Chapter 21 — Words from the Highlands
The Burrow was unusually quiet that morning, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional hum of a broomstick in the corner. Ron hunched over his table, quill in hand, surrounded by a neat pile of notes on potion mishaps, accidents, and classroom safety. Each line of observation, each meticulous record, felt like another brick in the foundation of his plan. He hadn't touched the System in weeks, relying instead on his own memory, reasoning, and careful notes.
A sudden shadow crossed the window. Ron's head snapped up just as a Hogwarts owl swooped in, wings beating in a soft rhythm, talons lightly clasping a letter fastened to its leg. The owl let out a quiet hoot as it perched delicately on the edge of the table, tilting its head with what seemed like polite curiosity. Ginny, peeking from the doorway, squeaked in delight and crept closer, trying not to startle the bird.
"Careful, Ginny," Ron warned, holding out a hand to steady the letter. The owl blinked at him, unperturbed, and shifted slightly, as though acknowledging Ron's presence. Ginny crouched low beside the table, eyes wide. "It's… it's so… real," she whispered, pointing to the eagle owl's golden eyes.
Ron carefully untied the letter. The handwriting was unmistakably Charlie's: firm, precise, and deliberate, with small flourishes betraying excitement.
"Dear Ron," the letter began, "I hope this finds you well. Hogwarts has changed more than you might imagine since your last visit."
Ron leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning eagerly. Charlie described life in sixth year—the lessons with Professor Kettleburn, early preparations for dragon work, and the responsibilities he had been entrusted with as a second-year prefect. Though not yet in his final year, he carried a mantle of leadership as a class representative and Kettleburn's assistant. Charlie also detailed Percy in his third year and the twins in their first, noting how professors had begun evaluating their aptitude, discipline, creativity, and courage.
Ron's eyes widened at the teacher commentary. "Professor Sprout is impressed with Percy's precision in herbology, though she suspects his ambition may sometimes outpace his patience… Kettleburn has noticed my dexterity with dragons, and the twins—Fred and George—are being watched carefully for… certain tendencies," Charlie wrote, a thinly veiled warning echoing between the lines.
Ginny leaned forward, peeking over Ron's shoulder. "Wait… so you're going to Hogwarts soon? And they're already talking about you?" She whispered, excitement and worry mingling in her tone.
"Yeah, and it's… a lot," Ron admitted, smiling faintly. He ruffled her hair gently. "But it's manageable. Just need to stay on top of it."
Then the letter shifted to Hogwarts uniforms. Charlie described in enthusiastic detail how word of Ron's designs had reached the castle. Fabric samples had circulated among the staff. The enchanted black base robes adapted to each student's house colors as soon as the Sorting Hat made its decision: Gryffindor crimson and gold gleamed with courage, Ravenclaw navy and bronze shimmered with intellect, Slytherin green and silver reflected cunning, and Hufflepuff amber and black exuded warmth and loyalty.
"The new uniforms are unlike anything we've seen before," Charlie wrote. "Not just in color, but in material, stitching, and enchantment. They're practical, durable, and subtly protected by magic. Students can finally move freely without worrying about wear, tears, or potion stains. Seasonal variations are well thought out—summer cloaks lighter, winter cloaks warmer, yet all adaptable. Impressive… who would have thought you'd influence Hogwarts before even starting your first year?"
Ron felt a swell of pride. Charlie noted that professors were already adjusting lesson expectations, observing students moving more confidently and performing better in practical classes. Even the Hogwarts board had expressed cautious curiosity about the designs.
Ginny bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. "So… everyone's watching, huh? Even the teachers? That's… kinda cool, I guess." She paused, then frowned. "But… scary too."
Ron chuckled softly. "A little bit of both. You just have to focus on what matters." He reached over and stroked the owl's soft feathers. The bird gave a low hum, almost approvingly.
The letter closed on a personal note. Despite the attention and expectations, Charlie reminded Ron that the real work had only just begun, and his careful preparations in herbology, potions, and magical design would ensure he made a mark from the very start.
Ron leaned back, letter in hand, letting the words settle. The Hogwarts staff knew of his designs. His siblings were under closer scrutiny because of his influence. And the uniforms—already admired and evaluated—were becoming a subtle force shaping the students' experience.
He could hear Ginny quietly humming as she attempted to mimic a spell she'd overheard him practicing. Ron smiled. Responsibility was growing on his young shoulders, even at nine. Excitement, pride, and a hint of apprehension mingled in his chest. The Burrow had transformed into a nexus of Hogwarts news, magical planning, and family anticipation.
"Seems like they're all keeping an eye on us," Ron murmured. "Better make sure I don't mess this up."
Carefully tucking Charlie's letter into his notebook, Ron began cross-referencing it with his own observations. Notes on potions, insights on magical design, early feedback from Hogwarts staff—all pointed to one clear path: preparation, learning, and careful planning.
Ginny tiptoed to the window sill, peeking outside at the garden, and whispered, "Do you think Mr. Stark knows what you're planning?"
Ron glanced at the owl, perched regally, feathers fluffed. "Maybe. Maybe not. But either way… we're ready."
He gazed out the window at the late morning sun glinting over the garden. A sense of determination settled over him. Hogwarts was waiting, and his work was just beginning.