Chapter 13 – Foundations in Motion
The Burrow was unusually still that evening, though the scent of Molly's shepherd's pie still lingered faintly in the kitchen. A stack of parchments lay on the scrubbed wooden table, parchment edges marked with Hogwarts' seal and Madame Malkin's crisp lettering. Ink still glistened on the bottom corner of the finalized contracts, and next to them rested a neatly sealed Gringotts slip — proof of a newly opened vault.
Ron sat at the far end of the table, legs dangling off his chair, quill in hand though the work was already done. Dumbledore had left only an hour before, his departure marked by the faint swish of robes and a mischievous twinkle that left everyone else at the table more unsettled than reassured.
Molly had folded her hands together, knuckles tight, watching her youngest son with an expression caught between wonder and unease. "He's only nine," she whispered once Dumbledore had vanished with a crack. "Nine, Arthur. Children don't sign contracts with Hogwarts at nine."
Arthur rubbed at his temples, the weight of the parchment still fresh in his hands. He had checked every line twice, even asked Dumbledore pointed questions about the clauses. The deal was sound — more than sound. Hogwarts was formally recognizing Ronald's design contribution, guaranteeing royalties on every robe purchased under the new uniform scheme. Ron would have his own Gringotts vault, separate from the family one, with full inheritance rights.
"Perhaps they don't usually, Molly," Arthur said softly, "but Ronald is… not usual." His voice held pride, but also a trace of fear. "Albus wouldn't have pushed it forward unless the Ministry itself was satisfied. Even so… I worry what kind of eyes this will turn."
Ron shifted, quill scratching faintly on the scrap parchment where he doodled absentmindedly. He wasn't really listening to their hushed tones — or rather, he was, but he filed it away with the detachment he had begun to cultivate.
Earlier that day, Dumbledore had walked him through the details.
"You will receive two percent of each robe's sale, Ronald," he had said, spectacles slipping low on his nose. "A tidy sum once multiplied across years of Hogwarts enrollment. It will not make you wealthy beyond measure, but it will give you independence — something even the brightest witches and wizards often lack at your age."
Ron had nodded, biting his lip as he signed the bottom line. The thrill was muted by something heavier — the sudden awareness that he was, in some small way, bound to the school's future. Dumbledore had also pointed out the missed procedures, steps they still had to follow: Ministry registry for underage contractual rights, confirmation at Gringotts with a blood-seal, and a meeting with the goblin clerks who had peered at Ron with unnerving sharpness before carving his name into the vault's ledger.
Arthur had accompanied him through all of it, keeping a steady hand on his shoulder. Ron had noticed the faint quaver in his father's usually calm voice when he told the goblins: "A separate vault, yes. For Ronald Bilius Weasley."
Now, as the house dimmed into quiet, Molly and Arthur retreated into their own private worries upstairs. Their voices carried faintly down the creaky staircase.
"He'll be dragged into politics far too early," Molly fretted, wringing her apron. "Children ought to be children."
Arthur sighed, leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom. "I know, love. I fear it too. But look at him. He's… ahead. There's no stopping a tide once it begins to rise."
Molly's voice cracked. "I'm proud of him. So proud. But sometimes I wish he'd just play Quidditch in the orchard and scrape his knees like Fred and George. That would be simpler."
Arthur reached for her hand, squeezing gently. "He's carving his own path. Perhaps that's what makes it frightening… and remarkable."
Downstairs, Ron remained at the table, parchment forgotten, gaze fixed on the dim light of the oil lamp. The day had left him both exhausted and restless. His fingers drummed lightly on the wood, thoughts running faster than his quill.
Money was coming in. A vault in his name. An independence most children couldn't dream of. Yet he knew that it wasn't enough. The robes had been a stroke of inspiration, yes — but the idea belonged to a narrow, fleeting moment. For lasting security, he needed more.
His mind drifted to the shelves at the back of the Burrow, where bottles of potion ingredients sometimes sat dusty and forgotten. Molly brewed on occasion — Pepperup Potion in winter, the odd batch of Sleeping Draught when colds swept the house. Ron remembered the scents: sharp, earthy, pungent, clinging to the air. Potions were… precise. Potions made people reliant, desperate even. A potion in the right hands could heal, harm, or sway. And unlike uniforms, potions were a market with endless demand.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Uniforms sell once, maybe twice, in seven years," he muttered under his breath. "But potions… people need them again and again. Colds don't stop. Accidents happen. Students will always want quick cures. Adults will always pay for convenience. And rare ones — Wolfsbane, Felix Felicis, Amortentia — they're worth vaults of galleons."
The thought pulled him in two directions at once. On one hand, he remembered the Muggle shops he'd glimpsed in Ottery St. Catchpole — orderly shelves, stocked rows, coins clinking across counters. A business that thrived because of repeated need. On the other hand, he realized he didn't yet know how the potions trade worked in the wizarding world. Who brewed the common ones? Who controlled the rarer recipes? Did Hogwarts staff provide most of what students needed, or were private apothecaries the true market leaders?
His quill tapped faster. "I need more information," he whispered. "It's no good dreaming without knowing where the market already is." He chewed his lip, imagining parchment lists, profit margins, ingredient charts. "First learn. Then plan. Then build."
The boy's imagination flickered, but behind it, a calculating glimmer grew sharper. If he could begin with something simple — a Pepperup variant cheaper than St. Mungo's sold — perhaps he could test the waters. Build quietly. Sell quietly. And when he had learned more, expand.
Ron's hands stilled, quill poised above parchment. For the first time since Dumbledore had placed the contract in front of him, he smiled — not wide, but certain.
His next venture would be potions.
And while his parents upstairs wrestled with fear and pride, and while the embers in the hearth turned to ash, Ronald Bilius Weasley — nine years old — was already plotting how to turn fumes, herbs, and vials into the next foundation of his future.