Chapter 39 — The First Strokes of Discipline
The Burrow's back garden looked oddly busy for a late summer evening. Arthur's wand guided planks into place, ropes hung like snakes from the trees, and broom handles—stripped of their bristles—stood upright in neat rows. Ron hovered near the half-built wooden frames with parchment in hand, while Ginny scampered between piles of wood, demanding to help.
Molly Weasley stood at the kitchen door, apron still dusted with flour, hands on her hips. She was watching, not entirely convinced. "Honestly," she muttered, though loud enough for Ginny to hear, "if I didn't know better, I'd think we were building a dueling pit instead of a garden."
Arthur, cheerful as ever, waved his wand to fix another joint. "Not a dueling pit, Mollywobbles—constructs! Targets! Look how clever he's drawn them."
Ron crouched, running his fingers over one of the frames. "They're practice dummies. They don't move, but they'll hold their shape when struck. I'll be able to measure my accuracy on them."
Arthur beamed. "See? Accuracy. Very educational."
Molly's eyes narrowed. "Educational? Ronald Bilius Weasley, you've already written books thicker than your own arm on Potions and Herbology. And now you want to write one on how to hit things with sticks?"
Ron stood, clutching the wooden bokken. "It's not about hitting, Mum. It's about control. This—" he held up the bokken—"is for training. It's called a bokken, used before real blades so you don't cut yourself. It's heavy enough to build strength and balance."
Arthur bent low, fascinated. "Marvelous. Like a wand, but longer and without a core."
Ron shook his head. "Not a wand. It's a sword. Well, a practice one. The real blade—the katana—it's curved, sharper than almost anything else. Warriors carried them for centuries. To them, it wasn't just a weapon—it was part of who they were."
Ginny's eyes lit up. "Like a wand's part of a witch or wizard!"
Ron nodded. "Exactly."
But Molly's face flushed crimson. "Part of who they were? Ronald, this is barbaric! Wizards use their wands, not knives and sticks. We are not raising you to be some Muggle soldier boy!"
Ron inhaled sharply, forcing himself not to shout back. He had prepared for this, too. "Mum, listen. I'm not trying to fight with it for the sake of fighting. It's training. When spells are flying at you, you don't always have time to block. You have to move. To dodge. To know exactly where you're going. Sword drills force your body to learn that precision. Every step, every swing, every breath—it all trains you to react faster. To avoid danger, not rush into it."
Ginny piped up, "So… it's like learning Quidditch broom-work, but with your whole body?"
Ron smiled faintly. "Sort of, yeah. Except instead of chasing a Quaffle, you're making sure you're not caught by a curse."
Arthur tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Dodging spells instead of shielding… that's rather brilliant, actually. Shields do break under pressure. But speed…" He whistled softly. "There's no counter for being quicker than your opponent."
Molly whirled on him. "Arthur Weasley, do not encourage this! He's nine years old, not some Auror-in-training!"
Arthur held up his hands, placating. "I'm only saying it has logic, Molly."
But Molly wasn't done. She turned back to Ron, eyes blazing. "And how, exactly, do you know so much about these—these barbaric sticks? Don't tell me one of your books covered them."
Ron hesitated. He had known this would come. His voice came quieter, but steady. "I read about them. In the St. Ottery public library."
The silence that followed was sharper than any blade. Then Molly gasped so loudly that Ginny flinched. "A Muggle library? You went inside—inside—without telling me?"
Ron swallowed. "Fred and George took me. Over the summer."
"Of course they did!" Molly threw her hands in the air. "Those two will be the death of me! First their tricks, then dragging their little brother into Muggle buildings!" She jabbed her finger at the katana lying by the crate. "And filling your head with nonsense about blood and steel and—souls!"
Arthur's eyes darted between his wife and the blade, fascinated. "It does look well-made, though… you can see how it curves, almost like it's meant to cut cleaner than a straight sword."
"Arthur!" Molly snapped.
Ron's grip on the bokken tightened, but he kept his gaze level. "Mum. I know you don't like it. I know you think it's violent. But this isn't about hurting anyone. It's about training myself to move better, to react better. I can already read books and write. But if I can't move, then I'll be useless when it matters. Isn't it better if I learn how to avoid danger, instead of only trying to block it?"
Molly's mouth opened, then closed. She looked at him—not the way she usually did, with irritation at his stubbornness, but with something closer to fear. "Ron…" she said softly, almost pleading. "You're still just a boy. Can't you leave the wars and the dodging of curses to grown wizards?"
Ron's chest tightened, but he didn't look away. "No, Mum. Not if I can help it."
For a moment, the only sound was the clink of Arthur tightening a rope on one of the constructs, and Ginny quietly whispering "wow" under her breath.
Arthur finally straightened. "Well," he said lightly, trying to break the tension, "if nothing else, at least he's outdoors and not locked in his room. That's progress, isn't it?"
Molly shot him a look that could have burned through stone, but she didn't argue further. Her eyes lingered on Ron, equal parts exasperated and worried, before she finally sighed and marched back toward the kitchen. "Dinner in ten minutes. And if I see anyone swinging those… things… near the washing line, I'll have your hides."
Ginny grinned at Ron. "She's cross, but you'll get away with it."
Ron lowered his gaze to the bokken in his hands. He didn't answer, but the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth said enough.
The training ground was only half-built, but it already felt like the beginning of something larger.