Chapter 45 — A Duel Beneath the Christmas Lights
The night Dumbledore and Flitwick left the Burrow, the family was restless. Ginny tugged Ron's sleeve when they returned inside, whispering fiercely, "They'll tell everyone at Hogwarts, you know."
Ron only shrugged, his bokken resting across his lap. "Let them." His tone was neither proud nor fearful—it was matter-of-fact, as though his strange new reality no longer belonged only to him.
And indeed, at Hogwarts that very evening, the staff gathered in the Headmaster's circular office. Candles burned low, their flames reflected in the gleaming brass of whirring instruments. Dumbledore stood at the center, his gaze sweeping over the professors.
McGonagall's lips were thin, Snape's expression darkly unreadable, Sprout looked as though she had swallowed a particularly sour seed, and Flitwick's excitement barely contained him.
"Let me show you," Dumbledore said simply, and withdrew a single silver strand of memory. He poured it into the Pensieve, and one by one, they stepped forward.
They saw Ron.
The bokken blurred, his feet vanishing into steps that folded space, his body dissolving and reappearing like smoke in the wind. Snow scattered, and then—magic itself condensed into the wooden blade. The professors watched as a nine-year-old carved air with a discipline of centuries.
When they emerged from the Pensieve, silence ruled.
Flitwick broke it first, hopping onto the edge of a chair, his voice bright but taut. "This boy—no, this child—has achieved integration of body and magic most dueling masters never dream of. If he perfects it…" His words trailed off, eyes wide.
Snape sneered softly. "Another Weasley prodigy. Just what we need—this one with a sword." But even he could not hide the flicker of unease in his voice.
Sprout wrung her hands. "He's… he's already changing Herbology. Now swordplay. What happens when he's older?"
McGonagall's eyes softened but her tone remained stern. "A child with such… drive… needs careful guidance. If not, it will break him—or others."
Dumbledore, quiet until then, nodded gravely. "That is why Filius and I will attend the Weasley family's Christmas. It is time we see Ronald tested, not merely observed."
The Burrow glittered with tinsel and simple magical charms that made the lights sparkle warmer than they should. The kitchen overflowed with Molly's cooking, and the chatter of children filled the air.
The Diggorys arrived first—Amos with his booming laugh, his wife steady at his side, and a young Cedric, only two years older than Ron, polite but wide-eyed at the chaos.
Then came the Lovegoods. Xenophilius wore robes adorned with corks and strange charms, Luna clutched a small wand carved from driftwood, and Lady Lovegood—still alive, her hair like pale moonlight—smiled with a grace that hushed the room. Ginny, who adored Luna, pulled her into play almost immediately.
Amos clapped Arthur on the back. "Arthur, this looks grand! And I hear your boy's making waves already—uniforms, textbooks, eh? Must be proud!"
Arthur forced a chuckle, his glance straying toward Ron. "Yes, proud." But his smile faltered, just a little.
Molly bustled in, cheeks flushed from the stove, ushering everyone to eat. Yet even as she poured pumpkin juice and carved roasts, her eyes sought Ron, who sat quietly with Ginny and Cedric. He seemed ordinary enough in that moment, until the way his hand idly traced the hilt of the bokken leaning against the wall caught her gaze.
When Dumbledore and Flitwick arrived, conversation dimmed. The great Headmaster seemed to bring the winter night in with him, stars glittering on his cloak, while Flitwick practically sparkled with anticipation.
"Arthur, Molly," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "Thank you for allowing us to join your celebration."
"It's—it's an honor, Albus," Molly said, flustered, her eyes darting toward Ron.
After food and laughter, it was Flitwick who finally stood, clearing his throat. "If I may… Ronald." His voice, though small, carried across the room. "I would like a duel."
A hush fell.
Ron blinked, then tilted his head. "Why?"
"Because," Flitwick replied, eyes glinting, "I have not felt such anticipation in decades. To duel a child who bends theory into reality—it is both duty and delight."
Dumbledore raised his hand, his tone mild but firm. "I will referee. Should either of you endanger yourselves, I will end it."
Molly gasped, "He's nine, Filius!"
Arthur muttered, "Molly, it may be safer this way. If he must fight, let it be with a master watching."
Percy fumed quietly, adjusting his glasses. "This is madness…"
Charlie grinned, though unease colored his voice. "Madness… but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious."
Fred and George whispered furiously to each other, already imagining pranks inspired by Ron's flicker-movements.
The duel began in the snow-packed yard, lanterns floating above to cast golden light.
Flitwick bowed formally. Ron mirrored it with simple grace, bokkens sliding into his hands.
"Begin," Dumbledore intoned.
Flitwick's wand flashed instantly, sending a sharp jet of light toward Ron. The boy blurred—vanished—reappeared at Flitwick's flank, bokken slicing down. The Charms Master parried with a conjured shield, sparks flying.
Gasps erupted from the onlookers.
"By Merlin," Amos muttered. "He's—he's cutting spells!"
Xenophilius tilted his head, fascinated. "No, not cutting. Redirecting. The blade is wrapped in magic—see how it bends the flow?"
Lady Lovegood held Luna close, whispering, "Remember this, Luna. Sometimes, the impossible is only untried."
The clash escalated. Flitwick moved faster, wand a blur, summoning volleys of charms and hexes. Ron flickered through them, phantom steps leaving trails in the snow. His left bokken gleamed sharp with focused magic—each cut hissing as it met spellfire—while his right bokken hardened into a bulwark, absorbing impacts with thunderous cracks.
Charlie could only gape. "He's… shaping his magic around the wood itself."
Fred elbowed George. "Forget fireworks. Imagine the mischief with swords like that!"
"Focus," George hissed, though his grin never faltered.
Cedric's eyes shone with something else—admiration. He whispered to Ginny, "Your brother's incredible."
Ginny smirked proudly. "Of course he is. He's Ron."
The duel's rhythm quickened, spell against flicker, light against shadow. Snow erupted in clouds, Ron moving like a phantom, Flitwick's laughter rising with his own exhilaration.
"Magnificent!" Flitwick cried, sending a volley of cutting charms. Ron's bokken whistled, glowing brighter as they slashed the spells apart, scattering sparks like fireworks. For a fleeting instant, the boy looked like a warrior born from another age.
Molly clutched Arthur's arm, tears in her eyes. "That's not… that's not just a child anymore."
Arthur swallowed hard, whispering, "No. But he's still our Ron."
At last, Dumbledore raised his wand, sending out a booming crack of sound that silenced the night. "Enough."
Ron lowered his bokkens, his breath fogging, his body steady despite the exertion. Flitwick lowered his wand, his face flushed with pure joy.
"A draw," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying finality. "No victor tonight, only revelation."
The crowd murmured—shock, awe, fear, pride—all tangled into one.
Flitwick approached Ron, bowing deeply. "You are extraordinary, Ronald Weasley. But never forget—skill without wisdom is ruin. Guard yourself as fiercely as you guard others."
Ron met his gaze, silent but resolute. Snow swirled around them, lantern light flickering in the cold, as the boy who would change the wizarding world stood at the edge of childhood, blade still humming with magic.