Chapter 37 — The Swords in the Box
Ron read Professor Sprout's letter slowly, letting the neat handwriting settle in his mind. Her words were polite but firm: the Herbology Society needed two months to test his manuscript. Publication wouldn't happen until at least January. He didn't need to send a reply.
The silence after he folded the letter felt heavier than the parchment itself. For weeks he had lived with constant motion — writing, revising, arguing ideas in his head, sending owls, waiting for replies. Now, suddenly, there was nothing.
Ron sat at his desk, staring out the window. Mr. Stark dozed on the perch, feathers gleaming faintly in the late afternoon light. Ginny's laughter drifted in from the orchard. Normally her voice was background noise. Today it grated, reminding him of everything he didn't want to do.
"Ron!" Ginny's shout carried up the stairs. "Come play outside! I bet you can't catch me!"
"I'm not interested, Ginny!" he called back, tapping his quill against the desk.
Half an hour later she tried again, this time barging into his room. "You're becoming Percy," she said, eyes narrowing with mischief. "Soon you'll have ink stains on your nose."
Ron frowned. "Better that than wasting time running around."
Ginny stuck her tongue out and fled, leaving the door banging in her wake.
The day crawled by until Molly finally had enough. She stormed up the stairs and entered his room without ceremony, hands on hips.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley, I've let you sit and sulk long enough. Out you go. The sunshine won't wait forever."
Ron didn't look up right away. When he did, his expression was thoughtful, not sulky. "Mum, I'm not sulking. I've just… finished everything. Sprout won't need me for months. The contracts are done. I don't feel like chasing Ginny about."
Molly's sternness faltered. She sat on the edge of his bed, smoothing the blanket. "I know you've been busy. More than a boy your age should be. But you can't spend every day buried away in this little room. Ginny misses you. And truth be told, I do too."
Ron sighed. "It's not that I don't care. I just… I don't see the point in playing tag when I could be planning something useful."
Molly brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. Her eyes softened, pride and worry mingling. "You're growing faster than I can keep up with. But promise me this — don't shut yourself away. Even geniuses need air."
He didn't promise, but he didn't argue either. That was enough for Molly. She kissed his temple, stood, and left muttering about supper.
Evening brought the familiar slam of the back door. Arthur Weasley stumbled in, cheeks flushed with excitement, carrying a large wooden box that clattered with odds and ends.
"Look what I've found!" he said, beaming. "Brilliant haul from a Muggle clearing house. They were simply throwing it away!"
Molly groaned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Arthur, we don't need more clutter—"
But Ginny was already at the table, tugging at the box. "What is it, Dad? Show us!"
Arthur opened the lid with exaggerated care, like it contained treasure. Inside lay a jumble of metal trinkets, cracked dials, and odd lengths of wood. Ginny reached in first, pulling free a long, smooth stick with a rounded guard.
"Look at this!" she said, swinging it wildly.
Arthur's eyes lit up. "Ah! A Muggle… er… children's cane! Or maybe a training stick for walking practice." He nodded proudly at his guess, though the object clearly wasn't any kind of cane. "Marvelous craftsmanship though, isn't it?"
Ginny laughed, slashing at the air. "It feels like a sword! Ha! Take that, you nasty goblin!"
Molly yelped as Ginny nearly hit a chair. "Ginevra! Put that down before you break something!"
But Ginny wasn't done. She leaned back into the box and pulled out another object — this one heavier, wrapped in an old leather sheath. Her eyes went wide. "Dad! This one's real!"
Arthur took it quickly from her hands, nearly dropping it in surprise at the weight. "Oh! Now this is… goodness. A shiny… long knife! Look, Molly, see the handle? Must've been for hanging on a wall. Decorative, that's what it is. Just a fancy decoration."
Molly narrowed her eyes. "A decoration with a blade?"
Arthur wobbled the sheathed sword uncertainly. "Well, perhaps. But the Muggles love this sort of thing, don't they? Hang them up, polish them, never use them. Purely ornamental!"
Ginny leaned forward, excitement dancing in her eyes. "So it is a sword?"
Arthur hesitated, then coughed. "Ah, well… technically. But far too dangerous for play. It belongs on a wall, not in little hands."
Ginny's shoulders slumped. "So it's just boring?"
Arthur, eager to soften her disappointment, patted her head. "Not boring! A wonderful… conversation piece."
But Ginny wrinkled her nose. "That means boring." She dropped the wooden stick onto the chair with a clatter and stomped toward the stairs.
Ron, who had come down drawn by the noise, stayed behind. He'd watched in silence, eyes flicking between the wooden practice stick and the sheathed sword. Something about their weight, their shape, stirred him in a way the board games and childish play didn't. Not toys, not clutter. Tools. Symbols.
Arthur caught his glance and grinned. "Fascinating, aren't they? Imagine the stories they've seen! Though… I can't for the life of me figure why the Muggles made them. Not wands, not tools. Just odd things."
Ron nodded faintly, though his mind was elsewhere.
The kitchen filled again with the smell of stew and Molly's clatter of dishes, Arthur prattling on about dials and plugs he'd found in the box. Yet beneath the homely noise, Ron's thoughts clung to the smooth wood of the stick and the leather-wrapped sword. Not as wall-hangers. Not as toys. But as something else, waiting.