Chapter 08 – Needles and Threads
Ron stirred awake, the faint smell of antiseptic potions lingering in the air. The crisp white of St. Mungo's ceiling met his eyes, and for a moment he didn't know whether he was alive, dead, or somewhere stuck in-between. He blinked hard, groaning softly. The faint rustle of cloth beside him told him his family was nearby. Molly's muffled sobs and Arthur's low murmurs filled the room.
"Ron?" Ginny's small voice broke through, trembling.
His lips curved weakly. "Still here, Gin…" His voice was hoarse, but steady enough. Relief broke across their faces, but almost instantly the heaviness of sleep dragged him back down again. He let it pull him under—because what he had to deal with was not in the room, but inside his own head.
And inside, it was chaos.
He found the flood of knowledge waiting. A thousand years of fashion—wizarding robes, Muggle suits, disasters, revolutions, revivals—all stacked neatly like a sprawling library across his mind. It hadn't vanished. It hadn't dulled. It was all there, like a kaleidoscope waiting to be unraveled. "Merlin's beard," he thought. "I really did it. I didn't just dream it. The whole cursed millennium of frills and lace is here."
Still, it wasn't easy. Each time he probed the memories, a splitting headache followed, but he refused to let it slip. Bit by bit, over days, he unpacked it—like carefully sorting through a tangled ball of yarn. Every time he managed to grasp a pattern, a decade, a cut of cloth, the images grew clearer. By the end of the week, the chaos had turned into order. The knowledge was his, all his.
Yet when he glanced at his system panel, something made him frown.
[Knowledge: Fashion Sense – Master (Tire: 1000 years)]
[Knowledge: Drawing – Beginner (Advanced)]
He muttered under his breath, "What in Merlin's name is that supposed to mean? Beginner and advanced at the same time?"
He tested it. Picking up parchment and quill, he tried to sketch. His hand shook; his lines wobbled. The robe he imagined came out looking like a lopsided pillowcase. And yet, somewhere in the back of his head, precise techniques whispered to him—angles, proportions, shading, styles. He knew them. His brain was full of the skill. But his hand? His body? Utter rubbish.
"So that's it," Ron muttered bitterly. "I've got the mind of an artist, but the body of a toddler with a crayon. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Knowledge doesn't equal practice."
The door creaked open. A familiar figure entered, tall and robed in midnight blue. Half-moon spectacles glinted, and the air seemed to still around him. Albus Dumbledore.
Arthur stood quickly. "Headmaster. You came."
Dumbledore smiled gently. "Arthur, Molly… may I?"
Molly hesitated, eyes full of worry. "Only for a little while. He just woke. He needs rest."
"Of course," Dumbledore said kindly. But as he approached Ron's bedside, his eyes twinkled with a sharpness that belied his kindly exterior.
Ron forced a crooked smile. "Professor Dumbledore. Didn't expect you here."
"Ah, but I go where I am needed," Dumbledore replied softly. His gaze lingered on Ron with quiet intensity. "You have given your family quite a scare, young man."
"Yeah," Ron said dryly. "Guess I overdid it. Nothing new."
Dumbledore chuckled, but as he pulled a chair closer, his thoughts turned inward. Something has shifted. The boy is different. His aura hums strangely, restless. Not the same Ron Weasley I remember glancing past in my designs.
Without a word, he slipped into the subtle flow of Legilimency, brushing gently against Ron's mind. He expected fear, confusion, perhaps flashes of childish pranks. Instead—
—fabrics. Textures. Looms. Silhouettes. Fashion through centuries. Robes stitched with moonlight, Muggle tuxedos, wizard capes with enchanted hems. A whirlwind of style slapped him in the face.
Dumbledore blinked, nearly breaking his composure. Fashion?
Ron smirked faintly. He felt the probe. He wasn't untrained, but his soul—old and weathered—knew when someone was poking about. He pushed back, not harshly, but enough to scatter his surface thoughts. "Careful, Headmaster. You might drown in lace ruffles if you stay too long."
Dumbledore raised a brow, amusement flickering across his features. "Ah. You noticed."
Ron met his gaze evenly. "Hard not to. My head's a loud place these days."
For a long moment, silence stretched, broken only by the soft tick of a clock. Then Dumbledore leaned back, his tone light but probing. "You seem… changed, Ronald. Growth comes in curious ways. Perhaps your near-illness opened doors."
Ron chuckled softly, though his eyes were sharp. "Maybe I just got tired of bad fashion."
The old wizard studied him with those piercing blue eyes. And Ron studied him back. Each knew the other was playing a game, masking truths with humor.
Finally, Dumbledore stood. "Rest, my boy. Hogwarts will wait for you. Do not rush what must come in its own time."
Ron muttered as the door closed behind him, "Hogwarts, eh? Or your grand chessboard?"
The panel in his mind glowed faintly, reminding him of the truth: his knowledge was intact, his fashion sense unrivaled, but his body had catching up to do. And now… Dumbledore was watching.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
System Panel
[User: Ronald Bilius Weasley]
Age: 9 years, 11 months
Condition: Recovering (information overload stabilized)
Innate Magic Potential: Medium-High
Knowledge:
– Wizarding Culture: Intermediate
– Muggle Basics: Intermediate
– Miscellaneous: Beginner
– Fashion Sense: Master (Tire: 1000 years)
– Drawing: Beginner (Advanced)
– Political Sense: Beginner
– Business Sense: Beginner
Inventory:
– Chocolate Frog Card Collection
– Wizard Wear Monthly (restored)
– Muggle Fashion Magazine (restored)
– Daily Prophet (restored, updated daily)
– Quill
– Ink
– Parchment
System Functions:
– Restoration
– Date Manipulation
– Tire Boost