Chapter Text
Ron jolted awake as the alarm blared with an ear-splitting shriek. He lurched out of his makeshift bed, arms and legs flailing about like a wild octopus, only to end up crashing face-first onto the floor, hopelessly tangled in a heap of blankets.
The first thing he fumbled for was his wand. His hand frantically groped through the mess of sheets, but it was nowhere to be found. Brilliant, just brilliant. If it had been an intruder with a temper, he’d have been done for, sprawled out like that, helpless and completely unarmed.
He’d only managed to close his eyes for an hour—just a bloody hour—and now, through the narrow window of the cluttered, dust-filled room, the light streaming in made it clear that morning had already arrived.
This was his life now—slogging away at his brothers’ shop day in and day out, working his fingers to the bone. The pay? Pathetically low. Barely enough to cover half his meals, and the rest went straight towards chipping away at the mountain of debts his family still carried. It wasn’t glamorous, not by a long shot, but it was what he had to do. No fancy job, no cushy pay—just long hours and endless tasks.
They weren’t exactly rubbing shoulders with those posh pure-bloods and their swanky family estates, all decked out with grand dining halls and endless corridors. Nah, they were just a bunch of scrappy folks, knocking oneself out and making do with what they had. Life was a constant grind, and if you wanted to keep your head above water, you had to put in the hours and earn every bit of coin.
Ron scrambled towards the door and flung it open with a crash. There stood the twins, Fred and George, both beaming like they'd just pulled off the most brilliant prank and were dying to boast about it to the whole world.
"Blimey," Fred quipped, waving his hand in front of his nose as though swatting away an awful stench. "When was the last time you had a proper bath? You could knock a troll out with that smell!"
Ron scowled at them, “Shut it, Fred. I’ve been busting my arse in this shop while you two prance around. Maybe if you actually did some proper work for once, you’d be smelling just as bad!"
He folded his arms, while glaring at them both, though he knew full well they'd just laugh it off like they always did.
George snickered, "Oh, come off it, Ron. You’re making it sound like we sit around all day sipping tea and twiddling our thumbs," he said, feigning a hurt expression. "Takes real skill to run a shop that’s as successful as ours, mate. You should be thanking us for giving you the honour of working under the great Fred and George Weasley!"
"Yeah, think of it, Ronniekins! While you're stocking shelves and manning the furnace, you're learning from the best pranksters in wizarding history. It’s practically a privilege!" Fred beamed, clapping hand on George's shoulder.
"Besides,” George said, “We work hard. All this brilliance doesn’t just happen overnight. So, you’re welcome, by the way, for the free entertainment every morning.”
Ron looked at the both of them, “Fine.” he seethed, before slamming the door shut again, thoroughly irritated. He barely had time to change, let alone freshen up properly.
Why would he, anyway? He was always shoved in the back of the shop, out of the way of the customers. Most days, he didn’t have to deal with them at all, thank Merlin. The only time he’d be dragged out front was if Fred and George had some special deliveries to sort out, or if they needed an extra pair of hands. Other than that, he was left in relative peace, away from all the racket and fuss of the shop floor. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a hell of a lot quieter.
Of course, one thing that made the work less bearable was that he wasn’t allowed to use any magic. Most of the products were enchanted, and using magic on them could set off all sorts of unpredictable reactions. So, if Ron had to sort through the stock or clean up the shop, he had to do it the old-fashioned way—no wand-waving allowed. It made everything a lot more tedious and time-consuming, but that was just another part of the job he had to put up with.
“Oi!” Fred called out, voice echoing from the aisles. “We’ll be sorting out the back before lunch, so can you pop down to the market and grab a few bits for us? We’re running low on supplies!”
“Don’t forget to take the deliveries over to Mr. Buckley!” George chimed in from behind the counter, “He’s been waiting for those, and we don’t want to keep him hanging. Ta!”
One more thing he absolutely loathed was that it wasn’t just working at the shop—Ron felt like a downright slave whenever the twins needed something. They’d call on him for every little errand, from picking up supplies to running personal errands. It was as if his only job was to cater to their every whim, and it drove him up the wall.
The same thing happened when he got back home—the moment he walked through the door, it was straight into another round of chores. He’d have to tackle the pile of dirty dishes stacked up in the sink, sort through he laundry that seemed to multiply overnight, or head out to tend to the livestock from their farm. It was always the same old routine—never-ending and relentless. There was no time to put his feet up or take a breather; as soon as he was home, it was back to work. It felt like there was always something else that needed his attention, and the list of tasks never seemed to shrink.
The Weasleys weren’t exactly the most renowned bunch; in fact, they weren’t all that thrilling or noteworthy. They were one of those in the lowest community, working hard just to make ends meet and feed their children.
He had plenty of brothers, each one with their own set of responsibilities. His parents were always fussing over them, making sure they were sorted and well on their way. Unfortunately, Ron was in a bit of a bind—he hadn’t received any proper magical education, so finding a job was a real struggle. He was doing his best to pitch in where he could, trying to keep up with the demands of the family and make a name for himself.
His sister, Ginny, was the only daughter in the family, and by some stroke of luck, their parents had managed to get her into a proper education. It was a rare bit of good fortune in their otherwise mundane lives, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy—watching her get the opportunities he’d been denied made him all the more aware of the gaps in his own life and the opportunities he was missing out on.
What would it cost him to get his hands on those magical books? It felt like a distant dream he might never reach. All he could do was basic spells—cleaning charms and levitation, hardly anything impressive. The idea of getting hold of proper magical texts, of learning spells beyond the simplest ones, seemed so out of reach.
It was a bitter pill to swallow knowing that while others were diving into advanced magic, he was stuck with only the most rudimentary skills. It was a reminder of what he was missing out on and how much more there was to learn if only he had the chance.
“Just a few things to pick up,” Fred said, handing Ron a list of supplies and a bag of knuts, giving him a jaunty salute, as if it were a mere trifle. “Shouldn’t take you too long. Cheers!”
He trudged to the back and grabbed the wheelbarrow, which was loaded with two heavy boxes meant for Mr. Buckley. He was somewhat relieved that the man lived just in the neighbourhood, right near the town centre. At least he wouldn’t have to lug the boxes too far—though it was still a fair bit of effort.
He grabbed his flat cap and adjusted it on his head before pushing the wheelbarrow out onto the cobbled street, the thing wobbled as he manoeuvred it over the wet patches left by the evening rain.
Mr. Buckley’s place was a good few miles from the shop, and Ron had heard all sorts of rumours about the old bloke. Folks around town liked to whisper that he’d once been a top-notch magical merchant, working for the palace. The stories painted him as a bit of a legend in his own right, someone who had seen and done things far beyond the usual run-of-the-mill magic.
Ron then snorted at the thought. A palace, really? He’d never heard of anyone from their small town ever setting foot in such a grand place. It seemed a bit far-fetched, if you asked him.
The idea of Mr. Buckley having worked in a palace felt more like one of those exaggerated stories that people spun to make themselves sound more impressive. He doubted there was much truth to it, especially in a town where most people barely ventured beyond the market.
And as for the palace, well, they did exists but Ron had never heard anything about them beyond the occasional newspaper mention, something he rarely read about but never really thought he’d have any personal experience, considering how little interaction the folks from their small town had with anything grand or royal.
Ron finally arrived at Mr. Buckley’s residence, the wheelbarrow thumping to a halt as he set it down with a grunt. He raised his hand and knocked on the door with a determined rap. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a weathered little man with a round, ruddy face that lit up with a broad grin.
“There you are!” Mr. Buckley greeted, warm and welcoming.
“Morning, Mr. Buckley,” Ron responded wearily. “Let me just grab the checklist first,” he added, rifling through his saddle bag.
“Oh, come in first!” Mr. Buckley gestured for him to enter, “Can’t have you catching your death of cold this morning, can we? The weather’s all over the place today, isn’t it?” He threw a look at the dreary sky, “A proper odd sort of day for it, I’d say.”
“No, thank you,” Ron replied, shaking his head with a faint smile. “I’ve still got a fair bit of work to get through—you know, the usual.”
The man hummed thoughtfully, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered Ron’s words. “Ah, but my daughter would love to meet you, remember Donna?” He said cheerfully, “She’s always going on about how she’s heard so much about you!”
Ron opened his mouth to respond but he suddenly remembered—Donna, Mr. Buckley’s daughter had passed away three months ago. Besides, it seemed impossible that anyone would be talking about him—no one around here really acknowledged others much, unless you happened to pass them every day on your errand.
He thought about it for a moment; even then, people hardly gave a second glance. It wasn’t the sort of place where you’d have your name passed around, especially not to the point of being remembered by a woman.
“Err,” Ron glanced towards the road, his ears going a bit red. “But I’ve still got to head down to the market…”
Mr. Buckley’s hopeful expression faltered ever so slightly, though he immediately covered it with a soft, almost pleading smile. “Would it be too much for you to keep me company for a bit longer?”
Ron hesitated, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, his brows knitting together. He knew full well how lonely Mr. Buckley must be, especially after everything he’d been through recently. It wasn’t just loneliness, either—it was the kind that clung to you like a shadow, creeping into every quiet moment. The poor bloke had lost so much, and though he never outright said it, he could see it plain as day in the old man’s eyes, the way they seemed to carry the weight of it all.
He glanced up at Mr. Buckley, who was standing there with a hopeful expression, and that did it. Ron couldn’t leave him now, not after seeing that. "Well, I suppose…I mean, if you need me to stick around a bit longer, I could, you know…besides, the market’ll still be there in an hour, right? No one’s gonna miss me that much."
The two of them settled down for a cup of tea, and Mr. Buckley seemed completely at ease, a gentle smile on his face as he sipped his tea. He didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t comment on, how dirty Ron's shoes were. They were splattered with mud, and some of it had likely transferred onto the freshly cleaned floor.
He shifted in his chair, trying to discreetly brush off the mud, but it was a bit of a lost cause. He glanced around, feeling awkward about the mess.
Mr. Buckley, oblivious to Ron’s discomfort, looked at him kindly and said, “Oh, don’t you worry about the floor. It’s nothing to fret over.”
Ron managed a sheepish grin, feeling a bit relieved. “I’m really sorry about that,” he said, “I didn’t mean to track in all that muck.”
The man waved a dismissive hand, “Not to worry, lad. My daughter used to traipse dirt all over the house when she was little,” Mr. Buckley said, “But now, seeing a bit of muck on the floor, it just brings her to mind. It’s funny, really—it’s those little bits of mess that make me remember the good old days with her."
Ron wasn’t quite sure who Donna was and had never had the pleasure of meeting her, but as he glanced around the living room, he noticed the old, moving picture frames that dotted the shelves. The frames showed a series of photographs that shifted subtly, and most of the images depicted a young woman, full of life.
To his surprise, Donna wasn’t the grown woman he’d imagined from Mr. Buckley’s stories. Instead, she looked to be about fifteen years old.
“Your daughter looked like she had quite the personality, didn’t she? I’d never have guessed she was so young from the way you talked about her.” Ron said.
Mr. Buckley gave a soft chuckle, nodding. “Ah, she was a handful, that one. Full of life and never a dull moment.” He said, lost in fond memories.
So they sat there, enjoying the quiet companionship, with the tea slowly disappearing from their cups. The room was filled with silence, only interrupted by the occasional clink of china as they took sips.
After a few minutes, as the last dregs of tea remained in their cups, Ron shifted in his seat. “Err,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’d best be off now, sir. Got to get to that market before it closes, you know.”
Mr. Buckley looked up, “Don’t let me keep you, lad. Thanks for staying a bit longer.”
Ron stood up and gathered his flat cap. “No trouble at all, Mr. Buckley! It was nice chatting, really.”
The market didn’t actually close until the evening, but Ron knew he’d be met with a barrage of questions from the twins when he got back. They’d want to know where he’d been, and he could already hear their relentless teasing. It wasn’t like he couldn’t come up with a good story, though, even if it was a bit far-fetched.
Ron stepped outside, the crisp air greeting him. He’d just tell them he’d gotten caught up helping Mr. Buckley with a few things, maybe spin a tale about rescuing a cat or some such nonsense. They’d probably give him a hard time about it, but in the end, they'd believe whatever he told them. After all, they were used to his tall tales by now.
When he finally made his way back to the shop, his arms weighed down with bags from the market, he was met with the twins’ eager faces.
“So, where’ve you been off to, then?” George asked, leaning on the counter.
“Yeah, you weren’t off gallivanting somewhere, were you?” Fred chimed in.
“Just gave Mr. Buckley a hand with a few bits and bobs—ended up having a natter longer than I meant to.” Ron said.
The twins exchanged a look that clearly said they didn’t quite buy the whole few bits and bobs, but were too amused to care. “Did you now?” George grinned. “That’s a new one.”
Ron grumbled and waved them off. “Well, it’s all part of the job, innit? Now, let’s get on with it.”
He threw himself into the work, pushing through the tiredness that was creeping up on him. When the clock ticked closer to midnight, his pace didn’t falter. Ron was determined to make the most of his shift, knowing he’d have the chance to rest soon enough.
“We’re going home this Saturday,” Fred announced as they tidied up the shop before closing.
Ron, hunched over and scrubbing the floor, looked up with a frown. “But we just visited last week, didn’t we?”
George gave him a look and smacked his forehead with the newspaper he’d been using to dust off the shelves. “Didn't you read the letters? Mum's been running around like mad, all because we're supposed to celebrate Ginny's graduation!”
Ron rubbed his head, shooting a slightly annoyed glare at his brother. “Well, how’m I supposed to remember things like that when I’m up to me elbows in work all the time?” He caught himself, realising how petty he sounded. It wasn’t Ginny’s fault; it was just the way things had ended up. Her special day made Ron feel a bit left out and unappreciated. “Guess it’s just how things go,” he grumbled, trying to push the irritation aside. “Might as well get used to it.”
As the days ticked down to Saturday, Ron found himself increasingly absorbed in his work while his brothers were all abuzz with the preparations for Ginny’s celebration. They chattered endlessly about the plans, the decorations, and, most of all, the cost of it all.
“Did you hear how much Mum’s spending on the cake?” Fred asked one afternoon, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s not just any cake; it’s a proper showstopper.”
“Yeah, and all the decorations she’s ordered,” George added, rolling his eyes. “Merlin, might as well just set up a whole new room for the party.”
Ron, dusting away at the shop counters, tried to tune them out, focusing instead on his chores. It wasn’t that he begrudged all of this—far from it. He just felt overwhelmed by the constant talk of expenses and preparations.
“Sounds like a right fortune,” Fred groaned, “Isn’t there a limit to how much you can spend?”
George shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “When it’s Ginny’s special day, apparently not.”
“Why do we need to go all out on something that costs a fortune when we know we’re skint?” Ron grumbled, scrubbing the shop counter with more force than necessary. “We’ve got bills piling up, and it’s not like we’ve got a bottomless pit of cash!”
Ron knew his brothers would likely reprimand him for questioning the extravagant plans. After all, it was Ginny—the one who seemed to be held up as special, deserving of all this fuss. They’d always been quick to remind him how Ginny, like the rest of their siblings, was one of those who'd gotten a proper education. It was as if her achievements somehow warranted a higher level of celebration.
Of course, they’d say it’s all worth it because she’s getting a proper education, just like the others. It’s always ‘Ginny this’ and ‘Ginny that’ because she’s got this special status now.
With the celebration approaching, Ron knew he’d be pulling double duty in the background. It was always him who ended up scrubbing away the mess, setting up for the party, and generally doing all the behind-the-scenes work. The excitement for Ginny’s birthday meant he’d likely be up all night getting everything ready.
Ron grimaced as he thought about it.
He could already picture the scene: cleaning up after the festivities, prepping food, and setting up decorations. It seemed like there was no end to the tasks that fell to him, with little chance of getting a proper rest. “No doubt I’ll be running on fumes by the time the party’s in full swing,” he thought, bracing himself for the inevitable exhaustion.
As to be expected, when the three of them finally returned home, Ron was already knee-deep into the chores. He was mopping the floors, dusting off every surface, and arranging the decorations, while his parents barely acknowledged his presence, too caught up in their own preparation. His siblings, having come home that day, were similarly absorbed in their own plans and discussions.
By the time dinner rolled around, he found himself alone in the attic, where his room was. He sat at a small, makeshift table, eating his meal in solitude. The only company was the quiet hum of the evening and the view from the window, which offered a distant, indifferent look at the world outside.
Ron then suddenly heard a series of squeaks coming from the windowsill. Turning his attention to the sound, he saw four rats scuffling over a small piece of cheese that had somehow ended up inside.
The rats were quite a sight: small and scrappy, darting around and squealing as they bickered over their prize. One rat had managed to grab the cheese but was being persistently challenged by the others, who were clearly determined to get a share.
Ron then glanced down at his bread, breaking off a small piece of bread and placing it near the window where the rats had scattered. When he did, the rats, who had been skittering away in surprise, paused and looked back cautiously. They seemed startled by the sudden offering.
“Sorry,” Ron said, “I’m just sharing a bit of dinner with you lot. No need to be afraid.”
Gradually, the rats approached the bread, sniffing it tentatively before nibbling away. He watched them for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Have you guys been living in my room?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if he were afraid of disturbing them.
Ron watched the rats nibbling on the bread, then he flushed a bit, feeling slightly foolish for talking to them. He wasn’t quite sure why he was speaking to the rats; it seemed absurd. Yet, there was something oddly comforting about the simple act of talking, even if it was to the small creatures sharing his meagre meal. He then leaned against the wall, looking thoughtfully at the little intruders. “If you have, you’ve been quite the quiet neighbours. But if you have been living there, it’s a bit of a problem. That’s my space, you know?”
The rats continued to nibble at the bread, seemingly indifferent to his musings. Ron shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion. “Alright, I’ll let you have your little feast. Just do me a favour and find somewhere else to stay. Mum won’t be too pleased if she finds you’re having a little party in my room.” He straightened up, grabbing his plate and giving the rats a final, somewhat bemused glance. “Well, I suppose I’d better head downstairs.”
Ron slowly made his way downstairs, the old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet, as he moved carefully, not wanting to disturb the household or draw attention to himself.
He was about to reach the bottom of the stairs, when he noticed a faint light glowing from his parents' room. Ron paused, glancing toward the source of the illumination. It was late, and he’d expected everyone to be either settling down or busy preparing for tomorrow’s celebration.
His mum and dad were probably still awake, engrossed in last-minute arrangements or discussing the details of Ginny’s party. Given the importance of the event, it made sense they’d be up, making sure everything was just right.
When Ron walked past his parents' door, he caught snippets of his name drifting through the crack. He stopped, curiosity piqued. It was clear they were discussing something involving him, likely behind his back, but the fact that they were talking about him at all made him pause—he stood there quietly, straining to catch the full conversation between his parents.
“What would he think if he knew, dear?” His dad said. “He’s been working so hard, don’t you think it is a little bit too much?”
“Arthur, don’t you fret about it. We’ve planned this, and If you keep your mouth shut, he’ll never suspect this!”
Ron edged nearer to the door, and through the narrow gap, he glimpsed his mother crouched by their bed, placing a neatly wrapped box beneath it. “Well, it’s all sorted now,” his mum sighed. “With the money the twins sent, and a bit of what Ron managed to put aside for the debt, there’s more than enough for Ginny’s celebration. I just hope she’ll love it. She’s been looking forward to this for ages, and we couldn’t let her down, could we?”
Ron nearly dropped the plate he was holding, the clatter of it was loud enough to draw attention. But before they could spot him, he was already darting back to his room, his heart pounding in his chest like a runaway drum.
What did her mum mean by that? Are they using the money he'd been sending home for years—money that’s meant to help with their debts—to fund Ginny’s ridiculous celebration?
Ron dropped to his knees, his grip faltering on the plate. It shattered on the floor with a loud crash, with the fragments scattering around. He stared blankly at the broken pieces, tears began to well up in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe it. The thought that his hard-earned savings, sent with the intention of easing their debts…
He had been working tirelessly, scrimping and saving every knut he could manage, all with the hope of alleviating their financial struggles. It wasn’t just about the money being spent on Ginny’s celebration; it was the deeper, more painful question of what he had been given in return. He wondered if his family had been setting aside funds for Ginny’s education even before she was born, while he had been left to fend for himself without the same opportunities.
The rats, having noticed the commotion, scurried over to Ron, their tiny feet pattering across the floor. He sniffled loudly, his voice breaking with the strain of his emotions as he scooped them up into both hands.
“Thank you,” Ron said softly, his voice trembling as he looked down at the rats. They seemed to be nudging him gently, their small bodies pressing against his hands in a comforting gesture.