Chapter 49 — The Return of the Green and Gold
The snow had thinned over Scotland by the time the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station again, its iron belly sighing steam into the cold January morning. The carriages waited, glimmering faintly beneath frost-dusted lamps. Students spilled out, laughing and shivering, carrying trunks and owls and half-finished homework. The start of a new term always carried an air of renewal, though that year, the hum in the Great Hall felt… different.
A quiet buzz passed from table to table, rising like an undercurrent beneath the chatter. On the new book lists distributed over breakfast, two names had caught every eye.
Principles of Potion-Brewing: A Complete Guide for the Apprentice (1989 Edition)
Principles of Herbology: A Complete Guide for the Apprentice (1989 Edition)
By Ronald Bilius Weasley
Students whispered, disbelieving. A Weasley? That Weasley? The gangly youngest of the Burrow brood? The one who wasn't even at Hogwarts yet?
"Must be a joke," muttered one Ravenclaw.
"Or a different Weasley," said another.
"No—look, it's listed under the official Hogwarts Texts column."
By the staff table, Professor McGonagall kept her expression perfectly still, though her eyes softened when she noticed Percy Weasley sitting a little straighter than usual, his chest puffed with restrained pride. Across the hall, the twins were pretending not to gloat, while Charlie—home for the holidays but staying on a few extra days to help Hagrid with dragons—watched the reactions with silent amusement.
No one knew of Ron's duel with Flitwick, nor of the quiet decision made at Dumbledore's table. Those details remained sealed among the few who had witnessed them. But the ripple of his influence was spreading, far and wide.
The next morning, the Hogwarts staff gathered in the staff room. The air was thick with the scent of tea and polished wood. Dumbledore stood near the hearth, beside a large, shallow basin filled with swirling silver mist — the Pensieve.
McGonagall's lips were pressed tight, her quill tapping against her notebook. "You mean to say, Headmaster," she began cautiously, "that you wish to show us the duel between Professor Flitwick and a nine-year-old boy?"
"Not merely show, Minerva," Dumbledore replied lightly, eyes twinkling. "To ensure the record is both accurate and fair. As the appointed referee, I have the only complete view of the duel."
Flitwick looked both embarrassed and proud. "It was an academic exercise," he said quickly. "The boy's control, his creativity… extraordinary. Though I must confess—he caught me entirely off guard."
Snape gave a soft, derisive snort from the corner. "You let sentiment cloud your spellwork, Filius. He's a child. Untrained." His dark eyes flicked toward the Pensieve. "But I'll admit—I'm curious."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Then curiosity shall be satisfied." He lowered his wand, and the silver mist began to shimmer. The room filled with the image of the Burrow's snowy yard — the duel in miniature. Spells flashed, shields shimmered, and the two figures danced between precision and instinct. Flitwick's finesse met Ron's intuition; each counter led into another, building toward an almost musical exchange.
When the image finally faded, silence fell.
It was McGonagall who spoke first. "That… was a draw," she said, her tone low but certain. "Not by luck. By measure."
"Agreed," Dumbledore said quietly. "Neither dominance nor submission. Pure equilibrium."
Flitwick nodded, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "He reads intent," he murmured. "Not movement. That's rare, even in skilled duelists."
Snape's eyes glinted, unreadable. "Dangerously rare," he said. "Intuition like that—if undisciplined—can make a boy unpredictable."
Dumbledore gave him a long, thoughtful glance. "Unpredictable… or exceptional. The line, as always, is thin."
At that, Sprout gently unfolded a letter in her hand, parchment crisp and sealed with green wax. "Speaking of lines crossed," she said, voice warm, "the Herbology Association sent their final report."
All eyes turned to her.
"They've confirmed that every theory and grafting method in young Ronald's Herbology manuscript has been tested and verified. Even the soil hybridization model — the one referencing Muggle agricultural parallels." She smiled fondly. "They've never had to approve a paper written by someone under ten. It seems we'll be using his book officially from this term onward."
McGonagall exhaled, a trace of admiration breaking through her composure. "Two books. In less than a year."
Snape folded his arms. "He's either brilliant or reckless."
"Possibly both," said Dumbledore, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Which is why we must ensure his path is guided with care."
Later that day, Dumbledore sat alone in his circular office. Fawkes dozed on his perch, feathers glowing faintly in the lamplight. The Headmaster turned a fresh parchment toward him and began to write — not to the boy this time, but to the Ministry.
Dear Madam Bones,
I seek your counsel regarding a unique educational proposal. A young wizard under my supervision — Ronald B. Weasley — has expressed an earnest desire to study aspects of the Muggle world firsthand, accompanied by his sister and under strict supervision. For this, I require a trustworthy intermediary — preferably a Squib familiar with Muggle society and its intricacies.
Your discretion and guidance in this matter would be deeply appreciated.
Warm regards,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
He sealed it with a flick of his wand and sent it off with a Ministry owl. The reply arrived before dawn two days later — quick, efficient, and elegantly worded.
Headmaster Dumbledore,
Your request is unusual, but commendable. I know a man who may suit your needs — a distant cousin, a Squib, and one of the more capable individuals I've had the pleasure of knowing. Nathaniel "Bishop" Bones. He runs a Muggle real-estate firm under his own name and has considerable experience navigating both our worlds. Sharp as a goblin and discreet as a vault door. If the Weasley boy's intent is genuine, Bishop will keep him grounded.
Yours faithfully,
Amelia Susan Bones
Dumbledore smiled faintly at the description. "Sharp as a goblin," he repeated, tapping the letter against his palm. Fawkes gave a soft trill, as though in agreement.
The Headmaster pulled out a new sheet of parchment.
Mr. Nathaniel Bishop Bones,
You come highly recommended by Madam Bones. I write to inquire whether you might accept a brief mentorship arrangement for two young wizards interested in understanding Muggle society under your guidance. Their education and safety would, of course, remain my responsibility. Should this interest you, I will arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
He sealed it with deep blue wax and leaned back in his chair, the faintest glint of intrigue in his gaze. Somewhere between fate and curiosity, the Weasley boy's path was unfolding faster than even Dumbledore had expected.
By the end of that week, Hogwarts was alive with renewed rhythm. Lessons resumed, cauldrons bubbled, and green shoots sprouted in Sprout's greenhouses. The new Herbology textbooks were being distributed, fresh from Obscurus Books — embossed in green and gold, pages crisp and smelling faintly of ink and basil.
Students murmured with excitement as they opened the books.
"Did you see the diagram on Dragonroot grafting?"
"He cited Professor Sprout and Muggle soil science!"
"Wait—this is the same Weasley who wrote the Potions guide? Is he even born yet?"
Sprout chuckled softly from her desk, watching her students' awe. "Remember that name," she said kindly. "He's a student of life long before he steps through these doors."
In the dungeons, Snape stood over a cauldron, flipping through Principles of Potion-Brewing again. His expression betrayed nothing, though his fingers paused briefly at a margin note labeled "For future masters: balance emotion, not ingredients." He closed the book with a faint thud, muttering, "Impertinent… yet correct."
That evening, in the staff room, McGonagall joined Dumbledore by the fire. "It's unsettling," she admitted quietly. "A boy not yet at Hogwarts already shaping its curriculum."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. "Unsettling, perhaps. But necessary. Magic has always advanced through those who question its walls."
McGonagall sipped her tea thoughtfully. "And if his curiosity leads him too far?"
Dumbledore's smile faded to a thoughtful line. "Then, Minerva, we make sure he never walks alone."
Outside, the night wind brushed against the castle towers. The stars reflected in the Black Lake — green and gold, like ink spilled across the sky.
And somewhere far from Hogwarts, a letter bearing the crest of the Headmaster of Hogwarts glided through the air toward a man named Nathaniel "Bishop" Bones, who had no idea yet that the next chapter of his quiet Muggle life would soon cross paths with one of the strangest young wizards of the age.