Chapter 66 – The Weight of Knowledge
The morning of September 1st, 1990, dawned with a rare stillness at the Burrow. Golden light filtered through the crooked windows, landing on half-packed trunks, scattered spellbooks, and a very awake Ginny Weasley—who was tugging on her socks with the determination of a duelist going to war. Downstairs, Arthur's voice mingled with Molly's as they discussed tickets, trunks, and the latest article in the Daily Prophet about Hogwarts' upcoming term.
But the one who seemed most calm was Ron.
He sat by the window, a notebook on his lap, a steaming cup of tea beside him. Mr. Stark perched proudly on the sill, feathers glinting faintly in the dawn. Ron's eyes weren't on the rolling hills outside, though—they were on a thin parchment marked with an intricate header:
"Hogwarts Academic Addendum – 1990–1991 Curriculum."
His name appeared thrice.
Once under Potions.
Once under Herbology.
Once again under Astrology.
The same looping signature: Ronald Bilius Weasley.
He traced it with a finger, half in disbelief. He'd known it would happen—the meetings with Dumbledore, the letters from Sprout, the paperwork from the Society—but seeing it printed felt different.
His brothers' reactions, of course, had been exactly what he'd expected.
Fred had nearly spat out his pumpkin juice. "You're kidding! Hogwarts is teaching your books? Next you'll tell me you've replaced Binns in History of Magic."
George had added solemnly, "Blimey, imagine—'Professor Weasley,' terror of First Years."
Percy, as usual, had gone red-eared and stiff. "It's remarkable, Ronald, but do try not to let it inflate your head. Academic prestige requires modesty."
Charlie had only laughed and said, "Good on you, mate. Just remember who helped you carry those crates to the owl post."
Molly had been speechless for nearly a full minute before enveloping Ron in one of her crushing hugs. "My baby's a published author—three times over!"
And Arthur, always the quiet one when pride hit too deep, had simply said, "You've changed more than I understand, Ron—but you're still my son. Just don't lose that."
Now, as the clock chimed seven, Ron folded the parchment and looked toward the Burrow's kitchen, where Mr. Bishop's tall silhouette was visible through the back door. The man had arrived early, wearing his usual dark grey coat and that air of polite curiosity that always seemed one word away from turning into mischief.
Bishop's arrival at the Burrow had always been something of a disruption—a ripple of Muggle precision in a house that thrived on organized chaos. He'd come to escort Ron and Ginny back to his estate for their Muggle studies, as part of their unusual education plan sanctioned jointly by the Ministry of Magic and certain "informed" Muggle liaisons.
This morning, however, his purpose carried an extra question.
"So," Bishop began, sipping tea at the Weasleys' cluttered table, "your brother tells me young Ginny here has the reflexes of a wildcat but the discipline of a daydreamer."
Ginny scowled, her toast mid-bite. "Oi!"
Arthur chuckled. "She's got her mother's temper and the twins' stubbornness, that's what she's got."
Bishop's smile didn't fade. "All the better. Ronald thinks she should take up sports seriously."
That turned every head in the kitchen.
"Sports?" Molly blinked. "You mean Muggle games?"
"Physical training," Bishop clarified smoothly. "Endurance, coordination, focus. Things useful for any field—magical or not. With your permission, of course."
Arthur hesitated. "You're certain it's safe?"
"As safe as chasing a Quaffle," Bishop said lightly. "Probably safer."
Ginny's eyes widened at that. "Quaffle? Wait—you mean like Quidditch?"
Bishop glanced toward Ron. "Something like that. But with… fewer broomsticks."
Ron couldn't help smiling. The scene was almost nostalgic—too normal, in a way.
"I think it'll help her," he said simply. "She's got the instinct for it."
And for a brief second, the faint echo of his past life brushed against his mind—flashes of a blazing red-haired Chaser, fierce and fearless, streaking across a Quidditch pitch. He pushed it away gently. This time, she'd get there differently.
After a few moments of consideration, Arthur nodded. "If it's what she wants."
Ginny beamed. "I definitely want!"
Molly sighed, defeated. "Fine. But if she comes home with bruises—"
"She won't," Bishop promised with that infuriatingly calm certainty of his.
And that was how Ginny Weasley's informal training began—under the eye of a man who saw potential like a strategist reading a battlefield.
Three days later, Ron was in the library at Bishop's estate, surrounded by stacks of both Muggle and wizarding history books.
His quill hovered over the parchment as the System's faint voice shimmered in his mind.
[World History: Study Duration Adjustment by 1000 Years.]
[Proceed: Y/N]
He inhaled slowly. "Proceed."
Light rippled behind his eyes. Knowledge flooded in like a tide breaking through every dam—empires rising and collapsing, plagues and revolutions, the silent wars of magic and policy, the invisible hands that shaped both worlds. He could see connections historians had never written down—how wizarding politics mirrored Muggle empires, how certain magical collapses aligned eerily with Muggle industrial surges.
Then came the backlash.
A spike of pressure behind his eyes.
A noise like a heartbeat pounding against the skull.
Then silence.
He opened his eyes to darkness and the faint hum of Mr. Stark's concerned trill.
Two days later, the headache had dulled to a persistent throb, but nothing worse.
When he stood before the mirror, pale and hollow-eyed, he smiled slightly.
"Progress," he muttered.
The System remained quiet, but he felt its silent acknowledgment—the same way a teacher looks at a student who's finally stopped tripping over the first steps.
Now, history itself unfolded in his mind like an intricate map. He could trace causes and consequences, like seeing gears turn inside reality.
He wrote endlessly after that—charts, analysis, parallels, even speculative models of magical social development. His handwriting grew tighter, his sentences sharper.
And somewhere in between those sleepless nights and quiet mornings, he finished another document.
A simple script, bound in rough parchment, its title page left blank.
Hogwarts Legends: Chapter 1 – Of Valor and Magic (Part Two).
He placed it in a drawer, unmarked and unannounced. The world wasn't ready for it yet.
At Hogwarts, meanwhile, a different sort of storm was brewing.
First-year students had barely unpacked their trunks when whispers began to swirl around the corridors. In the library, over breakfast, outside classrooms—the name "Ronald Weasley" seemed to appear on every cover and every tongue.
"Wait—this Herbology book—same author as the Potions one?"
"And the Astrology guide too! He's our age, isn't he?"
"Blimey, I heard he's not even at Hogwarts yet!"
Professor Flitwick chuckled softly when he overheard it. "Ah, fame finds the strangest corners, doesn't it?"
Professor Sprout, organizing a shelf of student copies, smiled with quiet satisfaction. "At least this fame comes from learning, not from foolishness."
Even Snape, when passing by a group of whispering students in the dungeons, had paused long enough to glance at a copy of Principles of Potion-Brewing: Apprentice Edition. His lip curled—not quite in disdain, not quite in approval. "Weasley," he muttered. "Let's see how long the world remembers that name for intellect instead of incompetence."
McGonagall, of course, merely adjusted her spectacles and noted to Dumbledore that "the staff should prepare for a new kind of curiosity among students this year."
Dumbledore's eyes had twinkled. "Knowledge, Minerva, is a contagion best left uncured."
And Fawkes, from his perch, had given a low, melodic trill—one that echoed faintly in the ancient stones of the castle, as if the phoenix himself sensed the beginning of something vast.
Back at Bishop's estate, evening fell over Ron's desk. Ginny's laughter echoed faintly from the garden where she practiced footwork drills with Bishop's enchanted training spheres.
Ron leaned back, rubbing his temple, the last of the headache fading away. He looked at the growing pile of notes on his desk—histories, projections, ideas too advanced for his age yet frighteningly precise.
He didn't feel tired. Only focused.
A strange peace, sharper than exhaustion, had replaced the usual tension.
The owl outside hooted once, sensing its master's calm.
Mr. Stark spread his wings briefly, the glow in his golden eyes dimming to a steady pulse.
Ron closed his notebook and whispered to the empty air, "One thousand years of history. And still, people repeat the same mistakes."
The quill beside him moved of its own accord, jotting down his next line of thought—somewhere between philosophy and planning.
Far away, at Hogwarts, Dumbledore paused by his office window, looking out at the dusky mountains. Fawkes stirred on his perch.
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, as though answering a thought that had traveled across miles. "The wheel turns again."
He smiled faintly. "But this time, the boy knows how it was built."
The phoenix sang softly, and somewhere, a young mind kept writing, reshaping the logic of two worlds one careful page at a time. There is an opened letter on his desk, with the name "Bishop" written on it.