JohnnyZ
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[Castling] Chapter 37
🕑 Added 2024-12-30 21:49:36 +0000 UTCFirst, we swung by Harry’s, then Hermione’s. Uncle Vernon was peeking out at us from behind the curtains but didn’t come out—not keen on facing a grown wizard, I reckon.
Dad, for once, was on his best behavior. No rushing to hug the Grangers or peppering them with endless questions—probably because he was running late for work. The Grangers seemed more at ease on their own turf, anyway. Hermione’s mum even gave me a warm smile, and her dad shook my hand firmly after I promised to look out for their daughter and bring her back safe and sound in two weeks.
As soon as Hermione’s house disappeared behind us, Dad flicked on the invisibility feature, and we took off. Hermione had already been goggling at the size of the car, but when it lifted off the ground… well, her face was a sight. Harry and I couldn’t help laughing, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was so awestruck she didn’t even notice. When she found her voice again, she asked to sit in the front seat and spent the rest of the journey bombarding Dad with questions, eyes shining with excitement.
Dad, of course, loved the attention and was happy to show her every button and lever. Then he told us to buckle up, switched on autopilot, and hit a brand-new button. The car shot forward like a rocket.
"I’ve fitted it with a booster, Ron," Dad said modestly, glancing back at me, though his eyes were practically glowing with excitement. "We’ll be home in fifteen minutes."
He spent the rest of the trip chatting about how he got the idea for the booster from the Knight Bus, though ours wasn’t nearly as powerful yet.
‘And thank Merlin for that,’ I thought, clutching the seat for dear life.
The Burrow made quite the impression on Hermione, though not as much as the car had. Sure, it looked odd and lopsided to Muggles, but as a wizarding home, it was brilliant.
After about an hour of settling in—during which Mum fussed over us with food while Harry and I gave Hermione a tour of the house and garden—she seemed to fit right in with the family. She was completely fascinated by the few magical bits and bobs we had lying around.
Dad came back at five, and we Flooed to the Ministry. The international travel portal we’d booked was set for six, so Dad gave us a little tour of the floors beforehand. It suddenly occurred to me to ask about the Hall of Prophecies—better to sort that out ahead of time rather than have a massive fight in the Ministry later.
On the other side, everything went smoothly. They sorted our papers, handed us translation devices, and handed us over to Charlie.
By the time we stepped outside, it was already getting dark—time differences, you know. It was nearly nine here. Charlie activated a portal, but instead of landing at his place, we ended up at a family-run inn. A stocky, dark-eyed Romanian woman showed us to our rooms—separate ones, even for Charlie.
Turns out, it was all for Hermione’s sake. It wasn’t proper, apparently, for a girl to stay in a house with boys and no women, even if she was only thirteen and just a friend. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it at all, and I was a bit surprised that while I’d been selfishly making plans, other people had to sort out the logistics for me. Charlie's solid, though, really reliable.
The food was brilliant, and later that evening, Charlie got to know Harry and Hermione better. We talked about plans for the next day before being packed off to bed. The landlady gave Hermione a colourful book about the local area, and she darted off to her room, thrilled.
Harry stuck around for a bit but soon left, yawning—turns out, he hadn’t slept all night from excitement. I stayed up chatting with Charlie, swapping news and reminiscing about the family and school.
This trip was shaping up to be even better than the last. Maybe it was because Mum and Ginny weren’t around, or maybe we were just older now.
The first three days were a whirlwind of museums, souvenirs, dragon feeding, shows, and the hatchery. Even though I’d seen it all before, it was still fascinating. As for Harry and Hermione, they couldn’t get enough of it, their heads swiveling in awe and terror just like mine had the first time.
Charlie even took us to the training grounds where reserve staff practiced and took their exams. No one was allowed to work there without passing their tests, and it was impressive to watch.
The staff, big blokes with gruff manners, were surprisingly soft-hearted. They spoiled us with chocolate and treated us like Molly does a baby, which left Hermione thoroughly flustered. Most of them were loners, living full-time in the reserve and missing their families, so we were a welcome distraction. Still, they made up for it by teaching us some spells and showing off their magic, which was pretty entertaining.
We also trekked into the mountains. At the summit was a crumbling ancient castle with massive open courtyards exposed to the wind—one of five such castles that had been found. We visited two of them.
Charlie explained that these castles once belonged to dragon-shifters—not animals or Animagi, but dragons that could take human form, originally from a magical land. They vanished suddenly, leaving behind only legends. Some say they opened a portal back to their world, others believe they were wiped out, or perhaps they succumbed to a dragon plague, traces of which still linger as dragon pox. No one really knows.
The magic in the castles was palpable, though—like a place of power, similar to Hogwarts. But it was so intense you couldn’t stay longer than half an hour without feeling overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. Most wizards bolted before long, some even throwing themselves off the ledges in a panic. That’s why the castles remained untouched—no one could get past the gates, no matter how many protective charms they had.
We also went sailing on a wide river in an ancient ship with dragon carvings on its prow.
In the evenings, Charlie taught us spells in the inn’s garden—unlocking charms, detection spells, locator spells, useful little things. Our days were packed, with only breaks for meals, and we returned to the inn each night knackered.
Even so, I couldn’t help brooding by evening. Time was ticking, and I still hadn’t figured out how to bring up what I wanted with Charlie. Probably because I’ve never really trusted anyone in this world—not after being let down by Dumbledore and Snape, who’s so tied to his master’s orders he can’t even breathe without them. No wonder I had doubts now. But Charlie turned out to be sharper than I’d expected.
"Ron, I can tell something's bothering you," said Charlie one evening when we found ourselves alone. "You know I’ll always help you out. You can tell me anything."
I saw the serious look on his face and the concern in his eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, I decided to go for it.
"Only if you swear an Unbreakable Vow, Charlie," I said, recalling from a book that it was one of the most reliable enchantments.
"That serious, is it?" he asked calmly after a pause, and I nodded stiffly.
"I can’t bind myself or you with something like that, Ron," he replied thoughtfully. "There might come a time when I’d need to act quickly, and an Unbreakable Vow could stop me. I wouldn’t even be able to ask for help. But you can trust me—I promise I won’t do or say anything about this without your approval."
"Do you remember when the twins nearly got me killed?" I began, hesitating. He nodded, and I pressed on. "I’ve been having strange dreams since then. And they… they come true."
Charlie didn’t seem overly surprised—probably not unusual in the wizarding world.
"And what’s scared you about them?" he asked.
"The Dark Lord made Horcruxes—anchors to keep himself alive—and he’ll be coming back soon. Harry’s one of them. There’s going to be a war, and our family’s going to suffer," I said, keeping it brief.
Charlie’s expression darkened. He took the news calmly enough, but his pupils seemed to swallow the colour of his eyes.
"Does anyone else know?" he asked sharply, staring directly at me.
"No. I wanted to tell Dumbledore when I got to Hogwarts, but I realised it wouldn’t help. He knows everything going on in the school, but he’s following his own plan and won’t care what I think, even if it means the Weasleys dying to protect the Chosen One. I don’t know why he’s doing it, but he won’t change course. And from what I’ve seen in my dreams, Dad will let him."
"You’re certain, Ron?" Charlie asked. "Not because I don’t believe you—this just… if you’re right, it’s bad. Really bad."
"I am," I said, frustrated. "They made it clear my first year that I was supposed to let Potter get himself into scrapes and not interfere. Snape told me that now Harry was at school, the Dark Lord would try to kill him. And the Headmaster said it was Harry’s destiny to face the Dark Lord and win—and I’d better not get in the way."
"Then maybe you really shouldn’t interfere, Ron," Charlie suggested unexpectedly. "I know Dumbledore a bit. He doesn’t do anything lightly. And we’re not seeing the full picture."
"I can’t just stand by, Charlie," I snapped, leaping to my feet. I rubbed my hands together nervously and started pacing, casting frustrated looks at him.
"In first year, maybe I could’ve broken an arm or a leg—fine, I’d have dealt with that. But second year? A Horcrux possessed Ginny. She spent the year wandering around the castle, controlled by the Dark Lord. She unleashed a bloody basilisk, and it’s sheer luck no one died. In the end, Harry had to kill the snake—any longer, and Ginny would’ve been dead for sure."
"But Ginny’s fine now," Charlie interrupted, grabbing my arm to stop me pacing. His face was filled with worry.
"Of course," I said bitterly, pulling away and sinking into a chair. "I destroyed the Horcrux. Actually, two of them—there was another one hidden in the Room of Requirement. That leaves four more, including Harry."
"Bloody hell, Ron, this is the worst news I’ve ever heard," Charlie admitted, running a hand down his face as he slumped into a chair beside me. His pained expression mirrored how I’d felt for months. We sat in silence, each lost in thought. Finally, he broke the quiet.
"Tell me everything," he ordered. "Every detail you can remember."
I spilled it all, relieved to finally share the burden. Charlie listened intently, only interrupting to clarify a few points. When I finished, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
"Well," Charlie said after a long pause, drumming his fingers on the armrest, "this is a mess."
I snorted. Like I didn’t already know that. But I felt better knowing Charlie was on my side and willing to help.
"Tomorrow, I’ll sort this out with a specialist," he said. "Don’t worry, I’ll make them make a vow," he added quickly when he saw my alarm. "We’ll need to check Harry for the Horcrux and get some advice. Does Harry have to kill the Dark Lord himself, like the prophecy says, or can we help? And is there a way to extract the Horcrux without killing him? Sound fair?"
"Alright," I agreed reluctantly. "If money’s an issue, I’ve got some basilisk skin and a vial of venom. Not sure how much they’re worth, but I’ve got four more vials at home if needed."
Charlie looked stunned, then demanded to see my trophies. I told him the whole story of how I’d acquired them, feeling a spark of pride at his impressed reaction.
The next day started off slow, but then… well, Charlie disappeared on some errand, and in his place, a lively girl turned up—a friend’s daughter named Baska. She was about seventeen, round-faced, cheeky, and full of mischief. She took us on a whirlwind shopping trip, not in the reserve but via a portal to a wizarding quarter.
Apparently, it was a rare privilege—tourists in the reserve weren’t usually taken there, since the shops sold enchanted items, not just brooms and souvenirs. I spent nearly all the money I’d brought along.
Even Hermione couldn’t resist, though she wasn’t entirely pleased. She had plenty of money, but magical books weren’t legally sold to foreigners without permits. The hotel owner kept her entertained with light reading material, but you could see the frustration simmering.
The market had all sorts of treasures. One that caught my eye was a universal translator artifact. Wear it constantly while reading dictionaries or talking to foreigners, and you’d pick up the language effortlessly. But it drained magical energy and could mess with your temperament—leaving you either jittery or apathetic, depending on your nature. Hermione was livid she couldn’t afford it—300 Galleons—and wasn’t old enough to use it safely anyway. I kept an eye on her to make sure she didn’t try to buy anything dangerous, though our guide was equally vigilant.
They had Invisibility Cloaks—not like Harry’s but decent enough—communication mirrors, and stealth artifacts that masked a wizard’s aura and heat signature, perfect for dragon tracking. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to buy much. I left with a couple of harmless potions, a self-inking quill, a wand holster for my forearm, and a few other bits and bobs. Nothing earth-shattering, but it was still a brilliant day.
At least Harry and I managed to get ourselves some proper clothes. Enchanted ones are miles better than Muggle stuff. They never pinch, always keep you warm, don’t get soaked, and clean themselves — not to mention you can transfigure them to look Muggle, and they’ll be none the worse for wear. Every time I think of Ron’s frilly old dress robes, I shudder. That disaster still haunts me. For some reason, a line from one of Ron’s letters to Harry popped into my head: something about the whole family going to Egypt and how his parents promised to buy him a wand, even though the trip cost a fortune — talk about priorities, eh? Anyway, as long as I can sort myself out, I’ll keep doing so.
That evening, Charlie turned up and gave me a look that screamed, you know what’s coming. He looked the same as always, though, so I relaxed — everything must be going according to plan.
He told us he’d arranged for a visit to a local shaman’s village. We’d be staying there for a week if we liked it; if not, we’d come back. He went on about natural magic, peculiar animals, and shamanic rituals. Everyone went to bed buzzing with anticipation, but I stayed back to have a word with Charlie.
“I’ve found a specialist,” he said tiredly, sinking into a chair and shutting his eyes. “Took some convincing, though. Hadji doesn’t deal with outsiders. If it weren’t for the life debt his son owes me, he’d have turned me down flat. Normally, necromancers handle this sort of thing, but there aren’t any left in Britain. Even if there were, they don’t work for money. It’s a right headache dealing with them. There’s always the option of Africa, but that’s a last resort. The local magic there’s so unpredictable, it’s better not to poke that nest. Still, if worse comes to worst, we’ll have to risk it — I can call in a favour through Kingsley.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” I sighed. “What about Black? Could we get him exonerated if we handed Pettigrew over to the authorities? Black’d be a big help back in England — you’re not exactly going to be around to help.”
Charlie frowned, his eyes snapping open as he sat up straighter. “No chance. I’ve thought about it. Black wouldn’t survive to see a trial — they’d see to that. Here’s the thing, Ron: the Ministry has no interest in admitting they cocked up. The public backlash would be massive. Just think about it: the heir of an ancient family rotting in Azkaban for years, all while being innocent. Heads would roll, and not just at the Ministry — other families with relatives in Azkaban would start demanding retrials.
“And you’re right, Fudge and Dumbledore are in cahoots. Dumbledore was head of the Wizengamot during Black’s trial. If Fudge wanted to oust Dumbledore, he might use this to stir up trouble, but right now, it’s not worth his while. Fudge didn’t lock Black up, but he’d still be the one taking the heat for it. Easier for him to have Black quietly silenced — maybe a Dementor’s Kiss on the spot or a dose of something nasty. Ever heard of someone being ‘allergic’ to Veritaserum? Same idea. No loose ends.”
“Damn shame,” I muttered, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “I could really use someone reliable to count on. What do you reckon, Charlie?” I asked suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Maybe I should just tell Dad the whole truth? He wouldn’t risk his kids, would he?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Ron,” Charlie sighed. “Dad owes Dumbledore too much. During the first war, he sheltered our parents. We lived in his cottage in Godric’s Hollow — the only reason our family wasn’t wiped out. And all of us Weasleys attend Hogwarts under a special program for families in need. Education’s not free, mate. The Board of Governors and the Ministry’s Education Department cover the costs. Grants are only given to Muggle-borns since they’re the ones required to attend school. Pure-bloods either homeschool their kids to keep them away from ‘undesirable influences’ or pay for it themselves, saving up from the day they’re born.
“Blood traitors or not, we’re still pure-bloods. Used to be that wealthy families sponsored poorer ones, but these days, the Ministry grants two slots per year for those affected by the War. And the Headmaster decides who gets them, quietly. Sometimes even someone from Knockturn Alley gets lucky. I know for a fact your classmate Longbottom’s on one of those grants — his parents suffered during the war. Seven Weasley kids at Hogwarts? You get the picture. Dumbledore can ask for anything from our family, and Dad won’t say no.”
“Figures. Charlie, what’s a ‘blood traitor’ anyway?” I asked. “And don’t give me that rubbish about loving Muggles. Why’s our family branded as traitors?”
Charlie snorted but quickly sobered. “It goes back to our grandfather, from father’s side. He had three sons. Dad was the youngest and wasn’t meant to inherit the family line. But the eldest passed on the title, and then the second did the same. In the end, there was no one left but Dad.”
“How do you even pass on an inheritance like that?” I asked, floored.
“Simple enough,” Charlie said with a sigh. “There’s a ritual and a formal renunciation. Families do it when the eldest heir’s a weak wizard or sickly. They’re kept under the family’s care but can’t inherit. We were branded as traitors not too long ago, back in the late 1930s, when the Sacred Twenty-Eight list was already a thing. Dad’s brothers gave up their inheritance and married ‘unsuitable’ women — one married a Muggle, and the other married a Muggle-born witch. Grandad refused to disown them or cut ties, so our family was struck off the list and declared blood traitors.”
“What’s the point, though?” I asked, baffled. “Why’s everyone so against marrying Muggle-borns? They’re witches and wizards too, aren’t they? Why cut someone off for that?”
“Muggles don’t have magic, Ron,” Charlie explained. “They’re of no use to magical families. Worse, their bloodlines might carry illnesses or genetic quirks that could resurface in future generations. Same goes for half-bloods and Muggle-borns. They don’t know their ancestry or what’s hidden in their blood. They don’t keep meticulous records of everything. Say, a great-grandparent got scratched by a werewolf but didn’t turn, only developed a craving for rare steak. That trait could crop up in a descendant as partial lycanthropy. So for them, why risk it?
“Then there are magical creatures, Ron. In Britain, Veelas, they aren’t beings, they are creatures (1) but in other countries, they can legally marry wizards. Veela traits usually fade after three or four generations, but you might suddenly get a child with their abilities years down the line.
“Another example: during the Goblin Wars, some families even ransomed daughters to goblins to save their lands from raids. Who knows what happened to those women? Their children might’ve passed for a human, but generations later, you get someone like Flitwick — a great wizard but goblin-blooded.
“Pure-bloods don’t take risks with their lines. They carefully pick which families to marry into. The desire to be perfect and normal is their obsession and they don’t take it lightly… Anyway, enough with heavy topics before bed, if you are interested I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”
We said our goodbyes, and I headed to my room, but I couldn’t fall asleep for half the night. I hadn’t realised how deeply rooted the prejudice against Muggle-borns really was. At least now I understood why they’re called Mudbloods. It still didn’t sit right with me, but… Whatever.
I still had a few more questions buzzing in my head, I’ll ask them next time.
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AN: The author does not profess racism, but writes about pureblood wizards and their beliefs and traditions.
TN:
Wiki says that Veelas are classified as beings in Britain. It seems to be a mistake from the author.
