Chapter 46 — The Feast and the Frequency of Magic
Snow fell thickly over the Burrow that night, muffling the echo of laughter and duel-born awe still lingering in the air. The warmth of the Weasley home pulsed like a living thing — firelight spilling across rough wooden floors, candles flickering above the grand Christmas feast that Molly had conjured up with half-scolding affection and half-maternal pride. The scents of roasted turkey, spiced cider, and treacle tart filled the house, blending with the faint metallic tang of enchantment that lingered after Ron's duel with Professor Flitwick.
Ron sat quietly at one end of the table, his twin bokkens resting beside him like loyal companions. His hair was still tied in the samurai-styled knot that had scandalized Molly earlier in the month, but even she, for tonight, let it go. Her expression was a storm of emotions — pride, disbelief, and the faintest hint of fear.
Flitwick, perched on a magically adjusted cushion to reach table height, beamed from across the table. "Young man," he squeaked, tapping his goblet with one tiny hand, "I must commend you again. That was no ordinary duel. Your form, your reflexes — you've adapted movement into magic in ways I've only seen from battle charm masters!"
Dumbledore, seated beside him, stroked his beard, his blue eyes twinkling with quiet curiosity. "Adapted, yes — but also created," he said, glancing at Ron. "That footwork… what did you call it again?"
Ron swallowed a sip of pumpkin juice before answering. "Body-Flicker," he said simply, his voice even. "A movement technique that uses controlled bursts of magic to enhance speed and minimize reaction time. It's… something I've been developing for a while."
The room went still for a heartbeat.
Arthur's fork clattered softly onto his plate. "Developing?" he repeated, his tone somewhere between fatherly awe and complete confusion. "You mean — you made it yourself?"
Ron nodded. "It's based on magical displacement. You don't teleport — you just move faster than the eye can track. It's about timing and channeling, not disappearance."
Charlie leaned forward, still sore from their spar a few days ago but now more impressed than bruised. "That explains why I couldn't even see you move," he muttered. "One second you were in front of me, next — bam — flat on the ground."
Fred and George exchanged grins. "You're sure you're not secretly part ghost?" George teased.
Ginny, sitting beside Ron, glared at her brothers. "He's been practicing for months, you dolts. He's just better than you."
Flitwick chuckled lightly. "Quite right, Miss Weasley. But, Ronald, tell me — what about your swords? You seemed to imbue them with magic during the duel."
Ron leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the hearthlight. "That's something I'm still refining," he admitted. "It's called magic coating — using internal magic to reinforce an object's structure or alter its nature temporarily. I've been experimenting with layering pure magic to enhance durability and sharpness. It's not elemental yet — I can't add fire or ice — but the coating alone improves impact and resistance."
There was a pause, filled with the crackle of the fire and the hum of half-understood genius.
Flitwick looked utterly delighted. "Remarkable! You've recreated an ancient dueling enchantment principle without runes! Just through manipulation of magic itself. That level of control is rare, even among professional duelists."
Dumbledore's smile deepened — a knowing, almost wistful expression. "And all this… from a boy of nine," he murmured softly, as if to himself.
Molly flushed. "He's still a boy, Headmaster," she said quickly, half-defensively. "And I don't like him running around with swords."
Ron's quiet laughter cut through the tension. "They're just wooden practice swords, Mum. I only coat them to test magical control."
Arthur gave him a wary look but couldn't hide his pride. "Still… wooden or not, son, what you're doing is extraordinary. I can't say I understand half of it, but… well done."
Across the table, Xenophilius Lovegood adjusted his eccentric radish earrings and nodded enthusiastically. "Quite so! The way you blend wandless technique with kinetic motion — fascinating! I must ask — do you think such manipulation could work with other weapons? Say… a printing press?"
That drew a laugh from everyone — even Dumbledore.
After the laughter faded, Flitwick raised his goblet. "To innovation, courage, and brilliance born in unexpected places."
Glasses clinked. Even Molly smiled faintly as she poured more cider into everyone's cups.
But Ginny noticed that Ron's gaze was distant, thoughtful. After the meal, while everyone lingered around desserts, Ron excused himself and disappeared upstairs. The soft creak of the stairs drew Ginny's curious glance — then, moments later, Ron reappeared, carrying something large, metallic, and covered in a thin cloth.
"What's that?" Fred asked, instantly intrigued.
Ron set it down on the counter and pulled away the cloth. It was a radio — patched together from brass knobs, enchanted glass dials, and a faintly humming crystal core. The dial markings glowed softly with runic script.
Arthur nearly dropped his plate. "You… you brought that out?" he stammered.
Ron shrugged. "It's yours, Dad. You made it. I just thought everyone might want some music."
Molly blinked in disbelief. "That old contraption still works?"
"Oh, it works," Ron said with a grin, twisting a dial. A burst of static hissed, then cleared — and the warm crackle of a muggle Christmas broadcast filled the Burrow. "This is BBC Radio Two," came a voice from the speaker, "and next up, a special Christmas song from Paul McCartney—"
The entire room froze.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brighter than ever. "A Muggle broadcast… here?" he said softly, wonder in his tone. "Extraordinary. How did you manage this, Ronald?"
Ron smiled slightly but didn't look up from the radio dial. "I didn't do anything special, sir," he said easily. "Dad built it years ago — I just cleaned it, reassembled a few parts, and… it started working again."
Arthur blinked, startled. "You mean that old thing I cobbled together in the shed? Merlin's beard—"
Ron shrugged lightly, his tone almost casual. "Maybe it just needed a bit of luck. Or maybe Dad's work was ahead of its time."
The Headmaster studied Ron for a long moment, his gaze sharp behind the half-moon spectacles, as if sensing there was more beneath the calm reply. But Ron's face remained unreadable — polite, open, and entirely ordinary.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore finally said with a faint smile. "A bit of Weasley ingenuity and a touch of magic. That combination often leads to wonders."
Arthur turned beet-red. "I—I didn't think it would work," he said weakly. "Just… tinkered a bit with some components from the shed."
"Arthur," Dumbledore said with rare sincerity, "you've done something few wizards ever have — merged two worlds without breaking either."
The Lovegoods applauded softly, the Diggorys exchanged curious looks, and even Flitwick leaned forward to examine the contraption.
Fred leaned toward George. "Do you think we could make one of those that plays Zonko jingles?"
"Or our jingles," George whispered back.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Mum's going to have your heads if you touch that."
But Ron just smiled faintly as he tuned through frequencies — switching effortlessly between wizarding wireless channels and muggle radio. The Burrow filled with sound — soft carols, old jingles, the hum of connection between two worlds that rarely met.
Dumbledore sat back in his chair, hands folded, watching Ron quietly. There was an unspoken understanding in his eyes — a recognition that the boy before him was no ordinary wizard child, but a bridge being built in secret, brick by thoughtful brick.
As snow continued to fall outside, the laughter returned — lighter this time, colored with wonder. The radio's glow cast dancing lights across the walls, mingling with firelight, and for one rare evening, the Burrow was the center of two worlds — magical and muggle — beating to the same rhythm.