Chapter Two: The Hunt in the Heap

Chapter Two: The Hunt in the Heap

Ronald Weasley sat on his creaky bed, the attic's low ceiling looming like a grumpy old troll, and scratched his head as Fred's laughter faded down the stairs. The morning of June 24, 1991, was still young—sunlight trickled through the grimy window, painting the peeling orange wallpaper with a faint glow—and his mind was buzzing from yesterday's wild jaunt to that Hawaiian island. Fred's jibe about Dad's junk pile in the garage stuck with him, though—mouldy spellbooks, he'd said, half-laughing. It was a start, better than nothing, and Ron wasn't about to sit around twiddling his thumbs with three months to turn this mad twist into gold. Literally, if he could manage it.

He needed spells—proper ones, wandless, since Mum and Dad wouldn't hand over a wand till the last gasp of summer. And spells meant books, which meant poking around the Burrow till he struck something useful. Fred might've been taking the mickey, but Dad did mess with magic out there—charming Muggle junk to whir and hum. Maybe there'd be a book or two buried in the mess. Ron slid off the bed, the springs twanging a farewell, and shuffled to his dresser, dodging a wobbly stack of Quidditch magazines that'd been threatening to topple since Charlie's last visit.

First, though, he'd need something to write with—his old self, the 21-year-old who'd lived for notebooks and verb tables, wouldn't let him trust his memory alone. The dresser was a jumble: a tin of Bertie Bott's (mostly earwax ones), a faded photo of the family grinning outside, a snapped quill he'd nicked from Percy once. He yanked open the drawer, shoving aside a moth-eaten scarf and a Chudley Cannons badge with no pin, and grinned—a battered notebook, green cover faded to a sickly lime, its pages scribbled with Ron's old broomstick doodles. "Close enough," he muttered, snagging a stubby pencil from the clutter—blunt as a troll's club, but it'd mark. He'd jot down anything decent he found, keep it neat, like the study notes he'd made in another life.

Notebook tucked under his arm, he tugged on a patched jumper—Bill's, probably, the elbows darned with Mum's wonky stitches—and trousers that showed his ankles, then crept downstairs. The Burrow was waking up, the stairs creaking under his weight, the banister smooth from years of hands. A clatter of pots drifted up, Mum's voice cutting through—"George, if you've nicked that bacon, I'll charm your nose to your knees!"—and a burst of laughter answered, Fred's or George's, hard to tell. The smell of bacon and burnt toast wafted up, warm and tempting, but Ron's stomach would have to wait—books first, breakfast after.

He poked his head into the kitchen, just to check. Mum stood at the stove, apron dusted with flour, her wooden spoon whacking at George's fingers as he swiped a rasher. George yelped, grinning, and darted to the table, where Fred was piling his plate high, his hair a wilder red in the morning light. Percy sat stiffly, nose in a book—something about prefects, no doubt—his glasses steamed up from his tea. Ginny perched on a stool, swinging her legs, marmalade smeared across her chin as she munched toast. Dad was off at the Ministry, leaving the table a mess of chipped plates and a teapot that whistled faintly for no reason.

"Morning, Ron," Mum called, eyeing him over her shoulder. "You're up early—sit down, I'll fix you something."

"Er—just passing through," Ron said, hovering by the door. He glanced at the cookbooks piled by the sink—fat, floury things Mum used for her kitchen charms. Maybe there'd be something useful? He edged over while she wrestled a pot, flipping one open—Spells for Spotless Spuds. "Self-peeling potatoes," he muttered, squinting at a doodle of a spud shedding its skin. Good for supper, useless for digging or building. He shut it quick as Mum turned, her "Ron, don't dawdle!" sending him bolting out.

The attic was his next thought—maybe he'd missed something up there. He trudged back up, ducking the ceiling's sneaky beams, and poked through the trunks again. Dust puffed up, tickling his nose, and he sneezed, rattling the window. One trunk held Charlie's old dragon notes—scribbles about scales and fireproofing, nothing practical—and another was stuffed with Ginny's glittery fairy books. "Pony feathers," he grumbled, shoving them back. A beam clonked his head as he retreated—another bruise—and he scratched the attic off his list.

By midday, the house was a racket—Ginny chasing a rogue chicken round the yard, Percy's voice droning about owl post rules—and Ron's patience was fraying like an old sock. The garage kept nagging at him, Fred's throwaway line looping in his head. Dad's shed was his best bet—time to stop mucking about. He slipped outside, the summer air warm and sticky, and crossed the scruffy yard, sidestepping a gnome that darted under a bush with a rude gesture. The garage leaned against the Burrow like a tired old friend, its wood weathered gray, its roof a patchwork of tiles Mum had charmed to stay put. The door creaked as he pushed it open, a musty whiff hitting him—oil, dust, and a faint fizz of magic, sharp and alive.

Inside was a proper mess. A workbench sagged under plugs, wires, and a toaster that coughed sparks like it had a cold; shelves bowed with jars of screws and bent nails; a Muggle radio warbled a tinny tune in the corner, half-static, half-song. Ron's eyes snagged on a stack of books under a tangle of cables—tatty, bent, some missing covers—poking out like they'd been forgotten. His heart gave a hopeful thump. He knelt, shoving aside a rubber duck that squeaked in protest, and tugged the first book free. Muggle Marvels and Magical Fixes, by Wendelin Wobble—Dad's scrawl filled the margins, notes on charming batteries to hum. Useless for his needs. Next was a pamphlet, 101 Charms for the Common Wizard—levitating feathers, banishing stains, first-year fluff. He tossed it aside, dust puffing up, and dug deeper.

His fingers brushed a thicker tome, its leather cover cracked and faded. Foundations of Magical Construction, by Agrippa Brickwand. Ron's breath caught—construction, building with magic! He flipped it open, squinting at the tiny print: "Wandless Rudiments—Shaping Earth and Stone." Blimey, that was it—digging, maybe building, no wand needed. He hugged it to his chest, grinning, and kept going, unearthing another gem under a pile of Witch Weekly—Enchantments for Everyday Use, by Emeric Switch. Pages on making things glow, move, or stick—handy for a hideout or treasure-hunting. He clutched both books, feeling like he'd nicked a dragon's hoard, and stood, brushing dust off his knees.

Back in the attic, he stashed them under his bed, wedging them behind a loose floorboard where Fred's nosy paws wouldn't wander. The Construction one called loudest, and he fished it out, settling cross-legged on the floor—mindful of the ceiling this time. "Wandless magic begins with intent," he read, voice a whisper, "focus your will on the earth, picture it shifting, and push." Simple on paper, tricky in practice, he'd bet. He glanced around—no dirt here, just wood—but a chipped clay pot sat by the window, full of dry soil from Mum's failed basil go. Close enough.

He set it down, notebook open beside him, pencil stub ready, and shut his eyes. Picture it shifting—up, like a little hill. He scrunched his forehead, hands hovering, and pushed with his mind, hard as he could. Nothing. "Shift, you git," he muttered, trying again, and a faint tingle prickled his fingers—sharp, like static. The soil twitched, a bare ripple, then settled. The panel chimed:

New Skill Unlocked: Earth Manipulation (Lv. 1)

XP Gained: 10 (Skill Attempt: Earth Manipulation)

Level 1 (25/100 XP)

Ron grinned, wiping sweat off his brow, and scribbled in the notebook: Earth Manipulation—focus, push, soil moved a bit. Not much, but a start—a flicker of magic he could grow. He flipped through the book, jotting more: "Pinch earth between fingers, will it to harden—basic shaping". That island—Hawaii—flashed in his head, all that space to test this, dig for riches, maybe make something decent someday. Plenty of day left—he'd keep at it, raid the books, see what else he could coax out before supper called.