Chapter 12 – The Loom of Consensus
The heavy oak doors of the staff room closed with a resonant thud, muting the faint bustle of summer caretaking work echoing in the corridors of Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall sat in her customary place, quill in hand, though she wasn't taking notes. Her sharp eyes moved from one colleague to another — Pomona Sprout adjusting her wide-brimmed hat, Filius Flitwick barely visible behind a stack of parchment, Hagrid hovering awkwardly at the back though not officially staff, and Severus Snape, arms folded, his black robes billowing even when he was still.
Dumbledore presided at the head of the table, as casually serene as if he were about to suggest lemon drops rather than the adoption of an entirely new uniform system. "My friends," he began, voice soft but carrying across the room, "our topic today concerns something most practical, yet deeply symbolic: the attire our students wear. I have here a proposal — or rather, a set of prototypes — devised by a boy not yet of age, Ronald Weasley."
McGonagall straightened slightly. She had rehearsed in her head how she might frame the matter, but Dumbledore had decided to present it himself. His way, of course, was always less formal, more disarming.
A wave of whispers passed through the table. Pomona was the first to speak aloud. "Ron Weasley? Arthur and Molly's boy? He's what, nine years old?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling. "And yet… the designs speak for themselves."
At a gesture, Minerva opened the sample case. One by one, the enchanted fabrics unfurled — the mutable black base uniform, then the variants for each House. Scarlet and gold gleamed with restrained dignity, bronze filigree shimmered over blue, subtle snakeskin embossed itself against Slytherin green, and warm amber with earthy trim grounded Hufflepuff.
Pomona Sprout gasped quietly, fingers brushing the Hufflepuff fabric. "Oh, this feels… strong, dependable. My students would love this."
Flitwick clapped his tiny hands. "Marvelous! Adaptive charmwork at this scale… why, it borders on brilliance! He must have had guidance."
McGonagall's lips twitched. "Guidance, yes. But much of this bears the boy's hand. His arguments were… thorough."
All eyes turned, inevitably, to Severus Snape. His silence stretched uncomfortably. Finally, he stepped forward, fingertips grazing the Slytherin sample. His expression was unreadable, but when he spoke, his tone was oddly even. "The cut is precise. The weaving subtle. A touch of ambition in the pattern, without vulgar ostentation. I find… no fault."
Even McGonagall blinked at that. Snape, giving praise? And to a Weasley child?
Dumbledore's mouth curled with unmistakable amusement. "High praise, indeed."
Snape's gaze flicked sharply toward him, as if regretting his words, but he did not retract them. Instead, he folded his arms once more. "If the uniforms are to stand as symbols of their Houses, then let them do so properly. This achieves it."
The meeting rippled with quiet approval. McGonagall could see the decision had already been made among the staff — they were charmed by the practicality, the elegance, the foresight. But she also knew this was only the first battle. The real test lay with the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
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The boardroom at the Ministry was starkly different from the warmth of Hogwarts' staff chamber. Twelve governors sat in high-backed chairs, most of them pure-bloods with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Dumbledore stood at the front, calm as a pond, while McGonagall held her seat to his right, parchments neatly stacked before her.
The samples lay displayed again. This time, however, the reaction was not wonder but calculation. Lucius Malfoy's pale fingers tapped thoughtfully against the armrest, eyes narrowing. "Curious. Adaptive robes for every House… a clever innovation." His voice was smooth as silk. "But surely, Headmaster, such designs cannot simply be left in the hands of a child. The rights must rest with the board — with Hogwarts itself. Tradition demands it."
Several others leaned forward, eyes gleaming with opportunity. A gaunt wizard from an old Wiltshire family spoke up next: "The profit margin on new uniforms would be considerable. If passed today, there are only three weeks before term begins. That is barely enough time to ensure all muggle-borns — new and returning — purchase the required attire. This is a logistical nightmare unless the board controls supply and sales."
"Indeed," another chimed in. "Centralized rights will avoid chaos. We cannot gamble the school's reputation on a child's whim."
McGonagall bristled, but Dumbledore lifted a hand, silencing her. His expression remained light, but his words had iron beneath the velvet. "You are correct about time — three weeks is very little. But Madam Malkin has already pledged full cooperation. Production has begun. If we move swiftly, every student will be fitted. Efficiency, not obstruction, is required."
Lucius's voice dripped with insinuation. "Efficiency… or opportunism, Headmaster? It seems a handful of private hands will reap what should rightfully belong to Hogwarts."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, though his tone was cool. "Ah, but you see, the designs are already registered. In Ronald Weasley's name. Hogwarts cannot seize them, nor would it be… honorable. And he is not so alone. Two pure-blood families stand behind him." He let the pause stretch, measured, deliberate. "The Weasleys. And the Lovegoods."
That changed the air instantly. A couple of governors paled. The Weasleys were poor, yes, but fiercely loyal and respected by many. The Lovegoods were eccentric, but their lineage was unbroken, their alliances unpredictable.
Dumbledore's smile softened, but there was unmistakable authority in it. "Hogwarts will contract with Ronald Weasley. The boy will be compensated. The school gains new uniforms. The families — and indeed the wizarding world — will see Hogwarts embracing progress without greed."
Murmurs rippled around the table. The directors saw the trap: to press further risked alienating old houses and drawing public censure. Malfoy's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. "Very well… let us vote."
The decision was passed. The uniforms were approved.
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Later that week, Dumbledore arrived at the Burrow, his tall frame seeming too large for the cozy Weasley kitchen. Molly nearly dropped her wooden spoon when he explained the purpose of his visit. Arthur sat down hard in his chair, spectacles askew.
"You mean to say," Molly stammered, "our Ron has… contracts? With Hogwarts? With Madam Malkin?"
Dumbledore placed the documents neatly on the table, parchment glowing faintly with binding magic. "Indeed. Ronald's designs are now formally recognized. He will, of course, require a vault at Gringotts, in his name alone. It is only fair — he is earning his own gold now."
Silence fell. Then Fred whispered, "Blimey…" while George finished, "…our little brother's a businessman."
Ron, cheeks red as his hair, tried to shrink in his chair. "I… I only thought the uniforms looked… boring."
Arthur cleared his throat, pride and disbelief wrestling in his eyes. "Ron, my boy… this is no small thing. Very well. We'll see to it — your own account at Gringotts. But you'll mind your responsibilities, do you understand?"
Ron nodded, wide-eyed. Molly pressed a hand to her chest, torn between maternal worry and swelling pride. Ginny, peeking from behind her, squealed, "Ron's rich now!"
Ron bit his lip, half-embarrassed, half-thrilled. The truth was, his mind had already begun wandering toward other ideas — small sparks of invention and possibility that might earn him more. But none of them had settled yet. For now, uniforms would do.
Dumbledore chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with the delight of having stirred yet another ripple into the great tapestry of Hogwarts' future.
For now, the boy's future was stitched not just with magic, but with the threads of opportunity.
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As the governors filed out of the boardroom that day, Lucius Malfoy lingered in the corridor, silver-headed cane tapping faintly against the polished stone. Dumbledore approached, expression mild.
"Headmaster," Lucius said smoothly, voice low, "you've set a precedent today. To give such power — and profit — to a child. It will be… remembered."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps, Lucius. Or perhaps it will be remembered that Hogwarts chose honor over avarice."
Their eyes locked, steel against twinkle. For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then Lucius's lips curved into the faintest smile. "We shall see." He turned on his heel, robes whispering as he vanished into the Ministry's bustle.
Dumbledore watched him go, murmuring almost to himself, "Indeed, we shall."