Chapter 43 — The Flash of Two Blades
Snow had settled over the Burrow like a thick quilt, burying the garden paths in white silence and frosting the crooked roof with glittering icicles. From the kitchen windows spilled golden light, filled with the warmth of Molly's bustling voice and the smell of cinnamon bread. Yet outside, on the frozen patch of earth behind the shed, there was a different kind of rhythm—the slicing air of blades in motion.
Ron stood with two wooden practice swords strapped at his belt, his hair bound into a tight man-bun that made him look older, sterner, and stranger than his nine years. Sweat steamed faintly in the winter chill as he moved, one sword cutting through the air in a wide defensive arc while the other darted forward with sudden speed. He vanished and reappeared across the snow, his boots crunching only a fraction of a second later, as though the world hadn't quite caught up to him.
Ginny sat nearby on a fence post, legs swinging, mittens tucked under her chin as she watched. Her eyes glittered with admiration. "You look like one of those ancient dueling portraits in Dad's old wizard cards," she whispered, though no one else could hear.
Ron flicked the left blade down and forward, breathing deep. The [System] window hovered faintly at the edge of his vision, a constant reminder.
[Input: Two-Katana Swordsmanship]
Practice time: 1200 years
Tier: Master (Grandmaster Knowledge, Master Body)
Status: Active
—Integrating: Body-Flicker (Magical variant)
—Progress: 12%
He focused his magic, trying to force a thin coating of energy along the blade's edge. The steel hummed faintly before the glow fizzled, scattering into the snow. "Tch," Ron muttered. His control was still too raw. Meditation would help, but every attempt stretched his concentration thin.
Still, each day he pushed further. The daily routine was becoming ironclad: morning meditations, sword drills, flicker-footwork across the orchard, and long sessions of magical manipulation in hopes of layering enchantment onto cold steel. He was shaping himself, little by little, into something that didn't quite fit in the Burrow anymore.
When Christmas finally arrived, the house was crammed with noise again. Charlie returned from Hogwarts taller and broader, his dragon-hide boots tracking snow into the hallway. Percy walked with pompous precision, clutching a stack of books as if afraid they'd vanish. Fred and George had grown more mischievous, already whispering about testing their new inventions on Percy before bedtime.
But the biggest shock wasn't the Burrow—it was Ron.
Molly nearly dropped the platter of mince pies when she saw him stride into the living room with two short swords at his side, their holders looped neatly onto his belt. His hair was drawn into the samurai-style knot, sharp against his freckled face. Ginny followed proudly behind him, grinning as if she'd had a hand in styling it.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Molly gasped, voice echoing through the rafters. "What in Merlin's name have you done to yourself? And swords—inside my house?!"
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "They're not… cursed, are they? You didn't find them in Knockturn Alley?"
"No," Ron answered calmly, his voice carrying a maturity that didn't belong to his years. "They're training. I'm not just swinging them around. Swordsmanship—discipline—gives me precision, and the dodging footwork makes me faster against spells. Defense isn't only about shields, Mum. It's about moving, striking before you're struck."
"Barbaric," Molly muttered, wringing her apron. "You've written books, Ronald. That's more than enough for your age. Now you want to cut people down in my kitchen?"
"It isn't barbaric," Ron said, narrowing his eyes. "It's control. If I can dodge, if I can move faster, I don't need to hide behind shields. And maybe—someday—it'll save my life."
Ginny piped up before Molly could scold further. "I think he looks brilliant. Like one of those warrior-princes from stories." She smirked. "Except he's my brother, so he's a bit less princely."
Percy sniffed, adjusting his glasses. "You look ridiculous, Ron. Hogwarts doesn't allow weapons. You'll be laughed out of the castle."
Fred elbowed George and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear: "No, no, I think he's onto something. Imagine Percy like that, with two wands strapped to his belt."
George grinned. "Or three."
Ron ignored them, his eyes flicking toward Charlie. His older brother leaned against the mantelpiece, gaze sharp. Charlie was seventeen now, wiry and strong from working with dragons at school, and there was a gleam of challenge in his eyes.
"You've been training, then?" Charlie asked slowly. "Not just scribbling books?"
Ron nodded once.
Charlie smirked, stepping forward. "Prove it."
The room went still. Even Fred and George hushed. Molly sputtered, "Charles Weasley, don't you dare—"
But Charlie was already moving toward the door, jerking his head at Ron. "Come on, little brother. Show me this sword style of yours."
They trudged into the snowy yard, the family trailing close behind despite Molly's protests. The winter air was sharp, the snow crunching under their boots. Ron drew his blades in one smooth motion, settling into a stance with his right hand low and defensive, left blade angled high for offense.
Charlie pulled his wand with a grin. "Don't worry. I'll go easy."
Ron's expression didn't change. The air around him seemed to still. He whispered a single word: "Flicker."
In less than a heartbeat, Ron blurred forward. The crunch of snow came a fraction of a second after his body vanished, reappearing behind Charlie's guard. One sword pressed lightly but firmly to his brother's throat, the other sweeping his wand arm aside.
Charlie's eyes widened in shock—then he toppled, Ron's foot sweeping him off balance before he could recover. He hit the snow with a grunt, wand clattering away. For a moment he tried to rise, but the flat of Ron's blade touched his chest.
Silence.
Arthur's mouth fell open. Percy's glasses slipped down his nose. Fred and George exchanged identical looks of awe. Ginny clapped her mittens together with glee.
Charlie groaned faintly and went still, snow dusting his hair.
Molly gasped, rushing forward. "Charlie!" She knelt at his side, checking his pulse. He was breathing, only stunned. But her glare shot up toward Ron, blazing like fire. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, what have you done?! He's your brother!"
Ron exhaled slowly, sliding his blades back into their sheaths. "I didn't hurt him. Only showed him the difference between playing with power and training with it. That's what this is for, Mum. Not violence—discipline."
But Molly's fury didn't fade. Arthur looked torn, caught between fascination and fear. Fred whispered to George, "He's terrifying." George whispered back, "He's brilliant."
And Ginny, sitting proudly on the fence again, whispered the words Ron alone heard: "Like lightning."
The Burrow would never look at Ronald Weasley the same way again.