The afternoon sun slanted through the tilted windows of the Burrow's attic room, casting long, warm rays across a scattering of toys and well-worn books. Five-year-old Bill Weasley and his little brother Charlie, who was not quite three, laughed as they chased each other around the small space, their bare feet padding on the creaky wooden floorboards. The gentle chaos of the house echoed all around — Molly's soft humming drifting up from the kitchen, Arthur's distant chuckle, and the steady thumping steps of Percy's careful toddling somewhere below with their newborn baby brother asleep in his cradle.
"Tag, you're it!" Bill cried, a rare burst of childlike joy breaking through his usual calm.
Charlie grinned wildly, his messy red curls bouncing. "No! You're it!" he shouted with innocent glee before scrambling towards the window at the far end of the room.
Bill followed, eyes bright with amusement. The window was old and crooked but always stood open in the mild afternoons, letting garden scents flood the room. Charlie leaned too far outside to catch a fluttering butterfly, the wooden frame creaking dangerously under his weight.
"Charlie, be careful!" Bill warned, but the words came too late. The younger boy slipped.
A gasp tore from Bill's throat as Charlie tumbled backward, falling out the window toward the grassy bushes below.
Instincts sharper than any child's took over. Bill darted forward and, with long limbs catching at air and wood, jumped after Charlie without hesitation.
Time slowed. The moment hung fragile like glass.
Then a sudden warmth burst within Bill's right hand — golden and fierce. His fingers splayed midair, and a rush of magic surged outward, soft and steady, unheard by others but powerful enough to cushion Charlie's fall.
The younger boy landed with a startled yelp but no pain. Bill followed to the ground, feet landing hard but unharmed.
Relief shattered the tension in Bill's chest, but his strength gave out suddenly, and darkness rushed in.
The golden warmth in Bill's right hand faded as darkness claimed him, but his mind drifted instead into a strange dream.
He saw himself standing in a cold, sterile hospital room, gasping and struggling to breathe. The word Covid echoed like a distant warning — a cruel plague from a world he once knew. Faces blurred in and out, voices talking about loss and fear, and a crushing loneliness that spread like shadow through his chest.
He remembered the helplessness, the final fading breath, and then... nothing.
Bill's eyes fluttered open slowly, the soft rustle of voices and the scent of fresh herbs pulling him from the shadows. His gaze shifted lazily, taking in the familiar rough wooden beams and patchwork curtains of the Burrow's attic room.
"Mum?" Bill croaked, voice weak but steady.
Molly's face appeared above him, her eyes wide with worry but full of relief. "Oh, Bill! You gave us quite a scare. You just fainted—are you feeling better now?"
Arthur stood nearby, wiping his hands on his trousers, his usually boisterous expression shaded with concern. "You really shouldn't be pushing yourself so hard, Bill."
From the doorway, little Charlie toddled in with wide eyes, holding a small stuffed frog close to his chest. "Bill! You okay?"
Bill mustered a smile, still dizzy but comforted by the warm presence of his family. "I'm fine, Charlie. Just tired."
Molly bustled about, fetching a bowl of cool water and gently brushing Bill's hair from his forehead. "You scared me, my darling. But it's good to see you awake."
Bill slowly sat up as Percy padded into the room, wobbling slightly on his tiny feet. At just a few weeks old, Percy cooed softly from his cradle wrapped in a knitted blanket that Molly had made in secret between chores.
The room buzzed softly with everyday life—the buzz and hum of a large, loving family in the middle of a busy day.
Bill's thoughts drifted for a moment, soaking in the gentle chaos around him: the faint clatter of pots from below, the murmur of his siblings playing in the garden, and Arthur's rich laugh ringing up the stairs.
For a boy who had just awoken from darkness—and memories of another life—these sounds were an anchor.
He allowed himself a moment of peace, a silent promise forming in his heart: to live fully in this noisy, warm world. To be the gentle brother Charlie adored. To watch over baby Percy as Molly did with endless care.
And yes—he would act like the five-year-old child he was.
Because who wouldn't want to be here, in the magical Burrow, surrounded by family with golden afternoons, wild gardens, and mystery on every corner?
Bill closed his eyes for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips.
This is home.
The next morning, Bill awoke slowly to the familiar warmth and gentle chatter of the Burrow. But his mind was heavy with memories—not just of the peaceful attic room or his loving family, but of the dark days he had only heard whispered in tales: the rise of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the shadow of the First Wizarding War that had gripped the wizarding world since 1970, and the constant fear that swept through every corner of magical Britain. Bill knew those stories well—the battles, the sacrifices, and the price paid by so many. He understood that danger wasn't far away; the war was real and relentless.
In that quiet dawn, Bill made a choice. He would keep his true strength hidden, lie low among his family, and patiently gather knowledge and power in secret. He would not rush into the fray as a gifted child shouting his brilliance, but become a silent guardian, prepared for the storm to come.
And he held within his right hand a secret weapon — his "golden finger" of appraisal. It was a subtle yet extraordinary gift: the ability to perceive detailed information about anything just by touching it — whether a living being, an object, a potion, or even a complex event. This power was unlike any magic others had; it was silent, invisible, and could not be detected or stopped by any charm. It allowed Bill to "see" the true nature, properties, weaknesses, and possible outcomes related to the world around him—a cheat of knowledge that would guide him wisely as he grew.
With a cautious smile, Bill folded his hands and whispered softly, "Time to learn. Time to protect."