Chapter 28 — The Contract at the Burrow
The Burrow never looked so small. The crooked kitchen, with its patched-together table and mismatched chairs, had weathered many visitors, but none so imposing as Albus Dumbledore. His tall frame seemed to bend the ceiling beams closer, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the afternoon light as he set a neat roll of parchment upon the table.
Molly Weasley fussed with her apron, eyes wide. Arthur wiped his hands on a rag, his normally mild expression drawn taut with nerves. Ginny peeked from behind the doorframe, unable to resist the sense that something extraordinary was about to happen.
"Professor Dumbledore," Molly began, her voice caught between awe and alarm, "what brings you to—our little kitchen?"
Dumbledore smiled gently, eyes twinkling as though the answer amused him already. "Why, to discuss a matter most unusual, Molly. Your son, Ronald, has given Hogwarts a book. Not merely a book — but one we intend to place in the hands of every first, second, and third-year student."
The words seemed to hang in the air like a spell. Molly gasped, Arthur froze, and Ginny squeaked aloud. Ron, seated at the far end of the table with his owl perched near him, only folded his arms and regarded Dumbledore with a quiet steadiness.
"A textbook?" Arthur echoed at last, disbelief colouring his voice. "Ron—our Ron?"
Ginny darted into the room, plopping beside Ron with a mischievous grin. "I knew Stark wasn't flying around for nothing," she whispered, though not quietly enough to escape Molly's ears.
Molly's mouth worked soundlessly, her gaze fixed on the parchment as though it were a Portkey to some unfathomable destiny. "A textbook…" she repeated, softer now, equal parts pride and bewilderment.
Dumbledore unrolled the parchment, revealing an official Hogwarts contract, its seal glimmering faintly in red wax. "With your permission, and Ronald's consent, this manuscript will be added to our academic syllabus. It shall become standard reading material for young potion-makers."
Ron's expression barely shifted. He leaned forward, voice calm but firm. "Knowledge should be accessible. If students keep blowing up cauldrons just because no one explains it clearly, then that's wrong. If my words can stop that, then yes — I'd like it published. And not just this one. Others too."
Arthur blinked at his son as though seeing him in a new light. "Ron… publish?" His tone was a mixture of wonder and fatherly caution.
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, the twinkle replaced with the glint of something deeper. "And would you publish more, Ronald?"
"Yes." Ron's reply was blunt, without hesitation.
The Headmaster's eyes lingered on him for a long moment, the silence stretching until even Ginny grew still. Then, with the barest flicker of movement, Dumbledore's gaze pressed deeper — Legilimency.
Ron felt it like the edge of a knife against glass. But what Dumbledore found was not the hidden chambers of rebellion or dangerous secrets. It was fabrics, carefully woven patterns of robes; it was potion ingredients laid out with obsessive precision; it was rows of herbal plants, sketched in neat diagrams. A boy's mind, ordered strangely for his age, but practical, almost stubbornly so.
Dumbledore pulled back, eyes glimmering with thought. "Fabrics… plants… potions. A curious mind, but not a reckless one."
Ron met his gaze without flinching. "I'll write books on subjects that don't demand wands. I know where I stand. Let others duel and hex. I'll study what builds, not what destroys."
Dumbledore stroked his beard, the weight of those words pressing on the room. "Pragmatic. Almost ruthlessly so."
"Practical," Ron corrected. "If you want students to learn, you give them tools that work. Not half-truths wrapped in tradition."
Arthur coughed, nervous at his son's boldness, but Dumbledore's eyes twinkled once more, though faintly. "And yet, tradition has its uses. Without it, knowledge may be forgotten."
"Then write it down," Ron said flatly. "Books don't forget."
The silence was sharp, then broken by Ginny's giggle. "Ron's winning," she whispered to Stark, who clicked his beak in agreement.
Dumbledore leaned back, conceding the smallest of smiles. "You play a brisk game of chess, Ronald. Not unlike your brother Percy — but with fewer words and sharper moves."
At that, Molly finally found her voice. "If this book is to be published," she blurted, "then where? Surely a reputable house—"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said smoothly. "Two options lie before us. Obscurus Books, known for their rigorous academic volumes, or Whizzhard Books, whose reach is broader, though… their standards more flamboyant."
"Whizzhard?" Molly's face lit up, her voice carrying a sudden girlish enthusiasm. "Why, they publish all of Gilderoy Lockhart's marvelous works! Imagine, Ronald, your book on the very same shelves as Magical Me! Such prestige—"
Arthur coughed again, faint amusement in his eyes.
Ron's gaze sharpened. "If it's about reach, Whizzhard may sell more copies. But students need trust. If I wanted my words twisted into a flashy cover with fake praise lines, I'd write adventure tales. Not instructions for potions. Obscurus stands for credibility. That's where this belongs."
Molly's lips parted, caught between pride and mild disappointment, though Dumbledore's eyes seemed almost relieved.
"Obscurus, then," the Headmaster said with a nod. "A wise choice. Credibility before vanity. An unusual sentiment for one so young."
Ron shrugged. "If it saves one student from a blown cauldron, then it's worth more than Lockhart's entire library."
Ginny snorted, unable to contain herself, while Arthur's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Even Molly, torn between her Lockhart admiration and maternal pride, could not hide the tiny smile tugging at her lips.
Dumbledore, watching the family's reactions, seemed quietly satisfied. He rolled the contract forward, his long fingers tapping the line where Ron's name would go. "Then, let us sign, and Hogwarts shall begin a new chapter."
The candlelight flickered across the parchment as Ron bent his head, quill in hand, and for a brief moment the kitchen of the Burrow felt less like a crooked home and more like the beating heart of something vast, a shift in the currents of the wizarding world.