[Castling] Chapter 70

Finally, we finished sorting out the rooms on the first floor and moved on to the second. Honestly, I couldn’t tell much difference after all the cleaning. Everything still looked just as gloomy and grim, and the empty display cases, sideboards, and bookcases stared out at the shadows with dull glass, making it feel like the place had been ransacked.

The faded silk wallpaper we’d patched up was already peeling off in tatters again, and within an hour of dusting, there was a fresh thick layer settling on everything. The air, stale and unmoving, still pressed down on your chest like a weight. The bare, dull floors looked battered and scuffed now that the rugs were gone. Most of them had to be binned—they were cursed. They’d grab your ankles, suck you in to the knee like some swamp, or stick your boots down like they were glued. Tonks, Lupin, and Fletcher got the worst of it.

After that rug nearly swallowed Fletcher whole and tried to strangle him to death, he flat refused to go in rooms alone and would only carry stuff from bags dumped out back.

Two weeks before the end of the holidays, the Hogwarts letters arrived. We were all gathered in the big sitting room on the second floor. While Mum was scolding the twins over their low marks, praising Ginny, and skimming through the school supply lists, a small badge slipped out of my envelope and landed in my palm. Truth be told, with everything else going on, I’d completely forgotten this was even a possibility.

“Oh my God! I’ve been made Prefect!” Hermione squealed from behind me, and I turned around. “Ron! You too!” she gasped, spotting the shiny badge in my hand. She gave me a quick hug and spun toward Ginny. “Look, it’s the same one! Ron and I are both Prefects!”

“What’s that now…?” Mum blinked up from the list, distracted, and I silently held up the badge.

“Oh… no… it can’t be… You’re not— Oh, Ronnie,” she breathed. Mum took a few tentative steps toward me, her eyes lighting up before she rushed over and pulled me into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it—another Prefect in the family,” she beamed, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron as she stepped back to admire me. “A proper family tradition now. Oh, your father will be thrilled… I’m going downstairs to bake a cake—we’ll celebrate tonight.”

She kissed me again, hugged a flushed and glowing Hermione, then bustled out of the room.

“Remus! Did you hear? Ron’s been made a Prefect! Tonks, our Ron’s a Prefect now! Can you believe it? Oh, love, let me help you up the stairs—” Her excited voice floated up from the ground floor before it was drowned out by a fresh howl from old Mrs Black. Ginny grimaced and quickly shut the door.

“Well done, Ronnikins. D’you mind if we skip the kissing and curtsying bit?” George said with a smirk. The twins had been pulling faces the whole time Mum was fussing over me—pretending to gag and miming throwing up. Honestly, they were even worse when Percy got made Prefect, and just the same when they found out he’d be teaching.

“Could you, just for once in your lives, try being happy for me? I mean, we are brothers,” I muttered, annoyed. Hermione and Ginny exchanged wary looks, clearly bracing themselves to step in—but luckily the brewing row was cut short when Harry burst into the room. Judging by the smile on his face, he’d just come down from chatting with Sirius.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, glancing around at everyone’s expressions.

“Oh, nothing much. Just our Ronniekins here getting made a Prefect,” Fred piped up before I could say anything.

“Yes, Harry, look—I got one too!” Hermione beamed, showing off her badge. “I’m going to owl my parents—they’re Muggles, but they’ll understand what it means.”

“Sure, Hermione, go ahead,” Harry said, but the cheerful grin faded from his face. “Congratulations.”

“I’m so happy for you, big brother,” Ginny said sweetly, kissing me on the cheek despite the twins' loud snorting. “Congrats to you too, Hermione. I think I’ll write to Percy and Charlie before Mum beats me to it. I’ll help her with the cake too.” She gave us a bright smile and floated out after Hermione.

“Well, we’ll leave you to it, then,” Fred and George said with mock disappointment. “Don’t want to hog the room when half the house’ll be turning up soon to congratulate our shining star.”

They ducked out, still sniggering, and left Harry and me in awkward silence.

“Erm… congrats, Ron,” Harry mumbled, his voice flat, smile forced.

“Thanks,” I said, just as stiffly.

The silence dragged, and thankfully Mum returned, giving Harry the perfect excuse to leg it.

“Ron, love, I’ve been thinking,” she said excitedly, rushing back in. “You’re due a gift for this. We gave Percy an owl… what would you like? A new cloak? A pet rat? You loved Scabbers, didn’t you? What would make you happy, sweetheart?”

“Definitely not a rat,” I shuddered. “Can I have a proper wizard watch, like Dad’s? I’ve wanted one for ages.”

“But darling,” Mum hesitated, “those are usually given for coming of age. It’s tradition.”

“Then give it to me for that,” I grinned. “Who knows, maybe by then I’ll be Head Boy.”

Apparently, that wasn’t the best joke. Mum suddenly burst into tears again, pressing her face into my shoulder—well, as far as she could reach—and sobbing about how fast I was growing up.

“You know, Mum,” I said, putting on a cheerful tone to distract her, “I’m thinking of trying out for Keeper this year. I’ve already got a broom, but I’ll need a proper Quidditch kit. So maybe save the gift till school starts? Just… if it’s not too much, I’d like a new one. Not something handed down from Charlie or the twins. If that’s alright, I mean.” I gave her a hopeful little smile.

“Of course, Ron,” Mum brightened at once, wiping her tears with determination. “You’ll have the best Quidditch kit there is. Promise.” Then, hearing footsteps in the corridor, she suddenly remembered her errands and bustled off downstairs, back to her usual chaos — baking a cake and getting the feast ready.

I was left standing in the middle of the empty room like a right statue. And inside… it felt just as empty. My thoughts weren’t exactly cheerful, and none of my conclusions came as a shock. Maybe it’s because I’m not really Ron Weasley — not completely. It’s like my whole life, and everyone around me, are sort of… not quite real. As if we’re all actors in some play.

I’ve got loving parents, sure — but they don’t really see me. They just want me alive and well, because the family is like one big body, and I’m part of it, even if I’m just the pinky toe. They’re proud of me, sure, but only because they imagine my every success is for the family name — to make the Weasleys shine. That’s how they’ve lived their whole lives, and it’s all they know.

The twins never believed in me. Never took me seriously. They weren’t happy about my success — not even a little. To them, I’ll always be “Ronniekins,” the daft little brother, and no badge is going to change that.

Except maybe Ginny… My little sister. Sweet, naive Ginny who sees me as a noble prince out of one of her stories. Because every proper princess needs a fearless knight.

Bill will probably smile that smug smile of his and hand me a royal-sounding compliment. He thinks — and he’s not the only one — that I’m always trying to catch up to him out of jealousy. Like I could ever compare to the “great hope of the Weasley line.” And he’ll make sure I know it, in that infuriatingly patronising way he has.

Charlie, at least, will be genuinely pleased. But he’ll also gently hint that trying to keep up with Bill is pointless — better to enjoy life and look for the good bits in whatever hand you’re dealt. And he’ll even go out of his way to list them for me, to make it sound like a win. I reckon he feels a bit second-best himself — the “spare son” in Bill’s shadow. Works just as hard, gets half the credit. So maybe he’s trying to cheer me up because he sees the same thing in me.

Percy — now, he’ll probably be the most excited out of all of them. He’ll say this brings us even closer. He’ll project all his own thoughts onto me — his ambitions, his hunger for recognition, the dream of climbing the ranks. I get it, in a way. When you’re clever and ambitious, but stuck living in Bill’s shadow… when your accomplishments only matter to you, and they’re never enough…

Everyone’ll have their opinion about me getting made Prefect. But none of them actually know who I am. They only see what they want to see. Each of them needs their own version of Ron — someone who fits their expectations. So there’s loads of versions of me floating around, like mirrors showing their own dreams and hang-ups.

Do I even want this badge? What do I want? What do I feel?

Honestly… no one really cares. Not about the real me. I’ve got people all around me — family, friends — and still, I feel completely alone.

Well… not completely. I’ve got my anchor. My own bit of magic — Luna. That brilliant, mad girl is the only one who actually sees the real me. The me even I don’t fully understand yet. When I’m with her, I don’t have to pretend to be someone else.

And I’ve got a real friend, too…

A girl. Smart, kind, loyal. But sometimes… I think she resents that I grew up with magic. That I know things she’s only just discovering now. I think deep down she doesn’t believe I deserve it. She would’ve done more with it — used it better. So she always chooses Harry. Always will. He’s easier. He doesn’t challenge her brilliance. She can protect him, guide him, never feel threatened. Even now, with the badge she’s wanted her whole life, I know she hoped the other one would go to him. She wanted it to be Harry.

And then there’s my best mate. The one I’ve shared years of laughs and danger with. But even he couldn’t just be happy for me, not when I finally beat him at something. I was fine as the forgettable best friend, the one who makes him look better. But the moment I stepped out of that role — bam, teenage drama. I don’t even think he realises it. Maybe I wouldn’t either, if I were really fifteen…

But the weird thing is… I don’t care anymore. It’s like I’ve landed in a story, and I’m living as a character. And there’s only one person here who feels real. When I’m with her, I feel like I exist too.

The silence was deafening — thick with all these thoughts. Then I heard noise downstairs and decided to leg it up to the roof before the whole house came stampeding in to congratulate me, as the twins had so charmingly put it.

I crept across the third-floor corridor — Sirius’s territory — and paused when I heard voices behind a door.

“…I just thought maybe I’d be chosen as Prefect,” came a voice I recognised. “Not that I wanted it, exactly… but am I really less suited than Ron? Why him? Why not me?”

“I reckon you’d have made a good Prefect, Prongs,” came Sirius’s reply. “Moony and Lily were brilliant at it — you would’ve been just as good. But James and I, we never wanted that gig. We liked mischief too much. Prefects’ve got to care about rules… can you imagine us handing out detentions?” He gave a short, barking laugh. “Still, always good to have someone around who can cover for you when things go pear-shaped,” he added playfully, before drifting into stories of their school-day antics.

I gave a dry snort and moved on — the roof and an hour of quiet were still waiting, at least until Mum tracked me down.

We didn’t get much time to chat during the day — we were all back to cleaning duty. But that evening, there was a feast waiting for us. Draped above the dinner table, already laden with snacks and pies, was a bright scarlet banner that read:

CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR NEW PREFECTS — RON AND HERMIONE!

Had Mum’s and Ginny’s handiwork written all over it.

That evening, the twins had plenty of chances to roll their eyes and pull faces.

Loads of new people turned up — it was the first time I saw that massive bloke Kingsley, all towering and dark, and a tiny, sharp-eyed woman called Hestia, along with a couple of others I’d only glimpsed at the Ministry. And every single one of them got the same treatment from Mum: beaming with pride, she’d launch straight into how her Ron had been made Prefect — and Hermione too, of course.

Later, Dad and Bill arrived from work and congratulated us as well. Exactly how I’d expected.

Once everyone had been brought up to speed on why we were gathered and the "ceremony" bit was over, the party relaxed. People split off into little groups, chatting and picking at the food. It was loud, cheerful, and all over the place — by halfway through, most had forgotten what we were even celebrating.

The twins were whispering with Mundungus Fletcher. Hermione had cornered Sirius and was going on about elf rights, using Lupin as an example, rambling about werewolf segregation, and trying to recruit that soft-spoken werewolf to her side so he could help sway Sirius.

The grown-ups were deep in serious talk. Tonks was doing her usual antics to entertain the room, drawing laughter from her little audience.

“Why didn’t Dumbledore make Potter Prefect?” Kingsley asked in a lowered voice. I pretended not to hear, kept my face blank and continued pouring myself a glass of juice. “Harry’s crucial to the cause now, with You-Know-Who back. Giving him the badge might’ve boosted his confidence — got him used to responsibility. He’s got a big role to play…”

“I reckon Dumbledore had his reasons,” Moody grunted, eyeing me suspiciously when he caught me listening in. I gave a loud, obvious snort and smirked right at Kingsley, grabbed my drink and plate, and wandered off to sit with Ginny and the others.

Still, half the crowd didn’t seem bothered by who got what badge. A few drinks in, and they were all laughing, trading stories about why they had never been Prefects.

All in all, it was a good evening. We ended the night full, tired, and surprisingly content.

Just before bed, Harry came up to me, clearly a bit embarrassed.

“Sorry, Ron,” he said, not afraid to admit it out loud. “I didn’t expect it, but I am happy for you. You’ll make a brilliant Prefect. It just… stung, I guess. You two got the badges, and I felt like the odd one out. Dumbledore’s always been good to me, but it didn’t even cross his mind to pick me. I kept thinking — why not me?”

“You know what, Harry,” I said with a proper grin, “I think you forgot one thing. The Quidditch team doesn’t have a captain yet. And I’m pretty sure that’ll be you. If not this year, then next. And if you had been made Prefect too, how would you juggle both?”

“Seriously, Ron?” Harry’s face lit up. “You really think I’ve got a shot?”

“I hope you do,” I nodded. “And if not, well — lucky you. No yelling at first years or writing up detentions.”

We both chuckled, thinking about Oliver Wood and his manic shouting fits. The tension faded, and just like that, all was well again.

Still, I ended up cracking.

The next day, we were put to work cleaning the drawing room — the same one with the locket. I’d spotted it ages ago, but left it be. After that chat with Dad, I didn’t dare take it until it was officially tossed out. No mucking about with cursed magic — I didn’t need that kind of debt.

At first, it was business as usual. Scrub this, polish that. Then Sirius walked in.

Since Harry had arrived, he hadn’t been drinking quite so much — though he still always smelled a bit boozy. But today, even sober, he was in a right foul mood. I reckon the idea of us all leaving soon was getting to him. Everyone would be off, and he’d be left behind in this crypt with only a half-mad house-elf for company.

“Sirius, would you mind going through the cupboards?” Mum asked. “We need to clean the shelves after, and maybe there’s something useful in there for you.”

“There’s nothing worth keeping, Molly,” he snapped, and started sweeping everything off the shelves into one bag, then another, not even looking at the stuff.

“I’ll take it,” I offered quickly, grabbing a sack and dragging it off toward the door.

“I’ll help,” Harry piped up, snatching the second one — clearly hoping to dodge more scrubbing. Together, we lugged them downstairs.

“Harry, I’m gonna come back in a bit,” I said as we headed back. “Want to grab a snack. Lunch is ages off. Wanna come?”

“Nah, I’ll take another bag down. If I hang about, they’ll have me washing the windows,” he grinned and hurried off.

I waited until I heard the door upstairs slam, then legged it out the back. I ripped open one of the sacks, dug through it, and stuffed a few things into my pockets. Then I darted back inside and slipped into the downstairs loo.

“Kreacher,” I called softly.

With a loud crack, the ancient elf appeared in front of me.

“What does the filthy blood-traitor brat want from noble Kreacher?” he croaked, tugging at his grimy pillowcase. “Disgrace to the House of Black — making a proud elf serve scum—”

“I’ve got something for you,” I interrupted, ignoring the rant. “I couldn’t grab much, but your mistress’s brooch, your master’s Order, and the signet ring — they’re too valuable to let Fletcher nick. Take them. Hide them.”

I handed over the trinkets. He stared at them, stunned.

“Why?” he asked, blinking in disbelief. Anger, disgust, and confusion twisted across his crumpled face in the strangest way.

“Because Walburga was my grandmother. And I reckon someone might want to know who their ancestors were, one day. Keep these for the next heir. There’s a bag of photos under my bed — stuff I managed to save. Take that too. I’d stash everything under the floorboards if I were you. Just pull one up, hide the lot, and put it back. With your magic, it’ll be quick. Just pick out the best stuff, so no one notices.”

“The filthy traitor thinks old Kreacher’s going to be grateful?” the little git sneered. “Thinks he’s the equal of a noble House?” He gave a nasty sniff. “But Kreacher will take the advice,” he added, and vanished with a crack.

I had to sling the locket around my neck — there was nowhere else to hide it. I shoved it in my pocket at first, but didn’t even make it back to my room or my enchanted bag — Mum intercepted me and shoved me onto another task. So I slipped it over my neck, quick and quiet, before it could fall out.

Of course, I’d already had a look at it in the bathroom. The thing was stronger than the other Horcruxes — it didn’t give off obvious dark energy, but it definitely messed with your head. I had to keep a constant mental shield up to keep the pressure off. The strain made me snappier, more irritable. Maybe that’s why I snapped.

Once we finished that room, Mum sent me, Harry, and Black up to tackle the attic.

Mostly, it was just boxes up there. Normally they wouldn’t have bothered dragging me in for this — I’d usually just be scrubbing something. But time was short, and Moody was insisting the place be cleared of anything dark before we went back to Hogwarts — said it was a security risk. No one would be around to deal with it later. So Mum and the rest stayed working on the bedrooms while we got shoved off with Sirius.

Predictably, Black started wrecking things again without even looking at them. He’d dump boxes onto the floor in a heap, chuck anything cursed or suspicious into bags, and burn or banish the rest. Harry followed his lead, calm as ever.

I got a massive cardboard box, and the second I opened it, I just froze — completely mesmerised. It was full of Christmas ornaments. But proper magical ones.

There was a glittering glass bauble showing a snow-covered cottage, smoke curling from the chimney, a candle flickering in the window.

A lantern that cast two shadows holding hands — lovers dancing, drawing close and then parting, but never letting go. Fat snowflakes drifted down over them.

Kids unwrapping presents under a glowing tree, showing them off to a smiling old gran in a rocking chair by the fire, who nodded as she knitted something colourful. The children beamed with delight.

The front carriage of the Hogwarts Express, complete with a serious-looking conductor poking his head out the window and yanking the cord. You couldn’t hear the whistle, but a plume of white smoke poured from the stack, swirling mysteriously before clearing… then starting all over again.

A little girl in white. Her dress and face weren’t painted — just a delicate porcelain silhouette. She twirled gracefully under silent music only she could hear, snowflakes spinning around her. And for a second, I could swear she was Luna. Just like that night on the balcony at the Yule Ball… snowflakes on her hair…

“Oy!” came Sirius’s voice, sharp and sudden above me, making me flinch. He was holding up a toy train carriage.

“I remember this. I once smashed one of the cars — the Slytherin one, if I’m not mistaken.”

He rummaged carelessly through the box, glass jingling pitifully, and pulled out a blue carriage, then a yellow one. The children in the windows smiled and waved.

“Mum gave me twenty lashes for that one,” he said grimly, staring down at the ornament. His face was getting darker by the second. “See this? Every car’s got the family crest on it.” He pointed to the emblem. “Pureblood pride. But now? I can do whatever I like.”

Then, suddenly, he hurled it at the wall. It shattered. He let out a barking laugh and threw the next one. And when his hand reached for the bauble with the dancer—

That was it.

I shoved past him and bolted down the stairs.

To hell with this place. I wasn’t staying here a second longer.