Chapter 14 — The Loom of Change
The week that followed was unlike anything Hogwarts had seen in years. With the Board's approval secured, the castle seemed to hum with restless energy. Madam Malkin and her seamstresses worked day and night, their enchanted needles flying through fabric faster than the human eye could follow. Bolts of enchanted black cloth were stacked in precarious towers at the edges of her shop, each one destined to transform into house-specific colors the moment a student donned it after Sorting. At the same time, Hogwarts' own staff had been pulled into the effort. Transfiguration classrooms buzzed with charmwork to assist with alterations, while house-elves scurried through corridors ferrying crates of half-finished uniforms.
Professor McGonagall oversaw the process with her usual stern precision, ensuring measurements matched the enchantments. Flitwick offered adjustments to strengthen durability charms, while even Hagrid lent a hand, carting enormous shipments of fabric to and from the carriages. The pace was relentless. Three weeks until term began, and hundreds of uniforms to prepare.
At the Burrow, Ron was taking the matter with surprising seriousness. He sat with his parents at the kitchen table, parchment spread out before him as though he were conducting business at Gringotts. "Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George," he said, ticking names with his quill. "Their uniforms will be deducted from my share. Whatever's left, I want deposited into my vault."
Molly blinked at him in astonishment. "Ron, dear, that's… very responsible of you."
Arthur gave a small smile. "Almost unnervingly so."
But Ron was already scribbling notes, his freckled face tight with concentration. "It makes sense. They'll need the new robes. And if this is my venture, my family should benefit first."
The vault itself had been another shock to the Weasleys. Ron, only nine years old, already had a place of his own in Gringotts. Arthur sometimes found himself staring at his son as though seeing him anew, caught between unease and pride.
One more loose end remained. Ron had borrowed from Mr. Lovegood to get his idea off the ground, and he refused to let the debt linger. He met Xenophilius in the meadow outside the Lovegood home, pressing the gold coins into his eccentric neighbor's hand. "I said I'd return it quickly. Here. Paid in full."
Xenophilius blinked in mild surprise before breaking into a wide smile. "Responsible and inventive. You remind me of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, young Ron—rare and underestimated until one sees its true value."
Ron just rolled his eyes and trudged back home, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Meanwhile, the wizarding world itself was in an uproar. The Daily Prophet ran headline after headline, some praising the bold change, others questioning Dumbledore's judgment in allowing a child's design to reshape Hogwarts' traditions. The Quibbler was gleeful, running wild theories that the fabric itself whispered secret spells to guide students' fates. Owls swooped through wizarding households by the dozens, carrying editorials, rebuttals, even offers from foreign schools eager to study the model. Change had come, and the press was feasting.
But amid the storm, Ron was already thinking ahead. One evening, while Arthur and Molly pored over receipts and Ginny played on the floor, Ron quietly approached Professor Snape in the dungeons of Hogwarts. He had arranged the meeting through a cautious owl, and Snape had agreed—curiosity piqued, suspicion aroused.
The dungeon was dim, the air thick with lingering fumes of recent experiments. Snape stood by his desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as Ron entered.
"Well, well," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "The young entrepreneur. Come to revolutionize potions, have you?"
Ron swallowed but held his ground. "Not yet. But I need to understand what I'd be dealing with. The mistakes. The accidents. The problems that happen in class. I need every detail, every record you're allowed to give me."
Snape's eyes glittered, assessing him as though the boy were a potion ingredient of uncertain quality. "And why, pray tell, should I hand over such information to a Weasley child who has not even set foot in my classroom?"
Ron met his gaze squarely. "Because if I'm to work on something that could change how potions are made, taught, or sold, I need to know the failures first. Otherwise, I'd just be wasting time. And money."
For a long moment, the dungeon was silent save for the faint bubbling of a cauldron in the corner. Then, unexpectedly, Snape's lips curled into the faintest shadow of a smile—not kind, but sharp.
"Practical. I'll give you that," he murmured. With a flick of his wand, a pile of parchment rose from a cabinet and settled heavily onto the desk. Accident reports, classroom logs, disciplinary notes. "Do not expect me to simplify them for you. If you are serious, you will decipher the mess yourself. I have neither the time nor patience to babysit your ambitions."
Ron's eyes lit with a mix of relief and determination. "Thank you, Professor."
Snape's gaze lingered on him as he left, expression unreadable. So, the youngest Weasley seeks more than hand-me-downs. Interesting.
As the boy disappeared into the stairwell, Snape allowed himself a rare thought: perhaps this particular Weasley would not be so easily dismissed.
Back at the Burrow, the noise of the wizarding press and the frenzy of preparations seemed far away. Ron spread Snape's parchments on his desk by candlelight, running his fingers across the ink-stained pages. Each mistake, each accident, each failure was a thread in a much larger fabric he was only beginning to see.
The world was changing around him, faster than anyone had expected. And Ronald Weasley, barely nine years old, was already weaving himself into its tapestry.