When we landed and Dad stepped aside, I doubled over. I was gulping down the damp sea air, leaning on my knee, while Dad patiently waited for me to feel better.

“You all right, Ron?” he asked, bending over me with concern. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, straightening up. “That… that felt pretty rough.”

He gave a short laugh, and I looked around in surprise. We were standing on an ocean shore, with miles of empty land all around. About half a mile off in the other direction, near some cliffs, stood a large three-story structure. A sandy path of grey stone slabs led towards it. This place felt quite desolate. Right now, in summer sunshine, it was actually quite pleasant—like a beach. But I dreaded to think what it might be like come autumn, with cold drizzle and sharp winds blowing in from the sea.

“Here, Ron, look,” Dad said, nodding toward the house and slipping an arm round my shoulders. “This is the ancestral home of the Weasley family. Let me show you.”

I followed him, still a bit stunned, while he beamed proudly. He didn’t hide how chuffed he was, pointing out details and talking about the surroundings.

“Tinworth is about three miles beyond those cliffs,” he explained, “Our house, as you can see, is a bit out of the way."

“Tinworth… that’s in Cornwall, isn’t it?” I asked, digging in my memory.

“Exactly!” he said, smiling brightly and giving my shoulder a friendly pat.

There wasn’t a gate or fence around the house, but as we got closer, I felt something shift—a sort of ripple, like stepping through an invisible wall.

“You felt it?” he said eagerly. “Yes, no one can enter unless they’re a Weasley or escorted by one. And I’d rather you not mention this place to anyone—brothers included.”

“All right,” I said with a shrug. “Does Mum know?”

“Of course,” he answered, heading inside and beckoning me to follow, “It was her idea as much as mine."

The house itself? Well, it was a house. Spacious, sure, but not a mansion. Bright and airy. The entire ground floor was an open plan with a kitchen, dining room, and sitting room—clearly designed with a big family in mind.

Dad showed me around all three floors. The rooms were small but practical. No windows yet—just shimmering magical films over the frames, like force fields. No decoration, either; the grey, processed stone walls felt a bit oppressive. But if I closed my eyes, the house’s magic was undeniable—steady and calming. The place had a strong, even magical aura that felt like a warm embrace.

After the tour, we stepped outside and sat on a driftwood log that had been washed ashore. The bark was weathered, crusted with salt. We sat there for ages, Dad gazing dreamily at the ocean while I just listened to the waves and let my thoughts drift.

"So, you bought this place, Dad?" I finally ventured, breaking the silence.

"Didn’t buy it—built it," he said, smiling softly but with a tinge of sadness in his eyes.

“I owe a lot to all of you, Ron,” he confessed. “I know I can’t give you more than the basics. But I’ve no other choice. My responsibility is to restore our family line, and I need to manage it while I’m still here. I lost everything when I was in my final year at Hogwarts. Family, relations, our house… I was left with nothing overnight—twenty Galleons in my pocket, a school trunk, and a thousand gold in the bank. And your mum had little more. I’m very grateful she didn’t call off the engagement and still married me.”

“What happened?” I asked softly, watching his expression. “I heard all our relatives were killed, but… why? Why are we ‘blood traitors’? Was it You-Know-Who?”

“It started way before him, Ron,” Dad sighed. “Ever since the Statute of Secrecy, our worlds—wizards and Muggles—were fully cut off from each other. Those from the magical world were fine, but those coming in—Muggle-borns and half-bloods—arrived with nothing and left with nothing. The old pureblood families were split in two camps. One side believed total isolation from Muggles, shutting out new magical blood and ideas, would lead to decline; the other side refused to share power and centuries of knowledge with outsiders. One side felt any wizard is a wizard, regardless of blood; the other insisted Muggle-borns ‘steal’ magic from ancient families and didn’t want them in what they saw as their rightful domain.”

“But you can’t just ‘steal’ magic,” I said in disbelief. “That’s absurd.”

"Of course it is," Dad replied evenly. "But no one knows where magic comes from. The radical pure-bloods argued that magic was a finite resource, passed down through bloodlines. They claim wizards are a completely separate, ‘higher’ race, while Muggle-borns are simply the offspring of old families’ Squibs. So they say a family’s magic is being diverted elsewhere. They used to kill Squibs in infancy before—well, the more radical lines did. Later, once attitudes changed, that was condemned, and Squibs were quietly sent off to live among Muggles.”

“That’s horrifying,” I gasped.

“A measure they deemed essential for ‘survival’,” Dad said flatly, almost emotionless. “Whatever didn’t meet their ‘standards’ was pitilessly wiped out to keep future generations ‘pure and healthy.’ Weak wizards, children born with deformities—gone. Even a big birthmark was reason enough, so it wouldn’t get passed on, ‘spoiling’ the line.”

"And our family?" I asked bitterly.

“I never asked, Ron,” Dad said gravely, “but it’s obvious—since we’re an ancient line. And I don’t want to know things I can’t accept. I’d never do it myself and that’s enough for me. Like my father before me, I’d never turn my back on my own child, no matter what.”

“Sorry, Dad,” I muttered, leaning into his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

He offered a faint smile, ruffling my hair. “I understand, son—I felt the same when I learned all this, once upon a time. But we can’t be blamed for the choices of others.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“So… what happened next?” I prompted.

“Ah, yes,” Dad said, snapping out of his thoughts. “Over time, the disputes in our society only grew worse. Pureblood heirs started marrying newcomers. The Wizengamot voted against a ban on marriages to Muggles. Old lines felt threatened. They retreated further, refusing to let their blood mingle. Eventually, in the thirties, a list of families who’d remained ‘pure’ was compiled.”

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight, right?” I said.

“In those days, it was fifty-seven families,” Dad said with a wry smile.

“So where’d the others go?” I asked.

“They were killed,” Dad answered curtly, eyes lowered. “They wouldn’t or couldn’t preserve the ‘purity’ of their lines. Not everyone was so radical. Yet when the best solution was murder… well, you can guess. Many old lines vanished completely. We survived by a fluke. My own relatives died, so did your mum’s, once her father refused to break our engagement.”

“Sounds like some twisted sort of wizard fascism,” I snapped, standing up and pacing. Anger boiled inside me.

“They did the same in many countries at the time,” Dad said calmly. “Grindelwald had a hand in purging old lines for ‘true’ purity. It was a grim era,” he added, sadness flickering in his eyes, but it seemed he’d long made peace with it. “Anyway, the upshot is both Mum and I were left alone. Both families gone. I was on my final year at Hogwarts. We had nowhere to turn except Dumbledore, so we hid in his cottage in Godric’s Hollow until it was safe. Then, when Charlie turned three, I found a ministry post, we left Dumbledore’s place, and that was that.”

“What’s all this got to do with the house, though?” I asked after calming a bit and sitting down. “We still have the Burrow.”

“The Burrow?” Dad wrinkled his nose. “I hate that place, Ron. Molly’s warmth and effort made it a home, but it was once just a house, an ordinary wizard cottage. My brother lived there, the one who married a Muggle-born. That’s where they were killed and their bodies burned—scattered everywhere. I never even found remains to bury. I avoided it for so long, but when you lot came along, I had to settle. I put it back together from the ground floor’s remains. Walls were stone, so they endured. We couldn’t sponge off Dumbledore forever. I feel indebted to him, but I couldn’t go and fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fully, not with a wife and kids to look after.”

“Couldn’t you just build a new place on the Burrow’s land? Demolish the old structure?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Dad sighed as though it was obvious. “You can’t just set up an ancestral house anywhere. You need a newborn source of magic for that, so house-elves might appear once it’s bonded. Sure, you could try to conquer someone else’s source and tear their wards down, but it would take a century for the aura to fade, and even then, it might stay cursed. A real family seat wouldn’t work. And if the line’s truly ancient, secured by blood wards, you’d be dealing with a cursed patch. Malfoy once made that mistake and regretted it,” he said with a slight grin.

“Malfoy?” I asked. “Draco?”

“No, not the boy—his granddad,” Dad explained. “Our murders were initiated by the Blacks. My mother was a Black, and they loathed that her husband’s line was deemed ‘traitors.’ They tried to pressure my Father, didn’t manage, so they wiped them out. I suspect the Bulstrodes and Flints helped, too, being our near relations. They wanted the land but couldn’t break the wards. So they torched everything with Fiendfyre—no evidence, no sign. Everything was gone, including the family crypt.”

“And how do the Malfoys fit in?”

He shrugged. “Their ancestors arrived with William the Conqueror in 1066, while our line was here centuries before that. They took some land in Wiltshire—borders ours—and have always had an eye on ours. For several generations, they tried to fit into local society. They may have been pure-blooded, but to our traditionalists, they were outsiders, upstarts. Of course, over hundreds of years of proper marriages, they became one of us, but the most ancient families never considered them equals. After all, our murders let them tie the knot with the Blacks, uniting their lines: Lucius married Narcissa. I assume it was all part of a deal to get rid of ‘traitors’ once and for all. Then the Malfoys put in a claim with the Wizengamot to buy all the local land, including ours. A wizard can’t just privately own an open magical patch. It has to be tied to an existing house. No house? Then it’s ‘nobody’s land,’ the Ministry eventually auctions it off.”

“Why’s that?” I pressed.

“Because wards are so secret, you can’t see them—ancestral places aren’t on any maps. People might know you live in this or that county, but not precisely where. You can’t prove right of ownership otherwise. Malfoy assumed my father’s wards would vanish once they killed everyone, but Dad’s blood magic remained. When he died, the source effectively died with him, cursing the place for centuries. So Malfoy’s out of luck, stuck with worthless acreage, can’t do anything with it and has to maintain the boundaries. That’s what you call poetic justice.”

“So that’s why they despise us?” I asked.

“As we do them, Ron… as we do them,” Dad echoed pensively.

“So this new house is unbelievably costly, I bet?” I said, reining Dad’s thoughts back.

“It’s ten thousand for the source,” he said, brightening. “And that’s only thanks to my connections. The official auctions run far higher. The house itself is seven thousand, plus three to bind the source if it’s finished. Then add a couple thousand more for all the finishing.”

“That’s a lot,” I said, astounded.

“Sure is,” he said with a proud smile, “about a thousand gold each year. Not many wizards can manage that, which is why few have a truly ancestral place.”

“Maybe you could spend the prize money on the house?” I ventured.

“Ron,” Dad sighed, “it wouldn’t make a dent. I’ll keep chipping away on my own. We could blow it on new things, refurbish the Burrow, but that changes nothing. Sooner or later, we’d be back to square one. And I want us, for once, to go on holiday, all of us—just like normal folk. We could never save up enough for that before, but these winnings came out of the blue. Easy come, easy go. If you’d been older, you’d know I’ve slogged my guts out for years, seldom seeing your Mum or you kids outside mealtimes. Now that you’re mostly at Hogwarts, we can breathe. Your mother deserves a break—she’s never had a proper holiday, and she’s raised all of you, practically singlehanded. Let her enjoy some time with the family before everyone grows up and moves out. And one day, I’ll finish our real family home.”

We fell silent again, the ocean’s hush broken only by the rush of waves.

“So?” Dad asked at length, glancing at me with a half-smile. “We good?”

“Yeah, Dad, I understand. But I’m not coming. I don’t want to go to Egypt. Don’t get me wrong I understand everything, and if you’d planned to visit Charlie, then maybe… but not this.”

“What nonsense is this, Ron?” he said, frowning. “Didn’t you hear a word?”

“I heard. I respect your choice, so respect mine. I don’t want to go.”

“But I can’t leave you at the Burrow on your own,” he said, obviously torn. “You get that, right?”

“No need,” I countered. “Harry invited me to stay with him.”

“Live with Muggles?” Dad said, looking startled.

“So what? I get on all right with his uncle.”

“Well, if you’re that determined,” he said at last, “I suppose I’ll allow it, but only if I see in writing that his family agrees.”

“Tomorrow I’ll head over by the Knight Bus and ask for their permission,” I promised.

“Fine,” he nodded, extending a hand to help me up. “Though I’d be glad if you changed your mind, Ron.”

“I won’t, Dad. But you’re the best father in the world.”

He gave a proud grunt and a warm smile—so much fatherly love shone in his eyes, it nearly bowled me over. Then Apparition snatched us again, that final image of grey stone and incomplete walls lingering in my mind. And in spite of everything I’d learned, a strange contentment settled over me.