Percy’s room was on what we called the "third floor," right below mine. Why "called"? Well, because The Burrow was a weird, hodgepodge of levels, where each floor wasn’t built all at once but tacked on over time like some kind of magical puzzle, with rooms added whenever and wherever they were needed.
The result? A house with a crooked outer wall, bulging in some places, like on the first floor, where it caved in to form a porch under the overhanging second floor. Elsewhere, like in Mum and Dad’s bedroom or Bill’s room, it jutted out, creating tiny balconies formed from the walls and ceiling of the floors below.
I didn’t get quite so lucky. My room was one of the last additions, and part of it was carved out of the attic. So, my already small ten-square-meter space only had two straight walls, which made it feel even smaller. On the right side, about a meter and a half from the floor, the attic slope began. With my height, there was no chance of standing up straight in that part of the room.
That’s where I hung some bookshelves and squeezed in a small desk. Across from them were my bed and a nightstand. That was the entirety of my "domain." The other boys' rooms weren’t much different—just as cramped—but at least their walls didn’t slant like mine.
Ginny got luckier with a slightly bigger room, about twelve meters, down on the first floor. Since her room was built last, and there’s more space on the ground floor, they could spread out a bit. She even had room for a built-in wardrobe (though it wasn’t exactly overflowing with clothes) and a dressing table with a big, round mirror in a scratched-up frame.
From the inside, the house felt like a maze of passageways, with levels going up and down randomly. No wonder they called it "The Burrow."
The main staircase didn’t go straight from the first floor to the attic. At each landing, or sometimes just before, it branched off into three to five smaller steps.
Before the second floor, you’d find the parents’ bedroom and the bathroom with a toilet. A couple of steps above that was a storage closet for junk, and a bit higher, two meters up and three side steps over, was Bill’s room.
Between the second and third floors were Charlie’s room on the right and the twins’ on the left, almost directly above the parents’ bedroom. Maybe that’s why Molly was always aware of their nightly escapades.
Between the third and fourth floors was Percy’s room, reached by two broad steps, and another bathroom. And then, three steps higher, to the left, was where I lived. The main staircase led further, straight up to the attic, turning around my room ten steps higher. Quite the labyrinth.
This time, I managed to deliver the tray without any incidents—the twins were probably busy hiding the evidence before Mum could storm in for a surprise inspection.
I placed the tray on the top step and knocked. Percy opened the door right away, like he’d been waiting by it.
“Oh, it’s you, Ron. Come in,” he said with visible relief and stepped aside. Carefully holding the tray, I entered.
“Put it here,” he gestured and moved a notebook from the table onto the bed. A couple of minutes later, I plopped down there myself.
“Mum said she’d stop by later,” I mentioned. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine,” he shrugged calmly and picked up his spoon. “Thanks to Dad.”
“Listen, Percy, aren’t you sick of putting up with those instigators? You’re an older brother,” I blurted out unexpectedly, watching him wince slightly as he chewed. “Let’s team up and give them a proper thrashing, so they’ll finally leave you alone?”
“No,” Percy shook his head, biting into his bread and butter again. “That’s not right… Fred and George, they’re good—they’re kind and fun, and they don’t mean any harm. Don’t think that. It just... happens. Why would we fight them? We’re family, after all.”
“Yeah, family,” I muttered skeptically. A few good whacks with a belt, and we could just say ‘it happened’ too. “Alright, alright, eat. I was just suggesting. No pressure,” I added as Percy shot me a reproachful look.
While he polished off Mum’s cooking, I took in his room. To me, it looked more like the office of a forty-year-old man than the bedroom of a boy who wasn’t even eleven yet. Everything was in its place, not a speck of dust, books neatly lined up, not a single poster or trinket. The only personal touch was a framed family photo of the Weasleys on the nightstand. It gave me a warm feeling inside, and I glanced away, a bit embarrassed, like I’d seen something too personal. My eyes landed on his open notebook.
“Percy, can you teach me how to write?” I suddenly asked, flipping through the pages and admiring the neat, even lines with beautiful loops.
“Uh, I already taught you. Did you forget everything?” he asked, looking up from his pastry, surprised.
“No, I mean with a quill,” I clarified, cursing myself silently. “All I manage to do with it is make ink blots. But I want it to look as nice as yours.”
“Of course, if you really want to, I can help you,” he said after a brief pause, sounding a little shy. “Let’s do it every day after lunch. An hour should be enough. But I’ll be giving you homework,” he added, getting more enthusiastic, and I couldn’t help but smile at his excitement.
“Alright!” I said, happy. “And could you lend me something about magic to read? Nothing too hard, though—I only have Quidditch books and fairy tales. I don’t want to take anything from the living room; if the twins see, they’ll tease me.” Percy nodded seriously, wiped his hands carefully with a napkin, and took a few books from the shelf, two of which were quite thick.
“Here, ‘Magic for Beginners,’ ‘Fantastic Beasts,’ and ‘A History of Magic.’ The last two are school books that Charlie gave me. Just be careful with them; I need to take them to Hogwarts.”
“Of course. Thanks,” I said sincerely, getting up. “I’ll leave them here for now. I’m just going to take the dishes back, and I’ll grab the books on my way back.”
“No need, I’ll take them myself,” Percy smiled gently and rubbed his nose in a way that reminded me of Dad. “You go ahead and start reading.”
I nodded, grabbed the books, and headed for the door.
“Hey, Percy,” I called, suddenly feeling bold. “Want to go for a walk? It’s not cold today, and there’s no rain.”
“You want to go for a walk?” he asked, surprised. “With me? Together?”
“Yeah,” I said again. “I’ve been cooped up at home for so long because I was sick. I just need to stretch my legs.”
“Okay!” He jumped up quickly. “I’ll get dressed. Just need to clear the dishes and ask Mum.”
“I’ll change too. Let’s meet downstairs in half an hour.”
As I pulled on a warm sweater and socks, I patted myself on the back for the idea. I had so many questions, and no one to ask. I didn’t get any of the real Ron’s memories. How am I supposed to know what he’s been taught? If I say something dumb, his parents will catch on immediately. Percy, though—he’s still a kid, and even if I screw up, it’s less risky.
Besides, I hadn’t seen anything beyond the house and the ward at St. Mungo’s yet. I don’t even know what county we live in. All I remember is that it's a village where wizards and Muggles live side by side. Other than the Weasleys, the Lovegoods and Diggorys are our neighbors. I’ll get Percy to fill me in on everything.
Still, it’s kind of weird. Percy’s almost eleven, the twins are nine, and I’m seven, according to the kitchen calendar, but none of the kids go to school. And I haven’t seen anyone do any homework in the five months I’ve been here at the Burrow. Who’s teaching them to read, write, and all that? Do magical kids not get any basic education? I’ll figure it out.
Percy was already at the door, buttoned up in his coat and bouncing impatiently while Molly wrapped a long red scarf around his neck. When he saw me, his face lit up and he let out a breath of relief as his mother turned her attention to me.
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“Ron, put on this coat and these boots, it’s damp outside,” Molly instructed, pulling a worn jacket off the hook. “Here, let me help.”
She bundled me up quickly, wrapping the same kind of scarf around my neck that Percy had. She finished by placing knitted hats on our heads and handing us gloves, giving each of us a quick kiss on the cheek before shooing us out the door.
“The warming charms will last about four hours, so be home by three. Have a good walk, my dears,” she said, closing the door behind us.
The time flew by. Percy turned out to be a goldmine of information. I just had to ask him one question, and he eagerly answered, going off on so many tangents that he covered a whole bunch of other things too. All I had to do was listen and nod.
It started with the weather. I casually mentioned how lucky we were with today’s snow, since it had been raining just the day before. Percy immediately perked up and started explaining how we’re lucky to live here. Devon has a milder climate compared to other counties, and it doesn’t rain as much. He couldn’t wait for summer, when we’d go camping again at the local nature reserve, or visit the beach, which was only six miles away. Just from that one comment, I got answers to a ton of unspoken questions I’d been wondering about, and even more useful info. Definitely made the right choice picking Percy as my source.
The conversation naturally shifted to the magical families living in our area. And again, I didn’t even have to ask. As we walked down the main road, Percy pointed to a small forest behind the Burrow and mentioned that since April was coming, we’d soon be able to gather buds from magical pines and blooming moonflowers to sell. He even shyly asked if I wanted to help, and we could split the money afterward.
I pretended to be surprised that magical plants grew nearby, and he launched into a fascinating explanation. Our village, Ottery St. Catchpole, is a mixed settlement where Muggles and wizards have lived together for ages. The magical energy isn’t as strong here as in Hogsmeade, and it’s not everywhere, but where it exists, it’s enough to support some magical plants. There are even some magical birds, non-poisonous snakes, and frogs around. Nothing too valuable grows here, which is why most wizards don’t bother harvesting—too cheap to be worth selling. But for our family, it’s enough. We can use some ourselves, and sell a bit for a couple of chocolate frogs.
I’d been wondering where the twins got their ingredients for their experiments—there’s no way their parents were buying them. Turns out they just raid the local woods. Molly too, apparently—I’d seen her by the cauldron a few times, so she must have been making simple potions for the family herself.
Aside from the wizards I already knew about, there were three more families living in our village—the Fawcetts, the Woods, and the Frenches. I had no idea who they were, but whatever. The important thing was, there were plenty of wizards around.
We got back on time, hungry and happy, and Molly was thrilled to see us in such good spirits, all rosy-cheeked.
The twins, of course, teased us over lunch, saying that two humorless nerds had found each other, but I ignored them, too focused on the delicious stew with herbs and potatoes.
From that day on, I went for a walk every day, rain or shine. Surprisingly, they didn’t even stop me in bad weather—they just gave me an umbrella. Afterward, Molly would always make me drink a cup of elderberry and thyme tea to ward off colds.
If it wasn’t raining, Percy always tagged along. Every time I got ready to go out, he’d watch me with such a hopeful look, and when I invited him, his eyes would light up. How could I refuse? The poor kid was starving for company. He didn’t bother me, anyway.
Of course, Ron, just like the twins, used to think Percy was a pompous bore, but I liked him. Why not listen to a smart person? The guy knew a lot more than I did. Moreover, he really valued our friendship and wasn't proud or arrogant. When I was slow to understand something, he would explain it again without any irritation. He would have made a great teacher, so why did he need that Ministry job? Though I knew he wanted to be like his father, maybe that’s why.
Still, sometimes I’d get tired of all the socializing and make use of the bad weather when Percy is unlikely to join me to go for a quiet walk on my own and think things over. Like now.
The area was beautiful, even now, with constant cloud cover and the greenery not yet in sight. It was late February, but it wasn’t cold—just damp, with occasional strong winds. Luckily, Molly had enchanted my jacket before I left to shield me from the worst of it.
The Burrow stood a bit off the beaten path, like the other magical homes scattered around, spaced far apart from one another. I figured they were hidden by some kind of magic because no matter how hard I squinted into the distance, I couldn’t spot any other wizard houses. I couldn’t wander through the fields just yet either; they were still covered in snow or so muddy that I’d get stuck after the first step. So, we usually stuck to short walks, about a mile up the road from our house to the first crossroads. The asphalt road ran past the Burrow, connecting the main highway to the village and continuing on to Exeter.
On the right side of the road, the River Exe flowed alongside us, eventually widening before emptying into the English Channel. Here, though, it wasn’t so broad. Percy said the older boys liked to swim here in the summer, a little further downstream, where the current was weaker, and they could easily swim across.
On the left was our house, separated from the road by fields that eventually turned into low hills and patches of woodland. The Burrow was a bit hidden from view, so it didn’t stand out. Although, I’m pretty sure there was some magic involved, because otherwise, any Muggle driving by would’ve gone into shock at the sight of our home—it looked just too odd not to. They probably just saw a cute white cottage instead of the “mad architect’s nightmare of the century” that it actually was.
There wasn’t really a fence around the house—well, there was a crumbling stone wall in places, but it was so low an adult could easily step over it.
Behind the house was a fairly spacious garden. It wasn’t clear yet what grew there, but there were lots of trees and bushes. The garage and chicken coop were on the other side of the house, near the highway, next to another small patch of forest. This one wasn’t magical at all, and as Percy mentioned, there was a small pond or swamp where our family collected frog spawn in the warmer months. Between the house and the garage, there were also ropes stretched out where Molly hung laundry to dry.
The Weasleys, like most of the other wizards around here, didn’t really interact with their Muggle neighbors. Molly even got her groceries from Mr. Frenchie, who lived about a mile up the road, or half a mile if you cut straight through the fields. The wealthier wizards, Percy said, shopped in the magical districts and didn’t deal with the local farmers either.
Old Frenchie wasn’t exactly a farmer. He ran a small, sturdy magical homestead just for himself, but ever since he’d met Arthur’s father, he’d been selling the Weasleys his excess produce, for magical money, of course. The first time I saw wizarding currency was when I offered to go grocery shopping in Arthur’s place.
Percy tagged along, as usual, and without any fuss, we were handed a cart and some coins. For two galleons, fifteen sickles, and three knuts, we brought home a whole cartful of shrunken groceries for the week. Frenchie was kind enough to lighten the cart for us, so we happily pushed it along the asphalt without a care.
I figured that feeding such a big family cost about ten galleons a month, not counting the milk and cream that magically appeared every morning after Molly left out empty jugs and a note the night before.
When the older brothers came home, the food bill would probably rise to fifteen galleons, but back then, I didn’t know how much Arthur earned or the prices of other things in both worlds. I hadn’t even been to the village yet. I only started to piece it all together that summer when Bill and Charlie came home. Bill had brought a career guide from school, with a list of professions and approximate salaries.
It turned out that regular Ministry employees made forty galleons a month. Personal assistants or secretaries earned fifty, department heads got a hundred, and middle managers made eighty, plus overtime pay.
Hogwarts teachers earned eighty galleons. With seniority bonuses and head-of-house duties, it went up to about a hundred and fifty, and if you were a Master, you could pull in two hundred. That was good money—about the same as the Deputy Minister, the head of the Auror Office, or a top-tier healer at St. Mungo’s.
Workers in the service sector, like cooks or shopkeepers, earned forty to forty-two galleons. A loader earned twenty. The minimum wage was four galleons a week.
The highest salary was the Minister of Magic’s, as well as the head healer’s, at three hundred galleons. Quidditch players, though, made even more—from three hundred to five hundred with a local team, and a thousand for those in the League. No wonder Ron dreamed of becoming a Quidditch player, even for a local club.
The average wizarding salary ranged from fifty to seventy galleons a month, which was about three hundred pounds, give or take, and at the time, Muggle salaries were around three hundred twenty pounds. So, it turned out that most wizards didn’t live much better than Muggles.
Our family likely survived on eighty galleons a month, plus about forty from overtime. And we had to feed nine people. No wonder there was never an extra knut to spare.
From another little introductory booklet, I found out Arthur didn’t know much about pounds because he’d never exchanged them at Gringotts for wizarding money.
Sure, he knew those paper bills were money, but to him, they were just useless wrappers. Apparently, the bank only exchanged Muggle currency for Muggle-borns or half-bloods who lived on the Muggle side, and even then, only after they presented their Hogwarts letter. The exchange limit was a hundred galleons a year, and only for the seven years of schooling. The wizarding world was more isolated than I had ever imagined.
I’m not much of a finance guy, but it became clear that the goblins had a monopoly on wizarding finances—from minting coins to running the bank—so wizards couldn’t play the currency market or, Merlin forbid, get rich without goblin oversight.
By the way, I found the jar of pounds in the garage. It was pretty full, and for a moment, I was tempted to pinch some and head to the local shop for real sweets that didn’t scream or wiggle when you ate them.
But then I thought better of it. To Arthur, that jar was like a lovingly curated collection, the way my toy cars had been to me. I didn’t want to ruin it. I could live without the sweets. Really, what I wanted more than sweets was just to go to a regular shop and buy something.
But all these revelations happened much later. Back then, I still didn’t know any of this—I was just quietly trying to fit in with the family. And today, when Arthur got home from work, we were going to move a ghoul, and I still needed to read up on what kind of creature it was.