Something clattered loudly above my head, yanking me abruptly from sleep into reality, making me jump up in bed in shock and listen intently. The ghoul in the attic groaned mournfully a couple of times and let out a high-pitched wail, but then silence returned. It wasn't even dawn yet—night still clung to the sky, only just beginning to fade.

Muffled whispers and hushed arguments came from behind the door, along with soft footsteps and the creaking of stairs—the restless twins couldn't sleep again. No doubt they had come up with another prank in the middle of the night, and their impatience wouldn’t allow them to wait until morning.

Grumbling under my breath, I fumbled for the alarm clock in the dark.

"Ten minutes to five," it mumbled groggily as I picked it up, its eyes still closed. "You’ve got plenty of time to sleep…”

I placed the clock back on the nightstand and collapsed onto the pillow with a groan, glaring at the ceiling in frustration, mentally cursing that red-haired duo in every way possible. Damn tinkerers.

Finally, the wave of anger subsided, and the quiet and darkness took over. I drifted back to sleep, only to be startled awake again—this time by a loud crash, a woman's scream, and shouting quickly followed by angry scolding. Mum Molly had evidently caught the boys red-handed and was now giving them a talking-to. Such wake-up calls weren't rare in our family, happening at least once a month, or even more often if the twins entered one of their "creative frenzies."

I glanced at the still-snoozing alarm clock and groaned—it was five minutes to five. I hadn’t even managed an hour of sleep. The urge to scream profanities and bang my head against the wall was overwhelming. Frustrated to the extreme, I jumped out of bed and walked to the window, peering out at the milky mist creeping between the bare trees—sometimes the Channel blesses us with morning fogs when the weather shifts. Normally, this eerie view would calm me, but today, this sticky grayness only added to my irritation.

Meanwhile, downstairs, a male voice had joined in—Arthur had stepped in to mediate and shifted his wife's fury onto himself. The twins would now be able to sneak back into their room unnoticed, while the adults would continue their quarrel in the kitchen. Poor Arthur, always the willing lightning rod for his wife's temper. It's a wonder he's still alive, given her fiery temperament.

Sure enough, after ten minutes, the argument died down. I could try to sleep again, but there wasn’t a trace of drowsiness left.

Still, I hurried back to bed. Experience told me that Mum Molly would soon come around to check on everyone, and I had no desire to deal with her overbearing care and the inevitable sleepytime potion. Arguing with that woman, especially while she was still wound up from the fight, was more trouble than it was worth. It’d be easier to face an angry rhinoceros—or better yet, to pretend.

And sure enough, I barely had time to turn toward the wall and throw the blanket over myself before the top stair creaked under a heavy step, and the door quietly opened.

I quickly shut my eyes, evened my breathing, and feigned a deep, peaceful sleep. She came closer, stood by the bed, listened, adjusted the blanket, and lingered for a moment. Before leaving, she adjusted the blanket again, sighed sadly, and quietly left the room to check on the other children.

I exhaled in relief, stretched out on the bed, and stared mindlessly at the dark ceiling. The nervous tension from earlier had faded, and even the anger had subsided. It’s terrible when you’re only seven, no one takes you seriously, and you’re stuck with an overbearing mother and mischievous older brothers who you won’t be able to beat up for at least five more years. It’s been enough time to come to terms with it, but I still haven’t gotten used to this new family, nor have I found my place in this house.

I ended up in this body six months ago. In the body of Ron Weasley from a children's story. I eventually came to terms with the idea, albeit not without internal protest and doubts about my sanity. But the thought that I was inside a book still filled me with mild bewilderment. And as for magic, well, I wasn’t fully convinced of its reality, even though I saw it every day from morning till night. My old rational mind just couldn’t accept all these magical things. Frankly, I wouldn’t wish this situation on anyone.

The first of those six months, I spent in St. Mungo’s—I had plenty of time to adjust and come to terms with my situation. The twins had fed Ron one of their latest creations—an experimental acid fizz candy. The dubious treat not only burned a hole the size of a Snitch in his tongue but also severely affected his nervous system. The boy ended up paralyzed from a reaction to one of the ingredients. Apparently, an allergy is what did him in, and I woke up unexpectedly in his young body.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only move my eyes. So, my cries for help, attempts to explain, and to reach out to others went unheard. And honestly, I’m grateful to the gods (or whoever to thank for such fortune) for the paralysis; otherwise, I would’ve either been locked up in the local "nut house" or I’d have bashed my head against the wall. Or killed someone in a fit of rage.

But over those four weeks, I had plenty of time to think, calm down, and by the time I was discharged, I had fully accepted that this was real—no hallucination lasts this long.

I decided to keep the truth to myself. Who knows what they’d do to someone like me? Burn me at the stake? Or something worse—they’ve got an entire room full of brains in the Department of Mysteries, and I doubt anyone donated those willingly. So yeah, I figured keeping quiet was the safer bet.

It took me a long time to get used to the family. I didn’t inherit the previous owner’s memory. Only occasionally did fragments of memories surface. Mostly negative ones. Like how the twins tormented him, how he was jealous of his mother’s affection for Ginny, how his sister teased him, and other small things. Apparently, only those memories that were emotionally charged remained.

Well, it’s better than nothing — it still helped me a lot to get my bearings in the house and recognize people in the beginning. And even without that, I felt a constant strain — everything was unfamiliar, my body was that of a child, there was magic all around, and right above the ceiling, some weird ghoul would howl and bang on the pipes at night. How I didn’t lose my mind is still beyond me.

I was also lucky that I knew English from my previous life: my mother worked as an English teacher in high school, so there was no way around it — I had to learn it. I translated well, wrote properly and legibly, spoke fluently in a bookish manner, and even managed to communicate well with the staff at a Turkish hotel while on vacation. I thought I’d get by with this, but no such luck. Turns out, spoken English from native Brits is nothing like the proper, bookish version.

I couldn’t understand half of the familiar words, especially when they spoke quickly and with emotion, like Molly, or when the twins would interrupt and talk over each other. Everyone in the family had their own special way of pronouncing things.

Arthur swallowed half the vowels, Charlie dropped the endings, Ginny dragged her words out a little, and Molly spoke like a machine gun. Only Percy spoke clearly, like the kind of English I was used to. But his speech was so loaded with fancy phrases that I mostly guessed at the meaning, piecing it together in my head like a puzzle. Bill was the same, though instead of complex words, he peppered his speech with local youth slang I didn’t know.

And on top of all that, I was still thinking in Russian. By the time I figured out what someone had said, came up with an answer in my head, and translated it into English… they’d be staring at me, waiting for a response, and I’d start to panic, afraid they’d figure me out, my thoughts scattering in all directions. It took me a long time to get used to it all.

I was lucky they grew me a new tongue after the injury—my old one had almost completely dissolved, along with part of my palate and esophagus. But the healers at St. Mungo’s deal with such cases in no time, it’s no more difficult for them than everyday injuries, like a simple cut. If it weren’t for the allergic reaction and subsequent nerve paralysis, Ron would have been home in a few hours, good as new. So the twins didn’t even get killed for their prank, much to my secret disappointment.

My new tongue ached and itched like crazy for the first two months after I was discharged. It moved stiffly, and felt like a bee had stung it, with my whole mouth swollen. I couldn’t speak clearly for about three months. That’s why no one noticed my strange accent or was surprised by my one-word answers—I mostly just kept quiet and nodded. Eventually, I got used to it and adapted a bit. Besides, I practiced every day—trying to read fairytales out loud, enunciating every word.

I spent most of those early months in my room, trying to avoid too much contact with my new family, thinking it would lower the risk of being found out. And the doctor had advised me to take it easy until my muscles fully regained their tone.

In this reality, healers can easily cure paralysis—if it’s the usual kind. But nerve-related issues are tied to the mind and mental processes. That’s something only mind-healer mages can treat—the ones who understand how the brain works. But they don’t use such magic on kids under sixteen. Their minds are too unstable, and they could go mad. So they give you potions and wait for it to heal on its own. Plus, the services of a master like that cost as much as our house and then some, with no guarantee it will help. I overheard this during one of my check-ups when the “parents” were talking with the healer while I was getting dressed.

Molly gave the twins a good beating with her broom and sternly told them not to touch me anymore. They didn’t stop teasing me, of course, but at least they stopped slipping me any of their experimental tricks.

Although, if it were up to me, that punishment was too light. I wouldn’t have stopped at a spanking, especially when I remembered that bowel-cleansing spell and how they fed me disgusting potions through a tube—it’s a pleasure only for the truly adventurous, I’ll say that. And for a whole month afterward, back at home, Molly had to help me shower—my body didn’t fully cooperate yet, and sometimes my legs would buckle unexpectedly, risking a fall..

It’s deeply humiliating to have someone else washing you, scrubbing you all over, getting into every nook and cranny with a sponge, turning you around like a mannequin. And even later, when I could finally bathe myself, every day she’d loudly ask, “Ronnie, did you wash your ‘little thingy’ and ears properly?”

I can’t say anything bad about the Weasley family, though. They may not be rich, but they are tight-knit, though very noisy and rowdy. You can’t find peace and quiet anywhere in the house, not even in your own room. Molly clearly has never heard of personal space. She’ll barge in without knocking at any time, day or night, whenever she feels like it, and when she starts scolding you, the whole house hears it. In this family, nothing stays hidden: anything that happens, the whole family knows about it.

Arthur worked at the Ministry, while Molly took care of the house and the kids. But helping out around the house wasn’t something people did in this family. She always kicked everyone out when she was cooking or cleaning. Like, ‘you’ve eaten, now get out of my sight and go do something.’

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Once, trying to build some rapport, I offered to wash the dishes. Molly Weasley stared at me like I was insane, and when she snapped out of it, she stuffed a handful of pies into my hands and, in a sweetly persuasive tone, suggested I lie down and rest until dinner, then showed me the door. I didn’t offer to help again.

Personally, I think household chores were Molly’s way of relaxing— her way of taking a break from the kids and too much socializing. She didn’t have any place to retreat to in the house either, and with all those daily responsibilities, there was no time for it. But in the kitchen, by herself, she’d turn on the wizarding radio, hum along, and dance a little while cooking, singing under her breath with Celestina Warbeck.

Arthur was the smartest of the lot—since there was no office in the house, he privatized the garage for his personal use and often fiddled around there with a serious look when he had some spare time, though he didn’t have much of that. After reading Rowling’s books, I used to think he was a useless layabout who did nothing at home, just hanging out in his shed. But reality turned out to be quite different.

Arthur hammered away at something every day. He loved using Muggle tools, even though magic would’ve been faster. But as I gathered from conversations, spells were unreliable—you have to refresh them from time to time, and you never know when the chair under you might fall apart. So, using a hammer was a safer bet, with a guarantee that it wouldn’t unexpectedly break.

He never went anywhere without his “emergency kit,” always fixing something—stairs, railings, the porch, and doors to the rooms needed the most repairs. The stools were reinforced, the beds extended when the kids outgrew them, and Arthur had made all the furniture in the house himself. And I’m not even mentioning the one bathroom and two toilets, which got heavy use with so many people living there. The roof was always leaking, too, and he’d repair it with magic, though the fix never lasted long, and new leaks would appear just in time for the next rain.

Molly, when she wasn’t cooking or cleaning, was always knitting, sewing, or mending something. I never saw her just sitting around doing nothing. Her loud voice echoed throughout the house all day, until she finally disappeared into the master bedroom late in the evening.

I ended up reading the Harry Potter books by accident. I was heading to Gelendzhik to visit my parents by train. Normally, I would’ve flown, but the dates didn’t work out, so I had to return my ticket and endure almost two days on the train. And, of course, in my rush, I forgot my phone charger at home.

Later, I realized I hadn’t packed anything to read, except for a couple of crossword magazines that had been lying around in my bag from last time. The crosswords got old fast, the conversations with fellow passengers went in circles, and even the chess games my companion Stepan tried to teach me got boring quickly. The station kiosks offered little more than the same old crosswords, tabloids, and shelves of romance novels. I did manage to snag a single detective novel, but I finished it in three hours—I read fast.

Thankfully, a teenage girl nearby lent me her copy of Harry Potter. Not exactly a spy thriller, but at least it wasn’t one of those trashy medieval romance novels with smut starting by page five.

The book wasn’t half bad. It started off as a simple fairy tale, like The Giant Turnip or Snow White but things got more interesting as it went on. Although, I’ll admit, I sometimes got pretty frustrated with the characters’ illogical decisions—especially the guys. The female characters were more or less reasonable, though not without their quirks. Then again, maybe that’s just the English mentality—who knows? Anyway, that’s how I got acquainted with the books. So, thanks for that, Marina. I don’t remember the details, but the key moments stuck with me. Should help me survive, I guess. Although, at the time, I had other, simpler problems on my mind.

What drove me up the wall the most was everyone’s lack of boundaries. And it wasn’t just Molly. Here, it seemed perfectly normal to gather in the living room after dinner and dive into everyone’s personal lives. Molly would earnestly tell her husband about the day in his absence—everything down to the smallest details. She’d talk about how Percy ate poorly today because of an upset stomach and had to be given a laxative. Or how poor Ginny had a boil on her bottom. Then she’d pull out one of Lockhart’s books, Healer, Heal Thyself, to look up remedies, sparking a discussion on how to handle the situation—all under Ginny’s embarrassed groans of “Mum!” and the twins’ giggling. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

Everyone had an opinion on everything—advice, approval, criticism, and teasing, especially from the twins. It was like there couldn’t be any secrets in the family. Soon, the school year would be over at Hogwarts, and the older brothers would come home. I’d already experienced what it’s like when the whole family gathers during the last holiday. The house was packed, like a circus camp, with noise everywhere. It made my head spin.

In my old life, I was an only child, raised in a family where people respected each other’s personal space and maintained polite distance. So, this casual familiarity and constant intrusions really got on my nerves. And to think I once begged my mom for a little brother, imagining how fun it would be to live in a big family. Back then, my classmate Stakhov, who I didn’t get along with, had three brothers, while I had none—no one to call to back me up during fights. I was such a fool.

My mom was a native of St. Petersburg, the very definition of old-school intelligencia — polished shoes and modest, well-worn clothes from countless trips on public transport, with a love for smelt fish and rye bread.

We lived with my maternal grandfather in a four-room apartment on Vasilievsky Island, one of which was entirely taken up by his library. He was an avid book collector and lover of rare volumes. It’s because of him that I developed a passion for reading. He passed away when I was eight, but I still remember him fondly—this quiet, frail old man with his ever-present cane.

My father, on the other hand, was just an ordinary guy. I still don’t understand how he managed to win over my mom. You’d be hard-pressed to find two more different people. He worked as a driver his entire life, always driving armored vehicles for a cash-in-transit service. I inherited his love for cars and knack for fixing them. Ever since I was little, I loved tinkering with him in the garage. By the time I turned sixteen, he gave me my first car, and my friends and I spent the next couple of years working on it until we turned that heap into a gem. Just in time to break it in before I joined the army.

In the army, I landed a cushy job after training, working in the motor pool, so the time flew by quickly.

Later, when I was discharged, I started buying junk cars, fixing them up, and selling them. I made good money that way. Alongside that, I restored vintage cars for wealthy clients—everyone in St. Petersburg knew that Sasha could turn any scrap metal into something special. People would bring me cars from other cities just to get them fixed.

When I’d saved up enough, I opened my first tire shop. Later, I sold off my grandfather’s library and invested in a repair shop. My old school friend, Pavel, had opened a used car dealership and invited me to go in on the business with him. I made good money from that. I moved out of my parents’ house, bought a one-and-a-half-room apartment in a new area, and then, out of the blue, I got married.

My first wife, Galina, wasn’t a beauty, but her figure was something else. More importantly, she was practical and had a good head on her shoulders, despite being only twenty-two. She loved gardening and making preserves. In the end, that’s what ruined our relationship—she turned out to be too much of a homebody. She even worked from home, knitting custom orders. Meanwhile, I, fresh out of the army, didn’t want to sit still. I wanted to travel, see the world, stroll around town, hang out with friends. But all she cared about was her knitting, the house, and the garden. It’s honestly a mystery why she even showed up at the party where we met.

She never wanted to go out with me, and when I went without her, she’d get upset. I bought her a fur coat, but there was nowhere to wear it—it just hung in the closet. She only wore it once, when we visited my parents for Christmas. So, we ended up living separate lives—she stayed at home, and I went everywhere alone, as if I wasn’t married at all. Eventually, our relationship quietly fizzled out after two years, and we got a low-key divorce.

To be honest, I didn’t marry her out of love anyway. We slept together, and she thought she got pregnant, so, being the honorable guy I was, I did the right thing. It turned out to be a false alarm—just some hormonal imbalance. But by then, I’d gotten used to the idea, and she seemed content with the arrangement. Galina, to be fair, would’ve made the perfect wife for any other man who could sit still for more than a day. But I was still young, restless, hadn’t gotten all the partying out of my system yet and didn’t realize what I had.

When Dad went on vacation again, he and Mom decided to go to Gelendzhik for a break. They liked it so much they decided to move there for good. They sold the apartment in St. Petersburg, the dacha (summer house) in the suburbs, and bought a house by the sea. I didn’t go with them—didn’t want to leave my apartment, friends, business, or clients. Besides, what would I even do there? That whole resorty south is just one big village—good for a week of rest and fishing, then you’d go stir-crazy. Still, I visited them every year during the season to catch up and unwind, and they’d come to see me in the winter, mostly to get some better medical treatment. The healthcare down there wasn’t exactly great.

Mom, of course, worried, missed me, and kept asking me to join them. But after a couple of years, when my little sister unexpectedly came along, she finally accepted it. Meanwhile, I saved up, sold my one-room apartment, and bought a two-bedroom place. Furnished it to my taste and was just getting settled when, out of the blue, I ended up married for the second time.

Masha was my first love. Back in school, all the guys were drooling over her, and I even managed to kiss her once. I was a good-looking guy, broad-shouldered, and even had a rank in combat sambo, but I guess I wasn’t in her league. She wanted someone richer and more educated. I told her upfront I was going to a tech school. Why would I need university if tech school was enough for my trade? I already knew what I wanted to do and had no doubt I’d make it. But I guess that wasn’t good enough for her, and things ended before they even began.

Long story short, fate brought us back together—she brought her car into my garage for a service. She was still this queen, looking stunning. I was floored. We went out for dinner, and before a month was up, I suggested we move in together, and she agreed.

But three months later, the teenage fantasy of being with her wore off. When I came to my senses, I was in shock. Not that Masha wasn’t a great homemaker—she kept the place spotless, cooked great, looked amazing, and in bed, well, she was incredible. My first wife, Galya, had been pretty reserved in that area, and I hadn’t pushed her out of respect for her boundaries. But with Masha, it felt like I’d stumbled into paradise. Except… her personality was so awful that I couldn’t enjoy any of it. Life felt like one long bout of heartburn.

She wanted to control my every move, calling me constantly "Where are you? Who are you with?" Her jealousy was obsessive. If I stayed out late with the guys after work, I was in for an all-night argument. She’d talk down to me like I was some teenage punk or a stray dog. And then there were the weird habits—like how all the mugs in the dish rack had to face north or how the toilet paper had to be folded into a neat triangle. I don’t know how I made it a year.

Then things got worse—tantrums out of nowhere, smashing dishes. "You don’t care about anything! I’m here all day, making this place nice, and you’re always in the garage, tinkering with your junk," she’d say. It was like the only way to keep her happy was to sit by her side all day, holding her hand and telling her how amazing and unique she was.

The final straw was when she threw my entire collection of model cars into a box and smashed them with a hammer in a fit of rage—all because I wouldn’t let her turn my office into a bedroom. That was my last sanctuary, and I wasn’t giving it up.

I came home to find the box in ruins—a mess worth 140,000 rubles and two years of my life spent tracking down rare models to complete the collection. She’d been nagging for a while that a married man shouldn’t have hobbies outside of his wife, but I never thought she’d go that far.

Without a word, I packed her things, called her a taxi, and sent her on her way while she wailed. That night, over a glass of whiskey, I decided I’d never get married again. To hell with it. Since then, I’ve just lived for myself. Not that there was much life to live—I wasn’t even 30 yet.

I still don’t remember how I ended up here, no matter how hard I try. Everything was normal—I spent the day at the shop, hung out at a friend’s place for a couple of hours, then went home. After that—darkness, and I woke up in a new body.

I didn’t feel any worry for my family. It was like someone had planted the idea in my head that they’d be fine. But what was I supposed to do here?

The alarm suddenly snorted, opened its sleepy eyes, and started to sing:

"Wake up… wake up… rise and shine… or all the tasty food will be gone… wake up…" It kept going until I flicked it, and it finally went silent, its hands twitching like little mustaches. Turns out, while I was lost in thought, morning had already come.

“Up, all of you!” Molly’s cheerful voice rang through the house. “If I have to come up there and drag you out of bed, I will!”

I sighed in defeat and hurried to the bathroom before the others rushed in. Molly wasn’t bluffing—she’d make good on her threat.