Ronald Weasley woke on the morning of July 2, 1991, to the faint creak of his attic bed and the soft weight of his peridot-obsidian wand in his pocket, a secret he'd carried since crafting it yesterday. July 1 had stretched long—after dodging Mum's sharp eyes at breakfast, he'd been roped into chasing chickens with Ginny, their squawks and her giggles echoing through the yard until dusk settled over the Burrow. Later, under the cover of the house's snores, he'd slipped back to the attic, refining a handful of peridot shards into gleaming gems and testing his makeshift wand's green glow, its hum steady in his grip. Now, sunlight speared through the grimy window, painting the peeling orange walls a sharp gold, and he sat up, stretching with a grunt—his gangly frame still a tangle, but his mind, sharpened by 21 years of study and boosted to Intelligence 14, already plotting the day's moves.
The week's grind had paid off—Earth Manipulation at Level 6, Enchanting and Wandless Magic at Level 3, and now Charms budding at Level 1, sparked by yesterday's Lumos and Leviosa. The panel flickered when he called it, a crisp ledger of his work:
Stats: Strength 7, Agility 8, Endurance 9, Intelligence 14, Wisdom 8, Magic Power 14, Charisma 10, Luck 8
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), Charms (Lv. 1)
Level 3 (140/300 XP)
Unallocated Points: 6 Skill
No new stat points—those six from Levels 2 and 3 were spent, split between Luck and Intelligence—but he'd banked six skill points, a reserve for when the grind thickened, a choice his adult mind deemed prudent. XP came from pushing limits, not rote casts, a rule he'd sussed out; today, he'd lean into Charms, refine more peridots, and scout Hawaii for bigger hauls—Luck at 8 might nudge something rare. His stash under the floorboard—gems, pebbles, obsidian—was growing, but raw value wouldn't cut it; Gringotts wanted polish, and his old geology texts whispered of higher-grade finds in volcanic depths. Three months till Hogwarts—he'd build a stockpile, turn this into Galleons, lift the Weasleys from their patched-up life.
He slid off the bed, ducking the ceiling's trap, and tugged on a patched jumper—Bill's, elbows darned—and trousers that bared his shins. The floorboard lifted easily, revealing his cache: books, peridot shards, the wand gleaming faintly with its obsidian handle snug in his palm. He grabbed Enchantments for Everyday Use, flipping to a wand section—Accio was too advanced, but Reparo, a mending Charm from Harry's train ride in Sorcerer's Stone, caught his eye. Simple, practical—Level 1 Charms could handle it with the wand's boost. He fished a chipped teacup from the clutter—Percy's, cracked from a twin prank—and set it down, wand in hand. "Reparo," he said, voice clipped, focusing tight—Intelligence 14 sharpened the intent. The crack shivered, sealing halfway before stalling, the mend rough but real.
The panel chimed: Charms +15 XP (15/50 to Lv. 2)
Level 3 (155/300 XP)
A start—he'd refine it, push for full mends. He tried again, adjusting his grip—Level 3 Wandless Magic eased the flow—and the crack sealed clean, the cup whole. Another chime:
Charms +20 XP (35/50 to Lv. 2)
Level 3 (175/300 XP)
Progress—improvement ticked the panel, routine didn't, a pattern his linguist's brain cataloged. He shifted to gems, scooping a handful of peridots from the stash—small, raw, their hum steady—and sat cross-legged, Construction open beside him. Level 6 Earth Manipulation flared—he smoothed them, fused three into a larger gem, its glow brightening with each join, a process now swift as breathing. The panel ticked:
Earth Manipulation +15 XP (80/300 to Lv. 7)
Level 3 (190/300 XP)
He repeated it, fusing five more into a fist-sized gem—cleaner, stronger, a Gringotts-worthy piece. Another tick:
Earth Manipulation +20 XP (100/300 to Lv. 7)
Level 3 (210/300 XP)
Satisfactory—stockpiling value, but Hawaii held more. Breakfast smells wafted up—bacon, toast—but he'd scout first, test the wand's range. "Shift," he said, and the attic blurred, sand replacing wood.
Hawaii's morning sun hit, the air thick with salt and floral tang, waves crashing beyond the cliffs. He stood by the river—gravel glinting, water gurgling—and drew the wand, its green tip humming. "Lumos," he said, recalling Harry's cupboard glow—the light flared brighter, holding steady for thirty seconds. No XP—steady wasn't enough—but he flicked "Wingardium Leviosa," Hermione's troll trick, at a larger stone, lifting it three inches, smoother than yesterday. The panel chimed:
Charms +15 XP (50/50 to Lv. 2)
Skill Leveled Up: Charms (Lv. 2)
Effect: Precision and potency of Charms enhanced
Level 3 (225/300 XP)
A rush hit—sharp, system-fed, a flood of finesse: how to angle the lift, steady the glow, nudge Charms with a flick. His adult mind filed it—eerie, but useful—and he tested it, levitating the stone five inches, smooth as Hermione's flair, setting it down with a nod. He scanned the riverbed—Luck at 8 had nudged peridots, but volcanic cliffs promised more. He trekked over, wand in hand, the minimap guiding—cliffs loomed, black and jagged, flecked with shine. "Analyze," he said, voice clipped:
Target Analysis: Volcanic Cliff Face (Deep Layer)
Composition: Basalt, obsidian, traces of garnet
Magic Density: High (Ley line convergence)
Value: Moderate (Unrefined, rare potential)
Garnet—red, valuable, his old texts confirmed. Earth Manipulation flared—he carved into the cliff, Level 6 slicing smooth, and pried out a rough, dark red stone, its hum sharp. "Analyze":
Target Analysis: Garnet Fragment
Composition: Almandine, strong magical resonance
Magic Density: High
Value: High (Raw gem, rare)
His pulse jumped—Luck delivered. Smaller than a Knut, but potent—refined, it'd fetch a stack. He carved more—two fist-sized obsidian chunks, a handful of peridot shards—stockpiling raw wealth. The panel ticked:
Earth Manipulation +25 XP (125/300 to Lv. 7)
Level 3 (250/300 XP)
Time pressed—breakfast'd be missed soon. "Shift," he muttered, landing in the attic, sand dusting his trousers. He stashed the haul—garnet, obsidian, peridots—noting their worth mentally—Gringotts'd salivate. The Burrow's noise swelled—Mum's "Down here, now!" echoing—and he headed down, ducking beams, wand snug in his pocket.
The kitchen was a whirlwind—Mum at the stove, apron flour-dusted, shooing Fred from the bacon as he dangled a rasher over George's head. "Give it here, you git!" George laughed, swiping and missing, while Percy sat primly, nose in a book—Hogwarts: A History, no doubt—muttering about library fines. Ginny perched on a stool, sneaking jam with a grin, her red hair a wild tangle. Ron slid in, grabbing a plate as Mum turned, her sharp eyes narrowing.
"You're late again, Ron—what's keeping you up there?"
"Slept in," he said, smooth as dodging a professor's quiz, piling bacon on. Fred smirked across the table, dropping the rasher onto George's plate with a flourish.
"Slept in? Rubbish—you've been sneaking about. Saw sand on the stairs yesterday—building a beach up there?"
"Dreamt of one," Ron shot back, adult calm masking the lie, chewing deliberately. "Sand's from your shoes, probably—tracking it in like trolls."
George snorted, elbowing Fred. "He's got you there—your boots are filthier than a Hippogriff's nest!"
"Oi, my boots are pristine!" Fred protested, lifting a foot to show a mud-caked sole, grinning as Mum whirled with a wooden spoon.
"Frederick Weasley, if you've mucked my floor again—!" she snapped, spoon raised, and Fred ducked, laughing.
"Just testing Ron's story, Mum—thought he'd turned the attic into a seaside resort!"
"Maybe he's hiding a broom up there," Ginny piped up, jam on her chin, eyes twinkling. "Flying off to play Quidditch in his sleep!"
"Not likely," Ron said, voice level, flashing her a small grin—keep it light, deflect. "I'd crash into the ceiling first—too low for a decent loop."
Percy looked up, adjusting his glasses with a sniff. "If you're flying indoors, Ronald, you'd best read the Hogwarts rules—chapter three, section five—"
"Stuff it, Percy," Fred cut in, tossing a toast crust at him, which Percy swatted away with a scowl. Mum's spoon swung toward Fred again, and the table erupted—George cackling, Ginny giggling, Percy huffing—while Ron ate fast, mind on Hawaii, letting the chaos roll off him.
Breakfast blurred—he slipped out after, claiming a loo trip, and darted back to the attic. He drew the wand, testing "Reparo" on a cracked quill—Level 2 Charms sealed it clean, no XP—steady didn't count, his adult brain noted. He'd scout more cliffs, refine gems, push this—Luck at 8 hinted at rarer finds. Footsteps thumped—light, quick—and he stashed everything, turning as Ginny's head poked in.
"Ron, Mum says feed the chickens—she's watching you like a hawk!"
"Right," he said, voice level, brushing past with a nod—tight, but his guile held.
The yard was a scruffy sprawl—chickens clucking in their rickety coop, the air thick with summer warmth and the faint whiff of manure. Ginny skipped ahead, her patched dress flapping, a battered bucket of feed swinging in her hand. "C'mon, Ron, they're starving—Mum'll tan you if they peck her washing again!" she called, giggling as a fat hen flapped at her feet. Ron grabbed a second bucket, his mind half on Hawaii, but he played along, tossing feed with a practiced flick—his adult patience masking the itch to shift.
"They're greedy sods," he said, watching a rooster strut over, beak snapping at the grain. "Bet they'd eat Fred if he stood still long enough."
Ginny laughed, bright and sharp. "He'd deserve it—kept nicking my toast! What've you been doing up there, anyway? George says you're hiding treasure."
"George talks rubbish," Ron said, smooth as ever, scattering more feed—keep it vague, deflect. "Just messing with chess pieces—boring stuff."
"You're not boring," she said, squinting at him, jam still smudged on her cheek. "You're sneaky—bet it's something fun. Tell me later?"
"Maybe," he said, grinning faintly—let her wonder, no harm. They finished quick, chickens clucking contentedly, and Ginny darted off to pester Fred, leaving Ron to slip away—chores done, island time earned. Gems and Charms were his edge, and he'd sharpen it keen.