Chapter 22 — Threads of Brewing Knowledge
The days at the Burrow fell into a steady rhythm, one that suited Ron more more than he had expected. His mornings were spent buried in parchment, quills scratching as he cross-referenced ingredient lists and the accident records Snape had grudgingly provided. The afternoons often saw him dragged outside by Ginny, who insisted the garden needed "just one more touch" to make it look magical.
Ron didn't protest much. The Burrow's garden had always been wild, a riot of shrubs and mismatched blooms, but lately, under Ginny's enthusiasm and Ron's new eye for detail, it was taking on a deliberate character. He marked rows, adjusted soil charms, and tested combinations of mundane fertilizer and simple spellwork. Ginny followed behind, humming, sometimes balancing on tiptoe to sprinkle fairy-light charms along the trellises. It wasn't much, but to anyone looking from the window, it hinted at something unusual—like the Burrow itself was quietly preparing to sprout wings.
In between tending to herbs and jotting notes, Ron felt the tug of a familiar frustration. His carefully written research filled stacks of parchment, but the more he worked, the more he realized how thin his understanding was. He recognized patterns—this root softened under heat, that flower became volatile with metal—but there were gaps, vast empty spaces his beginner's grasp couldn't fill. Even the garden sometimes reminded him of it. He'd point out a plant to Ginny, only to stumble when she asked, "But what happens if you mix it with something else?"
That evening, when the house had quieted after dinner, Ron sat at his desk and reluctantly summoned the System screen. Its letters glowed faintly in the candlelight:
[ System Status ]
Potions: Beginner
Herbology: Beginner
The words mocked him. He could spend months with quills and parchment, but without deeper grounding, he would keep running into walls. He tapped the desk with his quill, thinking. "I've done the work. I've earned a boost. Just a little."
Later, lying on his bed, the moonlight spilling across his floor, he gave in.
"System… advance Potions knowledge. One hundred years."
The effect was immediate. His head felt like it was being pulled apart and rebuilt in layers. A hot, piercing headache struck, not with blood or screaming pain, but with sheer relentless pressure. Ron clenched his teeth, gripping the blanket, counting breaths. One… two… endure… three minutes… And then, as suddenly as it came, it ebbed. He fell asleep without realizing it.
When morning came, he woke groggy but curious. His hands trembled as he summoned the panel again:
[ System Status ]
Potions: Beginner (Intermediate)
Herbology: Beginner
His chest filled with relief. Yet, as he compared his old notes with the knowledge now threading through his thoughts, he saw the truth. He spotted small errors in his guesses, neat corrections to patterns he had only half understood. The system's gift had given him clarity—but clarity only went so far. For rarer phenomena, edge cases, or subtle magical anomalies, his new knowledge still fell short.
"Like knowing the words," he muttered, "but not yet the poetry."
For two days he worked tirelessly, cross-checking every scribble with his reinforced knowledge. Ginny hovered around him, sometimes poking her head in.
"Still scribbling, Ron? You look like Percy when he's trying to out-lecture Mum."
Ron smirked, not looking up. "At least my scribbles might actually be useful."
On the second night, after Ginny had long gone to bed and the house was cloaked in silence, Ron stared again at the panel. The thought gnawed at him. If one hundred years could bring him this far… what about more?
His pulse quickened. "System… five hundred years."
The rush was nothing like before. There was no warning headache, no moment to prepare. Darkness swallowed him whole, his body collapsing onto the bed before he even registered pain.
He didn't stir until the next afternoon.
When he finally woke, hunger gnawed at him with almost animal intensity. He stumbled down to the kitchen, where Molly looked both startled and annoyed.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley! Sleeping till mid-day? And you eat like you've been starved for a week!"
Ron didn't argue—he shoveled food into his mouth, Ginny staring at him as though he'd grown a second head.
"You're acting like Charlie after one of his late-night dragon books," she muttered.
Ron only half-heard. His mind was already sorting, filtering, arranging knowledge. It wasn't just memory—it was like a tidal wave of theories, recipes, dangers, and possibilities etched into his thoughts. He spent the next week processing it, sleeping less, his quill racing across parchment.
When the System finally stabilized, the panel told him what he both expected and feared:
[ System Status ]
Potions: Intermediate (Advanced)
Herbology: Beginner
Not mastery. Not yet. His practical hand was still untested.
But his mind was full. Brimming.
The decision came to him naturally after that. If knowledge was this dense, it couldn't remain just in his head. It needed form, structure, a path others could walk.
Thus began his compilation.
Ron's desk became a battlefield of parchment. He reorganized every corrected observation into chapters, simplified where he could, explained dangers in the plainest terms. Diagrams filled the margins, each one meant to spare another young wizard from careless mistakes. He wrote with the focus of someone twice his age, yet with the stubborn earnestness of a boy determined not to waste what he had gained.
After a week, the cover page bore its title in firm strokes:
Principles of Potion-Brewing: A Complete Guide for the Apprentice (1989 Edition)
Ron held it up, feeling a swell of pride. It wasn't perfect—it needed testing, revision, critique. And he knew exactly who to send it to.
With careful hands, he packaged a clean copy, tied it neatly, and addressed it:
Professor Severus Snape, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
As he tied the final knot on the twine, Ginny leaned into the room. "Writing to a professor already? You're not even at school yet."
Ron smirked. "Better get used to it. I've got work to do."
He whistled for Mr. Stark, who landed with silent grace, feathers glowing faintly in the lamplight. The eagle owl tilted his head, golden eyes reflecting the weight of Ron's intent.
"Take this to Snape," Ron said quietly.
The owl hooted low, as if acknowledging the importance of the delivery, then launched into the night sky.
Ron leaned back, exhaling. A boy of nine, yet already writing textbooks. It was mad. It was impossible. But it was real.
And somewhere in the distance, Hogwarts awaited.