[Castling] Chapter 59

I wandered for ages, freezing half to death, but I still couldn’t bring myself to go home. What if they were all still waiting, ready to have another go at me? I had no interest in starting that all over again—I’d said more than enough for one night.

When Charlie appeared beside me, I barely flinched—just tensed at the sudden pop of his Apparition.

“Knew I’d find you here,” he said, striding over. In the moonlight, his face was pale, his features blurred by the darkness. But something in his voice made me think he was smiling.

“How’d you find me?” I muttered, shivering as he shrugged off his cloak and draped it over my shoulders. I didn’t argue. It was warm.

“You’re not the only one who likes to wander and think now and then,” he said, smiling faintly. “Come on. Mum won’t go to bed till she sees you back safe. No need to make her worry. She doesn’t deserve that… And don’t stress, everyone’s gone to bed. No one’s waiting to jump you.”

Following someone home was easier than going back by my own choice.

“How’d it go?” I asked eventually, keeping pace with his long strides.

“Well…” Charlie sighed. “First, everyone had a good row, but Mum’s tears shut that down fast. Then they decided they’d forgive you. After that, they admitted they’d been in the wrong too—but agreed you were a right arse about it. By the end, they’d settled on the idea that the Weasley family was lucky to have such a clever, understanding son… even if said son could’ve been slightly less dramatic about making his point.” His lips twitched. “Now they’ll all act like nothing happened, so no one has to feel awkward about it—though knowing Dad, he’ll probably try to apologise at some point, dressed up as some big noble lesson about his ‘higher responsibilities.’ And Mum… she’s waiting. She’s scared you’ll run off before she gets the chance to say sorry.”

Well. At least it was over.

“Ron,” Charlie said suddenly, slowing his pace. “I see how you look at Bill. I don’t think it’s jealousy exactly, but there’s… something there. You’re too sharp, too ambitious, not to notice the unfairness of your place in the family.” He paused. “But I want you to know—being the ‘heir’ isn’t just about getting attention. It’s a responsibility. A weight. And trust me, I’d have loved to be the sixth son. Ordinary. Free.” His smile was small, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Even I’m not as free as I look, Ron. There are expectations. And failing them means turning your back on family, on blood. That’s a heavy choice to make. And I’m honestly glad you don’t have to.”

I frowned, thrown off by the turn in conversation. “What expectations? You lot studied, got jobs, live where you want—what’s weighing you down?”

Charlie snorted. “For starters, I can’t marry until Bill has a son.”

I stopped walking. “Wait, what?”

He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “I’m the second son. The backup. If something happens to Bill, I take his place, and I really don’t want that responsibility.” He shot me a wry glance. “So I’ll just be over here, hoping my big brother hurries up and has a kid.”

I had no idea what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything at all.

By the time we reached the Burrow, we wordlessly split ways—Charlie took back his cloak and headed upstairs, while I made for the dim glow of the kitchen.

Mum was there. Asleep. She’d slumped over the table, her head resting on her folded arms, breath slow and even. The flickering candlelight made her look smaller somehow. Tired. Her face was still blotchy from crying.

And I suddenly felt awful.

Why’d they do this to themselves? They could’ve had a simple, comfortable life—two kids, enough gold, summer trips to the beach. They could’ve done just fine with Bill and Charlie alone. No need to stretch every Knut till it screamed.

As I stood there, debating what to do, Mum stirred. Her eyes blinked open, unfocused for a moment before locking on me.

“Ron, love—you’re back?” She sat up abruptly, gripping me in a tight hug. My shoulder dampened immediately, though she made no sound.

“Oh, you must be starving,” she said after a moment, pushing me toward a chair as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Hold on, I’ll warm something up…”

“No need, Mum,” I muttered. “I’ll just eat it cold. Just pour me some tea.”

While she fussed with the kettle, a plate appeared in front of me—ham, bread, and, soon after, a frying pan full of sausages. The mouth-watering smell filled the kitchen, and I realised just how bloody hungry I was.

“Go on, eat, eat,” Mum fretted, placing more food on my plate and smoothing my hair absentmindedly. “You’ve been out half the day… running around in the cold…”

She suddenly leaned against my back, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and resting her forehead against my neck.

“Ronnie, love… I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t even know why I bought that cloak… It’s just—there’s always so much to buy, and the money’s never enough, and the list never gets any shorter… but there’s always something more you need.”

“Mum, it’s fine, I get it,” I said, putting down my sandwich, trying to pull away, but she only held on tighter.

“I went to three different shops and couldn’t find anything decent,” she went on, her voice hurried like she was finally letting it all out. “Then I saw that cloak and thought, ‘Thank Merlin, now Ron won’t have to go without.’ I didn’t even notice it was burgundy. I just thought—no holes, no stains… I’ll wash it, fix the seams, swap out the buttons, and it’ll be as good as new. And the lace cuffs… well, they’d suit your hands, you know? You have such elegant hands, so refined, with those long fingers…”

“Mum, stop,” I groaned.

“…And it never even crossed my mind that I could just buy you one later and send it, or tailor one of your father’s old cloaks instead…”

“Mum, enough,” I cut in, finally twisting around to pull her into a proper hug. “It’s done. I don’t blame you for anything. If anything, I was the one who lost my temper and lashed out. That’s all it was. It happens, Mum—men do that sometimes. Don’t cry.”

“How can I not?” she sniffed. “I barely have time to think about these things, there’s always something that needs doing. But then I realised… all we’ve ever bought you new were your school robes and your underwear. Everything else—hand-me-downs. Even your rat was second-hand… No wonder you were upset. I’m sorry, Ron—I’ve been a terrible mother,” she sobbed, properly breaking down now.

I’d never seen her like this before.

“Come on, Mum, don’t,” I murmured, rubbing her back. “You’re a good mum. The best. I wouldn’t trade you for anything… But let’s get some sleep, yeah? I’ve got, what, four hours left before I have to be up, and you’re up even earlier.”

“Oh—Merlin, you’re right!” She gasped, looking up, her tear-streaked face snapping back into ‘Mum mode.’ “You’re full? Right, off to bed with you then! Quietly now, don’t wake anyone. I’ll just tidy up here…”

As I crept up the stairs, I could still hear her quiet sniffles and the soft clinking of dishes.

When I finally climbed into bed, everyone was still fast asleep. The moment my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light.

It felt like I’d only just closed my eyes before someone was shaking me awake.

"Arthur was called into work during the night," Mum said, bustling around as she piled extra food onto our plates. "And Bill had to go to the bank first thing, so we’ll have to take the Floo to the station..."

"What’s wrong with the Floo?" Charlie asked with a yawn.

"Well, we’ve got Harry with us..." Mum said vaguely, turning away to flip an omelette.

"Ah," said George. "So we’re avoiding anyone tracking him through the network? Security reasons?"

"Yeah, because that’s a well-kept secret," Charlie scoffed. "What a mystery."

"Where’s Percy?"

"Been up since six, scribbling away in his room," Mum replied, quickly slicing up bread for the horde of us. "Dumbledore’s opening the Floo for him around midday. And where’s Ginny? Ginny, love, hurry up or we’ll be late... Hermione, have another pancake, you’re so thin... Harry, more juice?"

Despite the morning chaos, we made it on time. We even managed to grab packed lunches and a thermos for the trip. Good thing we used the Floo—there’s no way we’d have fit all our pets, brooms, and trunks into a Muggle taxi.

The rain hadn’t let up, drizzling miserably as we rushed to stash our things in an empty compartment before heading back out to say goodbye.

Harry and Hermione thanked Mum for the summer, while she made them promise to visit again next year. She fussed over Ginny, peppering her with kisses despite her embarrassed squirming. And when she got to me, she held on just a little longer than usual, eyes full of warmth and unspoken apologies. She pressed a food parcel into my hands, even though I’d already packed my own.

It was... nice, I suppose. But something in me had already let go. Funny, how when you do finally get what you’ve been waiting for, it’s always too late for it to matter.

"See you around, Ron," Charlie clapped me on the back, giving me a tired smile. "Keep an eye on things, yeah?"

At last, the goodbyes were over, and the train pulled away from the station. I had never been so relieved to return to school. Never felt so free.

"Where were you last night?" Harry finally asked when Hermione stepped out to retrieve her cat from Ginny’s compartment—apparently, the twins had chucked his carrier in there for a laugh. "I waited up half the night for you—you just ran off without saying anything."

"Went to invite Luna to the ball," I said offhandedly, keeping my expression blank.

"To what?" Harry blinked.

"The Yule Ball. Happens every time there’s a Tournament. Figured I’d ask before someone else got in there first. You ought to get a move on with Chang, by the way. Diggory’ll probably beat you to it, and then you’ll be out of luck. He’s been into her for ages."

"What? Why should I ask her?" Harry spluttered, going a bit pink. But then, after a pause, he asked, "Do you think she actually likes Diggory?"

"Doubt she’s in love with him," I said. "Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been throwing you looks and smiling all dreamy-like when we went to the water pump. You nearly drowned waving back at her, remember? And today, when you bumped into her in the corridor—mate, the sparks flying off you two, honestly. You’ve got a shot, but only if you get there before Diggory does. She definitely likes you."

"You really think she’ll say yes?" Harry asked, looking hopeful.

"Course," I lied smoothly. "Swear on it."

"Alright… just not on the first day, yeah?"

He looked like he wanted to ask something else, but Hermione returned before he could. Not long after, the compartment filled up with our usual lot.

The next few hours were spent chatting and laughing, mostly about the Tournament. Neville listened, wide-eyed, grumbling about how his gran had refused to buy him a ticket.

"But at least I managed a Patronus!" he suddenly declared. "Practiced all summer. Look!"

He waved his wand, and on the third try, a little bear cub bumbled its way across the compartment, tripping over its paws.

"Bit small," Neville mumbled, looking embarrassed.

"It’s brilliant!" we all said at once.

"It’ll grow," I grinned, giving him a thumbs-up. "You did great."

Neville beamed. "Gran was so chuffed—she gave me my dad’s old watch. Look, isn’t it neat?"

But the conversation soon drifted back to the Quidditch World Cup.

"So you actually saw Krum?" Seamus asked, awestruck.

"Yeah, spitting image of Snape," I snorted. "Just younger. It was freaky—he was right there when Fudge shook his hand. My sister even got his autograph."

"You were in the minister’s box?" Dean said enviously. "Hermione, what about you? What’d you think of Krum?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the compartment door slid open, and in stepped Malfoy.

"Oh, look who it is—the Malfoy heir himself," I greeted with a smirk. "Here to talk about the match? Good call—your lot seems to be mute or something."

"Hardly," Malfoy sniffed. "I was just passing by when I was assaulted by the racket you lot were making. Absolutely vulgar… So, Potter? You planning to take part? Can’t imagine you’d pass up a chance to show off and get your face in the papers, yeah?" "

"What are you on about?" Harry frowned, clearly lost, and the lads exchanged puzzled looks. But Malfoy didn’t seem to care that no one had a clue what he was going on about. His face practically lit up with excitement.

"Oh, don’t tell me you lot don’t know?" he practically purred, glancing at me like he was expecting a reaction. "With your dad working at the Ministry, you’d think you’d have heard something, Weasley. But I suppose he’s not important enough to be trusted with real information, is he?"

I stiffened, but I wasn’t about to let the ferret get a rise out of me.

"Alright, Malfoy," I said, leaning back lazily. "Spit it out. What exactly are we all supposed to know?"

Malfoy grinned wider, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Why, about the Triwizard Tournament, of course!"

"Harry, this clown's talking about the Triwizard Tournament," I muttered, exchanging glances with the others.

"Then just say that outright, Malfoy," Harry replied just as lazily, leaning back against the seat like he was posing for the cover of Witch Weekly. "You burst in here, spewed a load of nonsense, nearly started foaming at the mouth… No, I’m not entering—I’m taking a break. Got enough photos for now, as you so cleverly pointed out. One with Fudge, one with the Irish team, one with the Bulgarian Minister. Stop by later—I’ll sign you one."

"Oh, piss off," Malfoy snapped, his face turning red as he stormed out of the compartment like a popped cork.

We all burst into laughter—even Hermione put her book down to join in.

"That was brilliant—high five," I grinned. "Didn’t see that one coming."

"Someone needed to put him in his place," Neville agreed.

"Wait, you actually got photographed for a paper?" Dean asked, intrigued.

"Yeah, but only for an international one," Harry admitted, dropping the act and returning to his usual self. "Fudge asked, so I had to put up with it. But at least I got to hold the trophy—hang on, I’ll show you."

"Wicked," we all breathed as he pulled out the photo.

While everyone crowded around to look, I sat back and thought to myself—Potter had changed. Grown some teeth, finally. Malfoy wasn’t going to get under his skin this year, that was for sure. He’d never liked the attention, but now he’d figured out how to turn it against his enemies. A peaceful year without You-Know-Who or constant disasters had done him some good. But I wondered—if he got too comfortable with it, would we end up with a second James Potter?

"So, what’s this tournament all about?" someone asked, kicking off a whole new conversation.

That was Hermione’s cue. No one but her had actually read Hogwarts: A History or any of the other, supposedly fascinating books she hoarded. It was nice, seeing her in her element—quick-witted but a little pink in the face from all the attention.

Once Quidditch and the Tournament had been thoroughly discussed, the others drifted back to their compartments, leaving the three of us to enjoy a quiet cup of tea.

The rain was relentless. It poured as we stepped onto the platform and kept hammering down when we climbed into the carriages. But my mood was still sky-high, especially when a grumbling Hermione let Crookshanks loose and dried us off with a spell. Not that I couldn’t have done it myself, but it was nice to be looked after.

Harry and I, without even needing to plan it, sent Peeves flying with a well-aimed shield charm. It wasn’t particularly strong, but hitting him together was enough to make him drop his water balloon and scarper off, cursing. Surprisingly, McGonagall had appeared just after, and we hadn’t even gotten a telling-off for using magic in the corridors.

When we entered the Great Hall, I spotted Percy sitting at the staff table beside Professor Sinistra, looking as smug and self-important as ever. But his eyes were shining—he was proud. And why wouldn’t he be? He'd walked into this hall as a first-year once, and now he was up there, a professor. And you know what? I was genuinely happy for him. I gave him a friendly wave. He pretended not to notice but then, a minute later, subtly adjusted his hat in what I knew was a disguised wave back.

The Sorting went as usual. We cheered on the new first-years—especially the younger Creevey kid. But I was most enthusiastic when Dumbledore introduced our new History of Magic professor for first through third years. I’d thought Percy might be teaching us as well, but thank Merlin, that wasn’t the case—at least now the twins wouldn’t make his life a living hell.

Once the plates were cleared, Dumbledore made a grand announcement. Not that it was news to us—between Seamus, Dean, and the train ride, the entire school had already heard about it. Maybe that’s why the reveal didn’t get the dramatic reaction he was expecting—just a hum of excited chatter.

And then Moody picked his moment.

A crack of thunder. A flash of lightning.

He stomped into the hall, his wooden leg clunking against the floorboards, and made straight for the staff table. He shook Dumbledore’s hand like an old war buddy while his magical eye whizzed around, scanning every student in the room.

"Let me introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," Dumbledore announced cheerfully into the now-silent hall. "Professor Moody."

The man of the hour, and no doubt the subject of a million new Hogwarts rumours, took a slow, deliberate sniff of his sausage before taking a bite and washing it down with a swig from the silver flask he’d pulled from his damp coat pocket.

I stared, unable to look away.

"No way," I whispered.