Chapter 11 – Threads of Transformation
Minerva McGonagall sat in her office, her thin spectacles perched carefully at the end of her nose, the morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows of Hogwarts. A small package lay on her desk, owl-delivered with Ron Weasley's neat yet slightly uneven handwriting. The boy was still two years away from setting foot in Hogwarts, and yet here was his "proposal" — a thick parchment packet bound with a red wax seal, accompanied by a box that carried surprising weight.
She let her lips twitch in the barest suggestion of a smile. "Ronald Bilius Weasley… already meddling with school matters before he's even sorted," she murmured, amused despite herself.
McGonagall had taught every Weasley child who had passed through these doors. William (Bill) — steady, clever, reliable; now working at Gringotts. Charlie — rambunctious, adventurous, currently in his fifth year, a fine flyer and already thinking too much about dragons. Percy — strict, overly ambitious for his third year, his nose buried perpetually in a rulebook. And this year, the twins… ah yes, Fred and George. They would be stepping through the doors of the Great Hall in only a few weeks. She didn't know their natures yet, though she suspected mischief in their eyes from what Molly had written in letters. The Weasleys, after all, were nearly synonymous with Gryffindor House.
And then there was Ronald, the youngest son but not the youngest child. Nine years old now, with a sharpness that didn't quite fit with his age. "Molly has her hands full," she thought, carefully unsealing the letter.
The parchment unfolded neatly, revealing Ron's carefully phrased arguments. Hogwarts' uniforms were outdated, primitive even, compared to the more structured and modern designs of other wizarding schools. He had written with the seriousness of a Ministry clerk, citing both wizarding and Muggle fashion influences, and the implications of image when Hogwarts students met those from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang.
McGonagall raised a brow. "Ambitious for a child… and oddly persuasive."
Her eyes moved to the box. With a flick of her wand, the lid lifted, revealing folded fabric samples inside. She leaned forward, pulling one out. The cloth shimmered faintly under the light — enchanted weave, supple yet durable, clearly tailored by Madame Malkin herself.
The first set was a base uniform, plain and black, but charmed to be mutable. It was clever — the fabric was designed to remain blank until the Sorting Hat chose a house. Then, in an instant, the cloth would seep with the house colors, crest, and finishing trims appropriate for Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin. She stroked the fabric between her fingers; it was smooth, yet firm enough to withstand years of use. Practical, forward-thinking… and subtle enough to impress the Board.
"Adaptive uniforms," she thought. "That boy might have struck at the heart of an old problem." The Weasley family was not wealthy. She knew well how often Molly patched robes, how hand-me-downs passed from Bill to Charlie to Percy, soon to the twins, then Ron and Ginny. This adaptive robe could serve for years, shifting as necessary. Economical, magical, and modern.
Her eyes moved to the separate house-specific uniforms Ron had outlined.
For Gryffindor, the design carried clean scarlet accents, bold yet dignified, with deep gold threading at the edges of cloaks and the line of collars. Courage, bravery — but presented in style, not in gaudiness. "He's tempered his enthusiasm," she noted, "not an easy task for a Gryffindor at heart."
Ravenclaw's robes were tailored sharp and elegant, navy with bronze filigree that shimmered like ink across parchment when the light caught it. "Practical, but intelligent in design," McGonagall mused, running a hand over the trim.
Slytherin's set was cunningly cut, emerald green with black undertones, subtle snakeskin patterns embedded in the weave if one looked closely. "I wonder what Severus will think of this," she muttered dryly.
And then, Hufflepuff's — warm amber with earthy black trim, soft but durable fabrics, robes that looked made for grounding, hard work, and comfort. "Sturdy, dependable. Fitting."
But what struck her most was the level of detail. Buttons, cufflinks, even seasonal variants Ron had sketched on parchment tucked into the package. She caught herself sighing. "This is not a child's idle scribbling. This is work born of obsession."
Her lips thinned. She had her suspicions about Ron. His mind seemed… accelerated, more mature than it should be. She remembered Molly's urgent owl only weeks ago, about Ron collapsing in the Burrow and being taken to St. Mungo's. Dumbledore had brushed it off when she asked, but McGonagall had taught long enough to know when something was amiss.
"Legilimency, no doubt," she thought grimly, "Albus couldn't resist peering." She pursed her lips, setting the thought aside. For now, it was her duty to weigh this proposal.
She folded the parchments neatly again and placed the samples back into the box, tapping her quill against her chin.
"The Board will need to see this. Albus will frown, of course, but…" She allowed herself a small smirk. "Perhaps a touch of Muggle practicality would do Hogwarts good."
Her eyes flicked to the Sorting Hat, resting on the shelf nearby, silent and still. "Well," she said softly, almost to herself, "let us see what the Hat thinks when the time comes. Fred and George will be joining us this year… and soon enough, Ronald. Another generation of Weasleys to keep us on our toes."
McGonagall allowed herself a quiet chuckle as she sealed Ron's proposal again. "That boy may very well turn Hogwarts upside down before he even arrives."
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Come in," she called.
Albus Dumbledore entered, twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. "Ah, Minerva," he said lightly, eyes drifting to the fabrics. "Inspecting the handiwork of our young visionary, I see?"
"Yes," she replied, smoothing a cloak. "Ron Weasley's work. Quite… astonishing. Especially considering he is only two years younger than the twins."
Dumbledore's smile deepened, and he leaned closer, examining the pre-sorting black tunic. "Indeed. Remarkable foresight. The black base design allows the magic to flow, color and identity to emerge only once the Sorting Hat makes its decision. Very clever."
McGonagall nodded. "I cannot recall a first-year ever designing something so comprehensive. I do wonder… the board of directors may find it… unusual."
"Oh, the board," Dumbledore said, voice playful, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Yes, imagine them, all stern faces and polished robes, evaluating the genius of a child. Some may panic at the audacity, others may frown at tradition being questioned. Perhaps they will gasp at the Muggle influence… or marvel at its economy and charm." He twirled his wand absentmindedly. "Only one way to find out, Minerva."
She pursed her lips. "I trust that you have ensured the proper channels were followed. The Ministry was involved, I presume?"
"Naturally," Dumbledore replied smoothly. "Ron and Mr. Lovegood have registered the designs properly, samples in production with Madame Malkin. Within the bounds of reason, and the purse strings not entirely mine to hold. Two gold galleons, spent without protest. For a young Weasley, a trivial sum."
McGonagall allowed herself a small laugh. "I hope the twins appreciate that their younger brother may yet overshadow them in both planning and precision."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Ah, Minerva, genius sometimes emerges in the quietest of corners… or the humblest of bedrooms. The boy is clever, yes, and resourceful. But, as always, we shall see how the rest of Hogwarts receives it. One does hope this will inspire rather than incite mischief."
McGonagall turned her gaze back to the samples. Even without knowing the twins' notorious antics, she could sense the Gryffindor spirit stirring in these fabrics. Courage and pride would shine through crimson and gold. Scholarship and composure in blue and bronze. Ambition and poise in green and silver. Loyalty and serenity in yellow and black. And somewhere, threaded through all of it, was the vision of a boy whose mind had wandered far beyond his years.
For the first time in a long while, Professor McGonagall allowed herself to hope—not just for the school, but for its students. The uniforms would not just clothe them; they would inspire them, carry them through their first days, and whisper of the potential waiting within.
"Let us prepare, then," Dumbledore said softly. "Soon, the Sorting Hat will have its new canvases."
And McGonagall, brushing her hands over the black pre-sorting tunics, thought: May they all wear them with pride. May courage, wit, ambition, and loyalty be reflected in every seam. And may magic find its way into every thread.