Ronald Weasley woke on the morning of July 1, 1991, to the familiar groan of his attic bed and a steady hum in his bones that hadn't been there a week ago. The last day of June had faded late—supper a noisy tangle of Mum's mashed potatoes and Fred's relentless jabs about his "mud pie chess," followed by a quiet stretch in the attic, shaping soil and enchanting twigs until his eyes blurred. He'd slipped under the patched quilt as the Burrow's snores settled in, his growing skills—Earth Manipulation, Enchanting, and Wandless Magic—tucked safely under the floorboard with his books and finds. Now, sunlight sliced through the grimy window, painting the peeling orange walls a sharp gold, and he sat up, stretching with a wince—his gangly frame still unwieldy, but his mind, honed by 21 years of study, ticking over with a linguist's precision.
The past week had been a relentless grind—days split between the Burrow's chaos and stolen hours on that Hawaiian island, pushing his skills with a strategist's focus. Earth Manipulation had soared to Level 6, a testament to constant use digging riverbeds and shaping stones; Enchanting hit Level 3, refining light and motion; Wandless Magic climbed to Level 3, honed by every wandless push, though he'd noticed not every cast gave XP—only when he improved, stretched his control, a pattern his adult mind clocked and filed. Each level had flooded his head with system-fed tricks—sculpting earth like clay, pulsing light, finessing wandless flow—and the panel flickered when he summoned it, a crisp tally of his labor:
Stats: Strength 7, Agility 8, Endurance 9, Intelligence 11, Wisdom 8, Magic Power 14, Charisma 10, Luck 5
Skills: Analyze (Lv. 1), English (Lv. 1), Arithmetic (Lv. 1), Athletics (Lv. 1), Flying (Lv. 1), Chess (Lv. 1), Rituals (Lv. 1), Earth Manipulation (Lv. 6), Enchanting (Lv. 3), Wandless Magic (Lv. 3)
Level 3 (50/300 XP)
Unallocated Points: 6 Stat, 6 Skill
Six stat points, six skill points—rewards from Levels 2 and 3, three each per level, a mechanic his old gaming days pegged. His eyes caught Luck 5—a baseline he'd missed before. Strength, Agility, Endurance—tempting for this lanky body—but his adult mind weighed it cold: physical stats could grind up, Magic Power was solid, Charisma fine. Luck—untrainable, a gambler's edge—could tilt finds on that island, ease deals in Diagon Alley. Three points there made sense. Intelligence—11 was decent, but his 21-year-old brain thrived on puzzles; three more could sharpen his edge, speed his mastery. Split the bet—smart, layered.
"Add three to Luck, three to Intelligence," he said, voice firm, and the panel shifted: Luck 8, Intelligence 14. A subtle prickle ran through him—nothing tangible, just a keener hunch, a clarity snapping into focus. The skill points—Earth Manipulation at 35/300, Enchanting at 40/150, Wandless Magic at 20/150—he'd bank all six. His linguist's logic knew early levels came fast; later ones would bog down, and those points could crack a stall when the grind thickened. "Hold the skill points," he said, and the panel blinked, stowing them—prudent, a long game he'd play sharp.
A week's work showed under the floorboard—his stash had ballooned: handfuls of peridot shards, glinting green from Hawaii's rivers, smooth pebbles, obsidian chunks pried from cliffs. Luck at 8 had nudged bigger finds, their hum stronger, a haul he could turn into Galleons if he refined them right. His books—Foundations of Magical Construction and Enchantments for Everyday Use—had fueled the grind, and he'd tracked progress in his battered green notebook, noting raw gains and those eerie level-up boosts. Today, he'd shift—refine those peridots into gems, craft something more. Raw stones fetched less, his old geology texts taught him; cut and fused, they'd catch Gringotts' eye. And a wand—his adult brain latched on. Peridot conducted magic, Analyze had shown—less potent than cores, but neutral, no rejection risk. A stopgap till Hogwarts, built from shards and skill.
He slid off the bed, ducking the ceiling's trap, and tugged on a frayed jumper—Charlie's, sleeves patched—and trousers that bared his shins. The floorboard lifted smoothly, revealing his cache: books, peridots, obsidian bits. He grabbed Construction, flipping to a wandless refining section: "Shape earth or stone, fuse fragments by aligning resonance." Level 6 Earth Manipulation could handle it—he'd start with gems, test the yield. He picked two small peridots, their hum faint but steady, and sat cross-legged, focusing with a scholar's calm. The skill flared—precise, masterful—and he smoothed them, edges rounding like glass. Intelligence 14 honed his intent; he synced their frequencies, pressing them together. They fused, a single gem twice the size, its glow brighter.
The panel chimed: Earth Manipulation +15 XP (15/300 to Lv. 7)
Level 3 (65/300 XP)
He turned it in his fingers—rough, but viable. Gringotts'd pay more—market logic clicked. He repeated it, fusing three more into a larger gem, Level 6 making it swift, clean, its hum buzzing against his skin—improved over the first, earning a tick:
Earth Manipulation +20 XP (35/300 to Lv. 7)
Level 3 (85/300 XP)
Solid progress—routine casts didn't budge the panel, he'd noted; only pushing his limits did. He'd refine a batch later, build value. The wand, though, was the goal. He sorted the peridots, gathering two handfuls of smaller shards—enough for length—and an obsidian chunk for a handle, its glassy sheen a stark contrast. This'd take an hour, his adult mind gauging—Level 6 could fuse it seamless, but precision mattered. He started with the peridots, Earth Manipulation flowing like water—shards melded into a long, tapered rod, smooth and balanced, their hums aligning under his steady push. The obsidian followed—he sculpted it into a grip, curved for his hand, and fused it to the rod, the join flawless, a craftsman's touch honed by a week's grind.
The panel ticked: Earth Manipulation +30 XP (65/300 to Lv. 7)
Item Crafted: Rudimentary Peridot-Obsidian Wand (Low Potency, Conductive)
Level 3 (115/300 XP)
Ron's lips quirked—crude, but effective. No core meant less power, but its conductivity—peridot's hum, obsidian's strength—made it a wand by nature; the system clocked it clean without a spell. A bridge till Hogwarts, letting him test standard magic off the Ministry's nose. He pocketed it, the cool obsidian snug in his grip—a linguist's tool turned arcane. Breakfast called—Mum's voice cut through the clatter—but he'd scout Hawaii first, try it out. "Shift," he said, and the attic blurred, sand replacing wood.
Hawaii's morning sun struck, the air thick with salt and floral bite, waves crashing beyond the cliffs. He stood by the river he'd mined all week—clear water gurgling over gravel, glints winking—and drew the peridot-obsidian wand. "Lumos," he said, voice firm, recalling the charm from Sorcerer's Stone's pages—Harry's first glow in the cupboard. The tip flared green, weaker than a cored wand but steady, lighting the shade—peridot's hum channeled it smooth. The panel chimed:
New Skill Unlocked: Charms (Lv. 1)
XP Gained: 10 (Skill Attempt: Charms)
Level 3 (125/300 XP)
He grinned—standard magic, no strain, a Charm clean and simple. "Nox," he said—another from the original series—and the glow died, sharp and crisp—Intelligence 14 kept it tight. Another flick—"Wingardium Leviosa," Hermione's levitation trick from the troll scene—and a pebble wobbled, lifting two inches before dropping—improved over his first try, earning a tick:
Charms +15 XP (15/50 to Lv. 2)
Level 3 (140/300 XP)
Enough—he shifted back, landing in the attic, sand dusting his trousers. He stashed the wand and gems under the floorboard, noting their potential—gems for Galleons, wand for growth, XP for pushing limits. The Burrow's noise swelled—Mum's "Breakfast, now!" echoing—and he headed down, ducking beams, the wand a secret in his pocket.
The kitchen was chaos—Mum at the stove, apron flour-dusted, shooing George from the bacon; Fred piling toast high; Percy buried in a book; Ginny sneaking jam. Ron slid in, grabbing a plate as Mum turned, her sharp eyes narrowing.
"You're quiet, Ron—up to something?"
"Just starved," he said, smooth as dodging a professor's quiz, piling bacon on. Fred smirked across the table.
"Quiet? He's scheming—heard him muttering up there yesterday."
"Chess moves," Ron shot back, adult calm masking the lie, chewing deliberately. Fred snorted, but Mum's frown eased, and talk shifted to Percy's owl rules.
Breakfast blurred—Ron ate fast, mind on Hawaii—and he slipped out after, claiming a loo trip. Back in the attic, he drew the wand. He'd refine more gems, scout rivers, build up his horde. Footsteps thumped—slow, deliberate—and he stashed everything, turning as Mum's head poked in.
"Ron, you've been up here too much—help Ginny with the chickens."
"On it," he said, voice level, brushing past—close, but his guile held. Chickens waited, but he'd carve out more island time—gems and Charms were his ticket, and he'd cash it sharp.