and Fred prefer Charles’s style over Will’s, and their mother isn't as angry with them for using his clothes to craft completely different outfits because of their sad-looking marks from the beasts. “Look! There’s new brooms! Cleansweep Seven! Turbo XXX! Twigger 90! Nimbus 1900! They even have limited quantity of Siberian Arrows! Siberian, Ron!!”
“Calm down, Gin. The staff inside look at you worriedly.” Percival said coming to them and placing the hand over Ginevra’s shoulder to stop her from shaking him back and forth excitedly. She smiled at him innocently and awkwardly removed her hands from his shoulders. Percival pushed them towards book shop where others are staying near to the entrance and smiling at her enthusiasm.
Charles approached them with a gentle laugh, playfully ruffling her hair. "Nothing has changed, I see, Gi-gi! Still excited about quidditch?"
"She ran to the fire for her broom, did you forget?" Percy mumbled, but both of them ignored him. He rolled his eyes and walked away. "And to whom do I say this?”
“Ye-e-es!!!”She practically jumped, vibrating with happiness. “I am going to join the Quidditch team and be the best Gryffindor captain ever!
“Better than me?”
“Yeah, better than you!”
“I am sorry to tell…”
“Charles, stop!” Ron interrupted, sensing the brewing argument and already feeling the change in the air near their younger sibling. The older boy smiled mischievously at him and raised his hands in surrender. Ron gently slipped his hand under his sister’s elbow, leading her away from the windows. He could feel the tiny waves of her magic. “Ginevra, please, calm down. We can't afford another exploding window. Not again. Don't you remember?" He almost whispered to her, nodding towards the window she had previously exploded. Despite the shops being accustomed to such spontaneous outbursts of magic, it didn't alleviate the inconvenience. They didn’t want to anger their mother more, he thought, looking at their parents moving towards Gringotts. Though there was another entirely different reason behind his actions.
"Do not call me Ginevra!" She shot him an annoyed look, more distracted than furious. Her magic, overexcited moments before, finally began to calm.
"My apologies, Queen Guinevere," he said with a bow, opening the door of Flourish and Blotts for her and ignoring her protest. Ron had taken to calling them all by their full names or inventing new ones like "Geevarghese" for George, just to tease them. It had gone so far that sometimes it felt odd to use their short names.
The parents left, leaving them with William and Charles. Percival became engrossed in his books, while the twins delved deeper, searching for information and inspiration for their next mischief. Despite their older brothers closely watching them, the twins had no intention of running away this time he could tell it for sure. It would be the perfect opportunity for him to sneak out. Will and Charles surely anticipated such antics from the twins and kept a close eye on them, while his recent outburst with Will would keep him at a distance for the whole day, providing him with the "space to calm down" that Will intended, which would ultimately work to his benefit.
Ollivanders stands out effortlessly amidst its surroundings, radiating an unmistakable aura of uniqueness. The structure boasts Jacobean architecture. Ron can count five floors, perhaps there is even more. In comparison to neighboring buildings, Ollivanders exudes a sense of harmony in its design, characterized by symmetrical proportions and meticulously spaced elements. The expansive windows, adorned with intricately arranged panes of glass forming mesmerizing geometric patterns, immediately capture one's gaze. As Ron approaches the entrance, he could see the glimpses of magical incantation on windows, perhaps from breaking. As Ron draws nearer to the entrance, he catches glimpses of magical incantations etched onto the large window, perhaps from breaking. Elaborate carvings embellish the door, depicting flowers, trees, and wizardly figures wielding wands, some of which he swears move as if alive. Above the threshold, gleaming in gold letters, the inscription reads: "OLLIVANDERS: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.”
The distant chime of a bell resonated from somewhere above as Ron stepped inside. Welcomed by a colorful array of infinity boxes stretching toward the ceiling, he marveled at how much taller the first floor appeared compared to its exterior.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Weasley!” a soft voice greeted him from the staircase, its warmth reflected in the silvery gleam of smiling eyes akin to the moon. Ron returned the smile, meeting the gaze of the elderly man.
“Afternoon. How did you know...um,” Ron hesitated, uncertain whether to voice his question. Was it some form of magic? Could the man sense people's magical signatures or their connections to others? "How did you know that I'm a Weasley?”
“Well, your family’s hair color is quite distinctive among wizards, young man,” Mr. Ollivander chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Ron suspected he understood the implication.
“Ah, yes,” Ron awkwardly chuckled in response. “I suppose that's rather obvious. Well... Ha. I'd like to purchase a wand, sir.”
“That's precisely what everyone else who walks through that door is after, Mr. Weasley,” the old man remarked, his gaze piercing and unblinking as if analyzing Ron thoroughly. “I've been expecting you. Your mother...”
“...has a wand with a core of dragon heartstring and a wood of ash. Loyal, stubborn, strong, and flamboyant,” Ron finished, his tone carrying a hint of resignation. “I've heard it recited countless times alongside George, Fred, Percy, and Charlie... And I apologize for the interruption, sir. I'm just in a bit of a hurry.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Weasley. I completely understand,” Mr. Ollivander replied, his expression knowing and playful as he winked at Ron, who couldn't help but laugh lightly. “Now then, which is your wand arm?”
“Right hand, sir. I find it more comfortable, though I've tried to train both,” Ron answered, extending his arm as he watched Ollivander take measurements. "How does the hand you prefer to wield matter?”
“It’s related to comfortability aspect.” Ollivander replied, his curiosity piqued as he flitted around the shelves, selecting boxes with a practiced hand. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Weasley, have you chosen a house yet?”
"I haven't decided. What house were you in?" Ron inquired, adding a respectful "sir" after a brief pause.
“Ravenclaw.” Ollivander responded.
"What sets Ravenclaw apart and makes it superior to the others, sir? I've heard rumors about a library in the dormitory. Is it true?”
"Yes, indeed. Ravenclaws are even permitted to borrow a certain number of books to keep in their dormitories, if that interests you," the old man replied with a smile, carefully placing the selected boxes before Ron.
"Let's see," Ollivander murmured, his fingers expertly sifting through the contents of the first box. “Oak and dragon heartstring.” He withdrew a slender wand, its surface gleaming softly in the dim light of the shop. Passing it to Ron, he watched intently as the young wizard grasped the wand, a faint shimmer dancing in the air.
However, the wand seemed to resist Ron's touch, emitting a series of sparks before settling back into silence. Ollivander nodded knowingly, taking back the wand and returning it to its box with a sigh.
"Not quite the right fit, I'm afraid," he remarked, his gaze thoughtful as he moved on to the next selection.
The process continued, with Ollivander presenting wand after wand for Ron to test. Some sparked and the next second set on fire the boxes behind, while others caused damage to the surroundings. One of them even fleet from his hand. Each time, Ollivander observed Ron's reactions closely, his eyes scanning for the subtle signs of compatibility.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of searching, Ollivander withdrew a wand from a particularly dust covered box. Handing it to Ron, he watched with bated breath as the young wizard gave it a tentative wave.
To their mutual relief, the wand responded with a burst of golden light, swirling around Ron in a dazzling display of magic. A sense of warmth and belonging washed over him as he felt the wand's power resonate with his own.
"Ah, I believe we've found it," Ollivander said with a smile, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "Eleven inches, aspen and curupira hair. A fine choice, Mr. Weasley. 9 galleons."
With a wide grin spreading across his face, Ron's heart swelled with excitement as he accepted his new wand. Opening the suitcase, he gently placed it atop a notebook containing a guide detailing various woods and cores of wands, he couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Now he has just 2 galleons from savings. Merlin, that amount was enough.
Leaving the Ollivanders behind, Ron hurried towards the bookshop, ducking behind a tall man entering the establishment to shield himself from view. Making his way to a secluded corner, he plucked a random book from the shelf and settled onto a plush sofa. Withdrawing the guide from the suitcase, he flipped through its pages, eager to learn more about his wand.
Wand-quality aspen wood was white and fine-grained, and highly prized by all wand-makers for its stylish resemblance to ivory and its usually outstanding charm work. The proper owner of the aspen wand was often an accomplished duellist, or destined to be so, for the aspen wand was one of those particularly suited to martial magic. The aspen wand owners were generally strong-minded and determined, more likely than most to be attracted by quests and new orders; this was a wand for revolutionaries.
…
Curupira hair wands were unstable. They were known to choose as their owners individuals who were talented, but also unpredictable.
