[Castling] Chapter 69

I stumbled out of the fireplace in the living room, completely dishevelled, and found myself under the startled gaze of Charlie and Bill, who were in the middle of having a coffee.

“Er… Ron, something happen?” Charlie asked carefully, putting down his book and eyeing my dazed expression and the wand clenched in my hand.

“You look like someone just hexed the life outta you,” Bill snarked, though his sharp gaze ran over me, checking for injuries. Once he saw there was nothing obvious, he relaxed, gave his Prophet a shake, and disappeared back behind it like I didn’t even exist.

“Ron…” Charlie began, just as I slipped my wand back into its sheath. But then Mum bustled into the room.

“Oh, you’re back, love,” she smiled, heading towards the boys’ chairs, casting me a fond glance while wiping her hands on her apron. “Where’s Arthur? Go on, dear, wash up — dinner’ll be in about forty minutes,” she chattered, whisking away their empty mugs as she went, and vanished as quickly as she’d appeared. I could hear her voice behind the door, Ginny laughing, the twins shouting over each other — a whole other world I suddenly felt completely cut off from. But oddly enough, I calmed down. The panic ebbed away. That familiar hum of everyday life and the warmth of our bright little sitting room — it wasn’t like the gloom of that corridor in a dark wizard’s house, standing next to a murderer, even if the murderer was your father.

“Charlie… can I talk to you? Alone. And not in here,” I said, stepping quickly away from the fireplace — Arthur could’ve stepped through it any moment.

“Of course, Ron,” Charlie said at once, getting up. “Come on, we’ll go out into the garden. No one’ll bother us there.”

Bill just gave a mocking snort at our little secret chat and glanced up from the paper with a smirk, but said nothing. Charlie and I slipped out of the room in silence and headed to the far end of the garden, to the old bench beneath the apple tree.

“I need to tell you something, Charlie. Honestly, it’s better if you don’t know, but… I’m scared Dad’s going to wipe my memory,” I admitted awkwardly, still trying to find the right words. Charlie waited without interrupting, his face unreadable.

“Dad would never do that, Ron,” he said with a frown. “That’s mad talk — where’d you get that idea?”

“Yesterday I’d have said the same thing,” I gave a bitter laugh, running my hands through my hair. “But after what I heard today, I don’t know what to think anymore. It felt like he wasn’t even Dad — more like a stranger. A Death Eater using Polyjuice or something. You grow up thinking your dad’s just this soft-spoken bloke working in an office, and then you find out he’s a professional killer. He said things to that old hag on the portrait… Terrible things, Charlie. He laughed about it. Bragged. Listed the names of people he’s killed like he was chatting about the weather.”

I fell silent, the memory of that conversation hitting me all over again. I rubbed at my face like I could scrub it out of my head. And when I looked up at Charlie… he didn’t look shocked. Not one bit. In fact, the understanding, gentle look in his eyes — that same warm expression Dad always wore — made it clear.

He knew.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” he said simply. “It won’t be easy to live with now. You never should’ve overheard something you weren’t ready to hear. But now you have, and you’ll just have to carry it.”

“Oh, brilliant,” I snapped, my voice sharp. “So who else knows, then?” Realising that kind, dependable Charlie might’ve known — might’ve even helped — pushed me over the edge.

“All the younger ones didn’t,” Charlie sighed. “But only because we didn’t need your help. Bill and I handled it.”

“So Mum knew too?” I asked, stunned, picturing our sweet, bubbly Molly who screamed at spiders and wouldn’t harm a fly.

“Of course she did,” Charlie suddenly straightened, his tone going firm — like he was done tiptoeing around me. “Not only did she know, Ron, she agreed with him. You think if someone came for one of her children, she’d fend them off with a knitting needle instead of cursing them six ways to Sunday? Our mum’s from a powerful old family too. She was raised the same way Arthur was — same as the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Notts, or any other pureblood family. And you’d have been raised the same, if we hadn’t lost everything. You don’t have to accept it, Ron — but try to understand it. What happened needed to happen. Your problem is, you think like a Muggle.”

“Well, excuse me,” I bit out, sarcastic. “It’s just a bit hard to wrap my head around, alright? It’s like being dropped into some twisted medieval nightmare. Dark Lords, blood feuds, genocide... I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of killing people to solve problems.”

“Listen, Ron,” Charlie said tiredly, closing his eyes for a moment before looking at me again, calm and clear. “Muggles have police. They’ve got courts. They’ve got God to judge and punish wrongdoers. But we’re wizards. We’ve got magic, and in our world, power rules — magical strength, money, and influence. Their laws and morals don’t work here. Or they don’t work well enough. Take this for example — you can be totally right and still get killed in a duel because the man who wronged you is stronger. Or you can take it to the Wizengamot and watch him walk free thanks to his connections and gold. You know how many Death Eaters from old families walked free after the first war? They got off right there in the courtroom. Declared innocent, so they could go right back out and sneer in the faces of the people whose loved ones they’d murdered.”

“But what about the courts, the Ministry, the Wizengamot?” I asked, still trying to make sense of it all.

“They don’t work, Ron. Not really. The Ministry and Wizengamot exist to protect the Statute — that’s all. But there are things you can’t just forgive, and the only way to balance them is with blood. A family — a House — isn’t just parents and kids under one roof. It’s one body, one will, one bloodline and magic. If a regular wizard is attacked, his family can choose whether or not to step in. But a House? A House must defend its own, guilty or not, ready to kill or die for them. One wound on one member is a wound on all. One insult to one is an insult to all. And it doesn’t matter if the person’s alive or dead — the House will answer for every loss, and repay every debt. That’s how the line continues.”

He paused, looking at me with something like pride.

“Long, long ago, two magical people met so that, thousands of years later, a wizard named Ron Weasley could be born. That’s the golden chain — the legacy. You’ve added your own link to it now, Ron. And every link needs to be strong — strong enough to hold up the rest of the chain, because the other end is your ancestors. And when that chain was broken — when most of the links were shattered — only one remained. Our father. The only surviving link, by pure luck. Now we’re just stray links hanging in the dark, cut off from everything before us. The only way to forge a new chain is through vengeance. Blood. If we don’t… the chain ends. The whole line is gone. All our ancestors — their lives, their deaths, their accomplishments — wiped out like they never existed.”

“But were all those deaths really necessary?” I asked at last, giving in a little under his words. As much as his passion stirred something in me, I couldn’t fully accept it. I was just glad I hadn’t had to take part in any of it myself.

“You think Dad’s a cold-blooded, cynical killer?” Charlie said gently. “He’s not, Ron. Only those directly responsible for the destruction of our family were punished—the ones who took part in the attack, who set foot on our land with murder in mind. Blood revenge isn’t about wiping out an entire family, like what was done to us. Only eight people were involved in the attacks that destroyed both our Houses. Their guilt was proven, beyond question. The ones who called us blood traitors were sentenced and the sentence carried out. It was their blood, and theirs alone, that washed away the mark they branded us with. No one else — none of their families — were touched. Our vengeance is done, our ancestors avenged, and now House Weasley can rise again, clean, with no debts of blood. You might not agree, but I swear to you — Dad had every reason to feel joy today. He’s finally free.”

“I still struggle with it, Charlie,” I admitted after a pause. “You — you’re still my kind, understanding brother, but now you’ve taken part in something brutal. And Dad — the gentle bloke who wouldn’t hurt a fly — turns out to be capable of cold, calculated killing.”

“Put yourself in his shoes for a minute, Ron,” Charlie said quietly. “You come home… and it’s all gone. The house, your huge extended family you only just saw at Christmas in Mum and Dad’s place — the noise, the joy, the presents, the laughter. And now? You’re alone in the world. Just because some wanted to steal your family’s land, and others thought it right to wipe you all out. Imagine coming back to the Burrow and finding it levelled. No Mum, no Dad, no Ginny, no us. And not even bodies left behind to bury. No graves to bring your kids to someday, so they know they once had grandparents, uncles, aunts — people who loved them. 

“Not a single item from your mum to pass down to your child — just your stories, telling them that this wonderful, kind woman once lived. How long do you think your kid will remember her, Ron? As long as you do. But when you're gone, that memory goes with you. Without photos, heirlooms, stories told by others who knew her — we’d all just be names your children heard once and never thought about again.

“They won’t grow up in a family home, surrounded by things lovingly handed down by their ancestors — things made to be passed on with memory. We had some brilliant forebears, Ron — inventors, treasure hunters, alchemists, beast tamers, explorers. We never knew them, and now we never will. That’s what Mum and Dad went through — losing everything and having to start again. I respect them for trying to save what little was left, for bringing honour back to the name Weasley. And I’m glad it’s done. The debts are paid. We’re free.”

We sat there on the old bench in silence. The picture Charlie painted wasn’t exactly cheerful. But it made sense. Maybe that’s why old wizarding families banged on about ancestry all the time — not because they were snobs, but because it was about memory. About not forgetting who came before.

“And you know, Ron,” Charlie added, as if he’d read my thoughts, “we’re wizards. Our connection to the past isn’t just some poetic turn of phrase. Even Muggles believe their dead relatives look down on them — they think of them, remember them, feel them in some way. But we? We can actually see our ancestors. Feel their presence.”

“How?” I asked, blinking, suddenly remembering Harry’s story about the Mirror of Erised — how he’d seen his whole family, a massive lineage he never knew.

“There are special days, old ones, when we honour the dead,” Charlie said with a soft, almost dreamy smile that made him look just like Dad. “On those nights, the veil between our world and the next thins. You can talk to your ancestors, bring them offerings, thank them, ask their advice — even receive guidance. Though in Britain, these rites have fallen out of fashion, and blood magic’s heavily restricted. But sometimes, to summon a specific person, you need a drop of your own blood. That’s enough to get the Ministry breathing down your neck. Still… I saw them, Ron. I was seven. And when I realised all those people were my family… I felt their strength. Their support. I knew then I’d do anything to honour them. They didn’t deserve to be forgotten, even if I’d never met them. So — are we done here?” he asked, snapping out of it and getting up. “I’ll tell Dad to leave you be. Spare you the explanation,” he added as we started walking back. “And, Ron — Arthur is still the same loving father who put us all ahead of himself. He and Mum made sacrifices that went far beyond second-hand robes and hand-me-down books — and they deserve our respect. You might not understand that fully yet — you’re too young. But your children and grandchildren will. They’ll understand what it means to be part of a House. To be connected. I hope learning what Dad is capable of with his enemies won’t ruin your bond with him.”

I didn’t get it all. Not really. But I stopped flinching whenever I saw Dad. His sad little smile no longer reminded me of the cruel laugh I’d overheard. And who was I, really, to judge him? I’d never lost like he had. Never grown up in his world. My world — my everything — was my family. Not perfect, not broken — just mine. And maybe I wasn’t ready to kill for them… but I was ready to protect them, in whatever way I could. Could I live peacefully, knowing the people who murdered my family were walking around free and unpunished? I didn’t know. And I hoped to Merlin I’d never find out.

Arthur Weasley, to me, was still a kind, loving father. That’s all I’d ever seen of him. So I gave him a not-quite-genuine smile across the table, caught the flash of relief in his eyes, and we never spoke of it again.

The next few days were spent scrubbing the Black house top to bottom — mostly sorting out the bedrooms. I reckon Dumbledore asked Arthur, and Dad owed him too much to say no.

For me, the whole job was torture. Not just because of the dull, endless work, but because every time I moved down the corridor, the old hag’s portrait would yank open her curtains and start shrieking. Full-on wailing, swearing, hurling curses like mad. Seemed like Walburga had properly lost the plot after her little chat with Dad — not that she could tell anyone about it. So she raged. Dad, meanwhile, acted like nothing had ever happened. Like that whole conversation was just something I imagined.

But what really wore me down wasn’t the cleaning — it was being in someone else’s house, having to touch things that didn’t belong to me.

This house was dying. I could feel it. Like some ancient man on his deathbed, leaking the last of his life into everything around him. It felt cursed — like one of those altar stones that poisons the land when the bloodline dies.

Worst of all was Black himself. Spent most of his time upstairs, off his face drunk. When he did come down, he’d pick up right where his mum left off, shouting and swearing. They traded curses and insults until she passed out in her frame, and he’d lash out at her portrait — punching and kicking the frame like a lunatic, skin flayed off his knuckles, like he thought he could knock her right out of the painting and strangle her.

But the most disturbing bit? When he’d silence her with a charm and then calmly tell her, almost gleefully, about the bonfire he’d made in her bedroom. What he'd tossed on the flames this time.

Yeah. Black was burning through the family library, carting off whole crates of books and magical portraits to the fire. It never went out — burned day and night. No wonder the books weren’t even mentioned in canon. That madman would dump more booze on the flames from the family cellar, laughing like a maniac, then roast sausages and toast marshmallows over it. That was his favourite pastime. The twins, of course, were only too happy to join in just to get out of actual work.

I kept hoping Dumbledore would show up and put a stop to it, but he never did — not once. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already taken the books he wanted and couldn’t care less about the rest. Then again, most of those tomes were blood-protected — only Blacks could touch them. In anyone else’s hands, they were useless.

The worst part? The portraits. Screaming. Begging. Burning. I’d slam the door, cover my ears, choking on dust and mildew, and wish someone would do something horrific to that nutter upstairs. Whatever was going on in this house, it wasn’t cleaning — it was a bloody purge. Just like Dad had said, Black was wiping out the memory of his ancestors. Plates, silverware, heirlooms — tossed into sacks, dragged out back, destroyed.

What had his family done to him that he hated them this much? I don’t know. Maybe he was just barking mad, and being trapped in this place only made it worse. Me, I couldn’t help but see it like poking a dying homeless man with a stick. Yeah, maybe he stinks and rants, but he's still a human being. Let him go with dignity. But no one asked my opinion.

Still, I finally understood why Dad made such a fuss about us not taking anything from this place. Blood vengeance — at least the magical kind — had to be clean. No profit, no loot. Dad was dead serious about honour.

The house really pressed in on you. Like someone had papered prison walls with cheery floral wallpaper, but you could still feel the stone underneath. The whole place was gloomy — even the furniture felt like it might bite. I’d never seen such weird bugs in England. Even a dead plant in a pot might jab you with thorns or snap at your hand. And as for the rats, spiders, doxies, booklice, and living mould — the twins were thrilled with their haul.

By the time Harry and Hermione showed up, I was barely holding it together. All of us — except Percy, who was back prepping for the new term — had moved into Grimmauld Place. I flat-out refused, of course, but Mum and Dad insisted. Said the Burrow didn’t have any proper protections, and with You-Know-Who rising again, I could be a target — kidnapped as a way to get to Harry. Plus, Harry kept writing, desperate to be collected so he could actually talk to people. They’d already shoved a second bed into my room for him.

The whole house was now under the Fidelius Charm, with Dumbledore as Secret-Keeper. We weren’t allowed to leave. Not unless an approved adult brought us back every single time. Too risky.

Moody absolutely forbade anyone opening the windows. He didn’t live with us, but popped by nearly every day, clearing out cursed creatures, hexes, and the odd lurking beast — like the Boggart in the wardrobe. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d last much longer. If the pressure kept building, I was going to snap — or end up like Black, completely off my rocker. Between Moody, Black, and a parade of people I couldn’t stand, I was going spare.

Mundungus Fletcher stinking of booze, Lupin — who visited nearly every day and mostly just came for a meal, far as I could tell. A bunch of creepy, dodgy types from Knockturn Alley. Tonks — loud, clumsy, and constantly pulling pranks at dinner that only she found funny. The doors never stopped slamming, the portrait never shut up, and I felt like I was slowly losing my mind. Like I’d been chucked in Azkaban.

Lying there at night on a damp mattress, breathing in stale, mouldy air that not even spells could clear, I’d think about the Burrow. The wide fields. The breeze bringing in the scent of flowers. The fresh, dewy mornings. And when it got too bad, I’d sneak up to the roof.

On Saturday, Hermione arrived — Dad went to get her. She clocked how strung out I was right away, and honestly, she didn’t look too comfortable herself. The first day went okay. She talked loads about her summer, fired off a million questions, and kept me distracted. But the second day… that’s when she saw the last of the Black family library going up in flames. Her expression — that shock — it stuck. And whenever she saw Black after that, she flinched like she wanted to claw his face off. Must’ve been that she arrived later in canon and missed all this. Because now? She wasn’t quite so fond of Sirius.

She didn’t say anything — not out loud. We were guests, after all. But then she saw how he treated Kreacher…

I thought she was going to deck him. He’d just yelled at the poor elf — proper bellowed — then kicked him hard to get him out of the way. Kreacher tumbled down the stairs, squealing, then disappeared into a room, mumbling and clutching his backside.

Hermione was livid. It became our favourite topic during quiet moments while scrubbing another cursed drawer. But Sirius? He didn’t even notice.

Later, when Harry arrived, Hermione gave him an earful about his godfather. But he didn’t really take it to heart—and soon enough, he started defending Sirius, going on with some teary story about how his poor godfather had been bullied by his evil relatives as a kid.

Potter barely did any cleaning compared to the rest of us, but he was always hanging about with Padfoot upstairs, where I refused to go on principle. Didn’t fancy seeing Black’s mug. The two of them would bag up stuff from the rooms we hadn’t sorted yet, chatting away about the good old days—reminiscing about James and their so-called heroic Marauder years. Unlike me, Harry was genuinely in awe of Sirius. Thought he was some brave ex-Auror and all-round legend.

To be fair, Lupin had had a word with him and Sirius toned it down a bit, stopped sharing anything too dodgy. But it was a bit late by then. Harry had already heard about the time they strung Snape up by his ankles, and the rest of the nasty tricks they’d pulled to humiliate him. I wasn’t worried about Harry—he’s no gossip and knows how to keep things quiet. But if Dumbledore ever tells Snape to start training him, and Snape sees those memories? Merlin help us.

Harry, though, was chuffed. Unlike Hermione and me, he was loving Grimmauld Place. After all that time alone on Privet Drive, he thought it was brilliant living with his godfather, listening to wild tales, and having people coming and going all the time. Anything was better than the silence of that Muggle prison.

Then came the morning of the thirteenth of August—and with it, an unbelievable headline: eighteen Death Eaters had attempted a breakout from Azkaban. Since Black’s escape, security had been ramped up, mainly by throwing in more Dementors. The mass escape had been stopped, just, but the panic made things chaotic, and all the prisoners on the lower level got the Kiss. Every last one of them. The Prophet included names and those ghastly magical mugshots with them baring their teeth like mad dogs.

The Order called an emergency meeting straight away, but Mum locked us in the bedroom, so we had no idea who’d turned up or how many of them there were. Harry was fuming—proper sulking—and nearly kicked off a tantrum, especially when Sirius backed him up. When he wanted something, Harry was quick to trot out his “Boy Who Lived” title, or remind everyone he’d faced down Quirrell, or saved Sirius. But this time, it didn’t work.

He and Hermione spent a couple of hours griping about it while the meeting dragged on, tossing around wild theories. Meanwhile, I was staring at the moving photo of Bellatrix Black, thinking maybe I should have asked Snape exactly how he planned to help Bill find the Horcrux. After all the revenge drama, Sirius’ off-his-nut behaviour, and being locked up in this cursed house, the suspicion that had popped up in my head didn’t seem all that far-fetched anymore.