Chapter 29 — The Ripples of Knowledge
The Transfiguration Teacher's quarters still carried the warm scent of hearth smoke, mingled with the faint tang of parchment ink. McGonagall sat in her study later that evening, having returned from the hurried staff meeting at Hogwarts. Her mind, usually disciplined and precise, churned in quiet astonishment. She had always known Dumbledore's methods were unorthodox, but this… a nine-year-old boy's manuscript not only being adopted for Hogwarts' curriculum but printed and distributed within a week? It defied reason and hierarchy alike.
"It is preposterous," she murmured to herself, stroking her chin. "And yet… the logic cannot be denied. The boy has compiled not just instructions, but case studies, tables, maxims. Precision, diligence… even references to past accidents. And Snape… Snape, of all people, endorsed it quietly, begrudgingly." She shook her head, half amused, half exasperated. The thought of first-years poring over Ron Weasley's words, internalizing his exacting methodology, made her lips twitch. It would change their approach to Potions forever.
In the staffroom, reactions were more diverse. Professor Sprout practically hummed with anticipation. "I must get my hands on every Herbology mishap recorded in Hogwarts history," she declared to Professor Flitwick, who adjusted his bow tie nervously. "Ron Weasley will need to see these. He can transform them into proper lessons. Think of the reduction in plant mishandling, the students learning before they err!"
Flitwick peered over his glasses. "Yes… quite remarkable, truly. But… the boy is nine. Nine, and he already wields such meticulous understanding. Surely there are risks in handing this to impressionable children?"
Sprout waved a hand dismissively. "The sooner they learn, the fewer accidents. Besides, he's clever. You'll see."
Professor McGonagall, her mind still returning to the Burrow's calm chaos, considered the ripple effects. She thought of the students at Hogwarts — first-years like Fred and George Weasley, wide-eyed and mischievous, yet soon to hold Ron's knowledge in their hands. Percy, more earnest, already meticulous, would undoubtedly study every table, memorize every warning, and cite the book to his classmates as a paragon of order. Charlie, nearing the end of his sixth year, would look on with a mix of pride and bemusement, marveling at his younger brother's foresight while shaking his head at the audacity of it all.
Back in the staffroom, word of the manuscript had already spread quietly among the professors. Madam Pomfrey whispered to herself, "At last, fewer 'accidental' poisons in the cauldron… though I shall still keep the infirmary ready." Professor Trelawney, peering over her shawl, murmured about omens and precognitive significance, insisting that "great change is afoot, and it flows from the youngest of the Weasleys." Even Snape, as usual, maintained his shadowed composure, though his fingers itched to note every minor flaw he observed in Ron's precision — and to suppress a reluctant, tiny admiration for the boy's thoroughness.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore convened a meeting of the Hogwarts staff to outline Ron's next project. "He will tackle Herbology next," Dumbledore announced, a twinkle in his eye. "The boy has expressed interest in compiling missteps, inefficiencies, and overlooked errors in magical plant studies. I believe he will turn them into lessons that are both practical and enlightening."
Professor Sprout clapped her hands, nearly vibrating with excitement. "I shall send him all our recorded mistakes immediately! Every student mishap, every misapplied spell, every overwatered Mandrake! He must have the full breadth of our historical errors."
Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. "You are… encouraging him to record every failure?"
Sprout shot him a sharp glance. "Yes, Severus. And you should not underestimate him. He does not merely copy; he analyzes, synthesizes, and distills. It is methodical brilliance, and perhaps you should—"
"Save your commendations, Pomona," Snape cut in, though he hid the faintest twitch of interest.
Outside the castle, students buzzed with whispers. The news of the manuscript spread through Hogwarts faster than a Howler in a Gryffindor dormitory. First-years, including Fred and George, were torn between awe and disbelief. "Did you hear? Ron Weasley's book is going to be our textbook!" George exclaimed, eyes wide. Fred shook his head, half-laughing. "No way. Our little brother? He's not even at Hogwarts yet!"
Percy, with his naturally diligent disposition, furrowed his brows. "It makes sense. I mean… the boy demonstrates understanding beyond most first-years. I must study this immediately when it arrives." Charlie, coming back after Quidditch practice, raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that's why he spends more time with parchments than Quidditch. Still… impressive. And typical of Ron, isn't it? Bold and precise, even when the world thinks he's too young."
The Wizarding community beyond Hogwarts stirred in quiet intrigue. Owl posts carried news of the unusual development: a child author, yet serious enough for Hogwarts to adopt his work. Merchants of books murmured about potential demand, quills scribbled letters of inquiry to the Weasleys, and whispers of "Ron Weasley's Principles of Potion-Brewing" began threading through Diagon Alley. Some were skeptical, recalling tales of the Weasley children's misadventures, yet curiosity outweighed doubt.
In the Transfiguration teacher's quarters, McGonagall's private reflections continued. She pictured the students' reactions, the shock, the pride, the caution — the careful balance of inspiration and discipline. "This is not merely a textbook," she mused. "It is a statement: knowledge is to be pursued relentlessly, yet shared thoughtfully. And in its making, young Ronald challenges not just the students but the adults too."
Dumbledore, ever watchful, had noted the same subtleties. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The boy's path was carefully unfolding, and even the most skeptical of professors — Snape, for all his gruff exterior, had acknowledged the merit in silence — could not deny the meticulous brilliance.
As evening settled over the Burrow, the family gathered around the hearth. Molly fussed over dinner preparations, still slightly starstruck by the scope of the development — her Lockhart fandom momentarily replaced by pride in her youngest son's academic rigor. Arthur, usually calm and precise, pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to absorb the consequences of such rapid scholarly recognition. Ginny, though not yet at Hogwarts, peered at the manuscripts on the table, wide-eyed, already dreaming of the day she might study alongside her elder brothers.
And somewhere, in the quiet shadows of her office at Hogwarts, McGonagall smiled faintly to herself, pondering the ripple effect of knowledge: how a single child's diligence could shift the course of curriculum, the attention of professors, and the very habits of students for generations to come.
Within a week, the manuscript would arrive as textbooks, bound and ready for the first-years' desks. And Sprout, eager beyond measure, had already begun collating every Herbology mishap, confident that Ron's next book would carry the same sharpness, precision, and clarity that had shaken Hogwarts' very foundations of teaching.
The ripples of one child's intellect stretched farther than anyone could yet comprehend — across the castle, through the students, among the staff, and into the very heart of the wizarding world itself.