Chapter 41 — First Light, First Cut
At the Burrow, dawn broke softly, the crooked house creaking as the wind pressed against its wooden frame. Ron stirred before anyone else, his mind already fixed on the practice he had planned. The bokken rested near his bedside, and beside it the katana Arthur had declared little more than a "decoration." Ron had lain awake half the night, going over the Forms and Principles he had written down in his notebook, rehearsing how he would test them.
From another room, Ginny's ears pricked at the sound of her brother's door opening. Her room, higher up in the Burrow, gave her a clear view of the staircase whenever someone tried to sneak down. She wriggled out from beneath her blanket and padded after him, careful not to let the boards creak too loudly. Ron, intent on his mission, never noticed the shadow of his little sister following at a distance.
Out in the orchard, the frost-kissed grass sparkled. The training space they had carved out stood oddly solemn in the morning mist, wooden posts and beams forming an arena unlike anything Ginny had seen before. Ron walked to its center, bokken in hand, his expression grave beyond his nine years.
He took his stance. "Kamae," he whispered to himself, feet planted, balance settled. The wooden sword rose with practiced steadiness. Then he moved—testing Batto, the drawing motion, feeling the weight and flow. Cut and thrust came next, the blade whistling in the cold air. He resheathed with care, murmuring the words of each Form under his breath, almost like a prayer.
Ginny crouched behind a post, eyes wide. Her brother looked nothing like the lazy, lanky boy who so often shirked chores. Every motion was sharp, deliberate, focused. She wanted to laugh at how serious he looked, but something about the way he moved made her shiver instead.
Inside the house, Molly stirred from her slumber. She had noticed Ron's distracted mood the past few days, and now the absence of creaks and clatters from his room set her nerves on edge. Peering from the kitchen window, she caught sight of him in the orchard, sword raised, silhouette against the dawn. Her lips tightened. He's only nine. Swords. What nonsense. What danger. Yet she couldn't look away.
Arthur came down behind her, adjusting his glasses. "Up early again, is he?" He followed her gaze and let out a low whistle. "Blimey. He's serious about it."
Molly folded her arms, heart torn between admiration and fury. "He's supposed to be a child, Arthur. Not a soldier. Not this."
Arthur scratched his head, fascinated. "He's caught on to something, Molly. Better he learns discipline with wood than goes sneaking magic he doesn't control. Let him work through it. When he tires of the sword, we can turn the space for proper dueling practice. You and I could teach them ourselves."
Molly frowned but said nothing. She knew Ron, stubborn as a mule. Still, the sight of him wielding a blade unsettled her. It felt barbaric, foreign. But there was a grace in his movement too, something oddly magical about the way he tried to merge breath and motion.
Ron paused, wiping sweat from his brow though the air was cold. He placed his bokken down and glanced at Arthur, who was now standing by the doorway with a curious smile. "Dad," Ron said, breathing hard, "I want to try two blades. One for offence, one for defence. Could you make me another bokken? But this one, reversed—blunted the other way."
Arthur blinked. "A backwards sword?"
Ron nodded seriously. "Yes. It's for defending. One cuts, the other guards. Together, they balance."
Arthur chuckled, bewildered but indulgent. "You'll have to show me exactly what you mean. I'll see what I can carve."
Molly groaned softly from the doorway, torn between protest and resignation. Ginny, still hidden, nearly bounced with excitement—her brother sounded like a storybook knight.
Later that morning, after breakfast, a barn owl swooped down at the window. It carried a letter sealed with a wax stamp Ron knew well: Charlie's handwriting sprawled across the parchment. Ron tore it open eagerly, and the family gathered to listen.
Dear Ron,
Classes are running me ragged, but I wanted to tell you what's happening at Hogwarts. Percy's still Percy, though lately he's become even more… officious. It rubs on people wrong. He's clever, but you can see in the common room that not everyone enjoys being told the rules a dozen times before breakfast.
Fred and George—well, they're a paradox. They lose more points than anyone, but somehow they're the most popular in the year. I can't understand it. Their tricks drive professors mad, but students love them. Maybe mischief really is a kind of magic.
I'll be home for Christmas, as will Percy and the twins. Save me a chair at the table. Try not to give Mum too much trouble, though from what I hear in your letters, you've been busy already.
Your brother, Charlie.
Ginny clapped her hands at the mention of Christmas, but Molly barely heard her. She was staring at Ron, who folded the letter carefully and slipped it away. He looked older, somehow, already marked by the dawn's training. She wanted to scold, to forbid, but the words stuck. Instead she stirred the porridge and muttered, "One day, Ronald, you'll explain why swords, of all things."
Ron only smiled faintly. His breathing still carried the rhythm of his practice, and somewhere inside, he felt magic stir with it.