Ronald Weasley was not the sort of boy who expected to wake up anywhere but his own lopsided bed—or, frankly, to wake up with his heart thudding like he'd just fallen off a broomstick. He was tall for eleven, though you wouldn't know it from the way he slouched, with a tangle of red hair that flopped over his freckled forehead no matter how his mum hacked at it with her blunt kitchen scissors. His hands were long and bony, always seeming a bit too big for his skinny wrists, and his feet—well, they poked out from under his too-short pajamas like they were plotting an escape. The Burrow, his home, was a creaky, crooked tower of rooms stacked like a madman's game of Jenga, held together by magic and hope, and it smelled of warm bread, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of something suspiciously like gnome droppings. But on the morning of June 23, 1991, Ron woke with a jolt that wasn't Fred and George dropping a bucket of water on his head, nor Percy's snooty lectures about tidiness, nor even Ginny's giggles echoing up the stairs. No, this was something else entirely—a jolt tied to a fuzzy memory of screeching tires and a bus he could've sworn had flattened him like a pancake.
His eyes flew open, and he squinted at the familiar slanted ceiling of his attic room—wooden beams crisscrossed with knots that stared down like grumpy old eyes, so low he couldn't stand up straight without cracking his skull. Sunlight leaked through a grimy window, casting wobbly shadows across the peeling orange wallpaper his mum had charmed to stay put years ago, though it still curled at the edges like it was sulking. The bed beneath him sagged and creaked, its patched quilt—a riot of clashing colors stitched by his gran—tangled round his legs like a particularly clingy spider web. He sat up, blinking hard, and stared at his hands. They were freckled and knobbly, the nails bitten down to stubs, and they trembled slightly—not the steady, ink-stained hands that had scribbled French verbs in a notebook or scrolled through Harry Potter on a cracked phone screen. A cold shiver raced down his spine, sharp as a winter wind off the Devon hills. These weren't his hands—not the ones he'd known at 21, not the ones that had fumbled with a coffee mug on late-night study binges.
He kicked at the quilt, heart thumping loud enough to wake a troll, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet brushed a floor littered with odds and ends—chess pieces scattered from a game he'd half-played with himself, a crumpled sock with a hole in the toe, a dog-eared copy of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle he'd nicked from Charlie ages ago. The springs groaned as he stood, wobbling a bit, and he shuffled across the room, dodging a wobbly stack of old Quidditch magazines that threatened to topple with every step. His knees felt like jelly, and his stomach growled, though he wasn't sure if it was hunger or the sinking feeling that something was very, very off. He reached the cracked mirror propped on his dresser—a rickety thing piled high with junk: a snapped quill, a tin of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans (mostly earwax ones he'd left behind), and a faded photo of the family grinning outside the Burrow, all red hair and gap-toothed smiles. He stopped dead, breath catching in his throat.
The face staring back was Ron Weasley's, no two ways about it: a long nose that seemed to grow faster than the rest of him, blue eyes peering out from under that mop of ginger hair, freckles splashed across his cheeks like someone had flicked a paintbrush at him. But it moved when he moved, blinked when he blinked, and a wild, tumbling thought crashed into his head like a Bludger: he was Ron now. Not the college lad who'd sat in stuffy lecture halls dreaming of translating books for a living, not the 21-year-old who'd dodged library fines and lived off cheap noodles, but this gangly, eleven-year-old kid from a story he'd been reading on his phone when—when what? His mind snagged on it, a blurry flash: walking home, nose buried in Sorcerer's Stone, the glow of the screen, then a shove, bright lights, a horn blaring, and a crunch that should've been the end.
"What in Merlin's name…" he croaked, gripping the dresser so hard the wood creaked under his fingers. His voice came out high and reedy, not the deeper tone he'd grown into over years of arguing with professors and mates. He leaned closer to the mirror, squinting at his reflection—sweat beading on his forehead, eyes wide and wild—and tried to piece it together. He'd been on a busy street, headphones in, reading about Harry's first trip to Diagon Alley, when someone jostled him—hard. Then the bus, all metal and noise, and a blank nothing. Until this. His knees buckled, and he sank back onto the bed, the springs squeaking in protest like they were fed up with the whole business.
Before he could get his head round it, a sharp beep pinged in his ears—like the chime of his old phone starting up The Journeyman Project, that time-travel game he'd played to death between linguistics essays. A glowing panel flickered into view, hovering right in front of his nose, sharp and blue as a charmed flame:
Welcome, Journeyman. Bloodline Magic Activated: Pegasus Pulse.
Initializing System…
Stats: Strength 7, Agility 8, Endurance 9, Intelligence 11, Wisdom 8, Magic Power 14, Charisma 10
Skills: Analyze (Lv. 1), English (Lv. 1), Arithmetic (Lv. 1), Athletics (Lv. 1), Flying (Lv. 1), Chess (Lv. 1), Rituals (Lv. 1)
XP: 0
Level: 1 (0/100 XP to next level)
Abilities: Temporal Shift (Travel to Alternate Earth, 3000 Years Prior), Enhanced Learning, System Upgrade
Objective: Establish a Foothold
A cool voice spoke in his head, steady and calm as a professor reading a roll call: "Host has transmigrated into Ronald Weasley, June 23, 1991. Bloodline magic detected. Begin your journey."
Ron's jaw dropped, and he nearly toppled off the bed, catching himself on the edge with a yelp. June 23, 1991—three months before Hogwarts, before Harry Potter showed up with his scar and his owls and turned the Weasley world upside down. He knew this story inside out, every twist and turn, from the troll in the bathroom to the chess game he'd win someday. But now he was in it, stuck in Ron Weasley's freckled skin, with a system straight out of Pegasus Prime buzzing in his brain like a rogue spell. Temporal Shift? A way to hop 3000 years back? And his head—Merlin, his head—was a jumble of two lives mashed together: his old self, all books and buses and late-night cramming, and Ron's, full of broomsticks, brothers, and a family he suddenly loved so fierce it made his chest ache, like they'd been his all along.
He rubbed his temples, the panel still floating there, taunting him. Strength 7—pathetic, he'd snap like a twig in a Quidditch match. Agility 8—decent, thanks to scrambling after Fred and George. Intelligence 11—not bad, his linguistics studies had paid off. Magic Power 14—a spark he'd never had before, tingling in his fingertips like a charm waiting to burst out. And those skills: Analyze (whatever that meant), Chess (he'd always been good at that), Rituals (from bonfires on All Hallows' Eve he hadn't known counted as magic)—it was a start, a proper game setup. He'd played enough RPGs to know the drill: level up, get stronger, beat the odds. The Weasleys were skint, poorer than a goblin's charity box; he'd change that, dig up gold or gems in that other world, sell them in Diagon Alley, buy proper robes and books instead of Bill's tatty hand-me-downs. But he'd keep it hush-hush—no telling Mum and Dad till Hogwarts, where he could pass it off as some rare bloodline trick, like Tonks turning her hair purple.
The attic room pressed in around him, the ceiling so low he had to hunch like a troll in a teashop. It was a cupboard stretched long, not a real bedroom—he'd banged his head on those beams twice already this week, and the bruise on his forehead throbbed as proof. The walls slanted inward, the window rattled in its frame, and the floor creaked with every step, like the Burrow was groaning under its own weight. He couldn't stretch out properly, couldn't even pace without ducking, and the thought of spending three more months up here made his skin crawl. There had to be a better way—a place of his own, maybe, built with magic so he wouldn't feel like a sardine in a tin. But that meant spells, and he didn't have a wand yet. Mum and Dad would wait till the last tick of August to scrape together his Hogwarts kit, not trusting him with it early—probably worried he'd snap it playing pretend Quidditch with George.
The panel beeped again, sharp and insistent: Temporal Shift Ready. Destination: Alternate Earth, Hawaii, 1000 BCE. Proceed?
Ron's stomach did a flip, like he'd swallowed a live Cornish Pixie. Hawaii, 3000 years back—the big island, he reckoned, all volcanoes and jungles and no people mucking about yet. A place to mess with magic, hunt for treasure, far from Ministry owls and their pesky rules. He licked his lips, mouth dry as a desert, and whispered, "Yeah." The room blurred, the attic's orange walls melting away, and he stumbled forward, landing with a thud on warm, gritty sand. The air hit him like a wave—thick with salt and the sweet, heavy scent of flowers, warm and damp against his skin. Waves crashed in the distance, a steady roar, and he squinted against the bright sun glinting off a sea so blue it hurt to look at. To his left, dark volcanic cliffs jutted up, jagged and black, their edges softened by patches of green moss. Ahead, hills rolled out, covered in dense forests that rustled in the breeze, alive with the hum of birds he didn't recognize. The ground under his feet was a mix of sand and rough volcanic rock, warm from the sun, and he wriggled his toes, feeling the grit.
He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. No houses, no roads—just wild, empty Hawaii, 1000 BCE, stretching out bigger than he could wrap his head around. His heart thudded, half from nerves, half from a thrill he couldn't squash. This was his—or it could be. He remembered something—Analyze. "Analyze the island," he said, voice wobbling a bit, and the panel whirred into life, words scrolling across it like a charmed scroll:
Island Analysis:
Location: Main Island of Hawaii
Size: 4,028 square miles
Magic Density: 7 ley lines (High, though less than Hogwarts or Diagon Alley)
Inhabitants: 1 (Ronald Weasley)
Current Owner: None
Claim Island? Y/N
Ron blinked, then read it again. Seven ley lines—blimey, that was a lot of magic buzzing underfoot, even if it wasn't Hogwarts-level. Four thousand-odd square miles—bigger than Devon, probably, and all empty except for him. No owner? "Yes," he said, grinning so wide his cheeks ached, and the panel chimed, a bright, cheerful sound:
Island Claimed. New Skill Unlocked: Minimap (Lv. 1)
XP Gained: 15 (Exploration: Claimed Territory)
Level 1 (15/100 XP)
A tiny map flickered in his mind—fuzzy outlines of cliffs, forests, a river twisting through the hills—like a sketch he could feel more than see. He shook his head, dazed. A whole island, his own private Hawaii! Big enough to lose himself in, to hide something proper—not cramped like that attic. He could dig for gold here, sniff out gems or weird magical bits to sell in Diagon Alley, turn the Weasleys' patched-up life into something shiny and new. The sea glittered in the distance, vast and mysterious, and he wondered what lurked out there—probably nothing friendly, knowing his luck—but the land felt safe, buzzing with a hum he could almost taste, like the air before a storm.
He plopped down on the sand, the warmth seeping through his pajamas, and ran a hand through his hair. To do anything here—digging, building, anything—he'd need spells, proper magic ones, not just the little charms Mum used to peel potatoes. Wandless ones, too, since he wouldn't see a wand till August, if Mum's haggling held up. Spells meant books, but where'd he find those? His old self—21, always chasing down texts—knew libraries and secondhand shops, but the Burrow was a different beast. He shut his eyes, leaning back on his hands, and let the memories bubble up, two sets tangling like a badly knit jumper.
There was his old life: dusty lecture halls, stacks of books on Latin roots and Old English, nights poring over grammar till his eyes crossed. Then Ron's: Mum bustling in the kitchen, muttering charms over a self-stirring spoon, her cookbooks piled by the sink with little spells scribbled in the margins; the attic, stuffed with trunks full of Charlie's old school notes and Ginny's picture books about flying ponies; Dad out in the garage, surrounded by Muggle junk—radios, plugs, a rubber duck—muttering about spells to make it all work, flipping through tatty books with bent covers. Ron frowned, sifting through it. The kitchen books were just for cooking, the attic stuff too childish—flying ponies wouldn't help him dig gold. The garage, though… Dad was always tinkering out there, charming things to fit or float. Maybe he'd left some proper spellbooks lying about, buried under the junk.
"Worth a shot," he muttered, but he wasn't sure. He'd have to poke around, see what he could turn up—couldn't just barge in and start digging through Dad's stuff without a reason, not with Fred and George sniffing about like hounds. Maybe one of them knew something. He stood, brushing sand off his pajamas, and willed himself back—Shift—the island blurring away. The attic spun back into place, the familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot, the faint clatter of Mum's pots drifting up from downstairs.
"Oi, Fred!" he called, voice cracking as he leaned out the door. Footsteps thumped up the stairs, and Fred's ginger head poked round the corner, grinning like a cat who'd caught a gnome.
"What's up, Ronniekins?" Fred said, folding his arms and leaning on the wall, his freckles practically glowing with mischief. "Need help finding your socks again? Or is it another chess disaster?"
"Nah," Ron said, scratching his neck, aiming for casual. "Just wondering—er—where'd you reckon there's books on magic round here? Proper ones, not baby stuff."
Fred's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hair, and he let out a bark of laughter that echoed down the stairwell. "Books? You? Blimey, Ron, what's next—swotting like Percy? Turning into a little bookworm overnight?" He doubled over, clutching his stomach. "Old Ron'd rather wrestle a Blast-Ended Skrewt than crack a book! What's got into you—trying to impress Mum?"
"Shut it," Ron grumbled, cheeks going pink. "Just curious, that's all."
Fred straightened, still snickering, and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "Well, if you're serious, good luck finding anything worth a Knut. Mum's got her cooking charms in the kitchen, but that's all puddings and self-peeling spuds. Dad's got a pile of junk in the garage, though—reckon there's some mouldy old spellbooks in there, mixed up with his Muggle rubbish. Might bite your fingers off, mind, so watch it!"
Ron rolled his eyes, but his ears perked up. The garage—same spot he'd thought of. "Cheers," he said, trying not to sound too eager. Fred gave him a mock salute and sauntered off, still chuckling, his footsteps fading down the stairs.
Ron flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The garage might be a start—or it might just be plugs and nonsense. He'd have to look round the house, poke into corners, see what he could dig up. There'd be something useful somewhere, if he kept his wits about him—and dodged Fred's nosy teasing while he was at it.