Three days.
Ron had been reading spell theory obsessively for three days, barely putting the books down except to sleep and eat. His brain was full of questions that multiplied faster than the books could answer them.
Why did specific wand movements produce specific effects? What was the actual mechanism? The books said "swish and flick creates levitation" but never explained what about that movement made things float. Was it arbitrary? Or was there underlying logic?
And intent. Every book emphasized intent, but none of them defined what it actually was. Focused will, they said. Mental visualization. But how did thoughts translate into physical magical effects? What was the connecting mechanism?
Ron's notes had expanded beyond the margins. He'd started using spare parchment, filling pages with questions and theories. Trying to build frameworks. Looking for patterns.
The frustration was that the books treated magic like a recipe. Do this, get that result. Don't ask why. Don't experiment. Just follow the instructions that wizards had been using for centuries.
Which made no sense. Someone had to have figured out these spells originally. Which meant someone understood the underlying principles. So why wasn't that understanding taught?
"Ron," Molly called from downstairs. "Breakfast!"
Ron marked his page in "Practical Applications of Wand Movement" and headed down, mind still spinning through theories about magical energy channeling.
Breakfast was the usual chaos. Twins arguing about whether purple or orange made better dungbomb smoke. Percy reading at the table despite Molly's pointed looks. Ginny stabbing her eggs. Arthur buried in the Daily Prophet. Molly managing everyone with practiced efficiency.
Ron ate on autopilot, brain still half-focused on the chapter he'd been reading about precision in wand movements and how even slight variations could alter spell effects dramatically.
"Ron's being weird again," Ginny said suddenly.
Ron looked up. "What?"
"You have that look," she said. "Like you're thinking about books instead of being here."
"I'm eating breakfast."
"You're staring at your eggs like they're going to explain transfiguration."
The twins snorted.
"She's not wrong," Fred said.
"You've had that look for days," George added.
"What look?"
"The thinking-too-hard look," they said together.
Ron focused on his breakfast and tried to look less like he was analyzing magical theory. Which was difficult when his brain wouldn't shut up about it.
After breakfast, he went back to reading. But the questions were piling up too fast. He needed to understand this. Needed to figure out how magic actually worked, not just memorize movements and incantations.
Around noon, there was a knock on his door.
"Ron?" Fred's voice. "You in there?"
"Yeah."
The twins came in, identical grins suggesting they were up to something.
"We need your help with something," George said.
"And by help, we mean we're going to teach you something," Fred added.
"About pranks," they said together.
Ron set down his book. "What kind of something?"
"Color-change charm theory," Fred said. "We promised we'd show you how it works."
"Remember? From last week?" George added.
Right. They'd mentioned teaching him more about prank-making. Ron had been so absorbed in spell theory that he'd forgotten.
"Sure," Ron said, standing up. "Let's do it."
The twins led him to their room, which was organized chaos. One half was Percy-level neat, the other looked like a prank shop had exploded. Ron suspected the neat half was for show.
"Okay," Fred said, pulling out several small vials of colored powder. "Color-change charms are the basis for most visual pranks. Hair color, skin tone, clothing, whatever."
"The trick is controlling duration and intensity," George continued. "Too weak and it fades immediately. Too strong and you can't reverse it."
They showed Ron the wand movements. A spiral pattern followed by a sharp flick. The incantation was "Coloris mutatio" with the target color specified.
"The spiral channels the magic into a transformation pattern," Fred explained. "The flick releases it onto the target."
Ron's brain immediately started analyzing. "But why does a spiral create transformation? What about that movement makes it affect color specifically?"
The twins exchanged a look.
"That's just how the charm works," George said.
"But there has to be a reason," Ron pressed. "Like, is the spiral channeling magic in a specific way? Creating some kind of pattern that interacts with matter at a molecular level?"
"Molecular?" Fred asked.
Ron caught himself. "I meant, like, really small. Tiny. The basic building blocks of things."
"You mean atoms?" George said.
"Yeah, atoms. Does the charm affect things at that level? Or is it something else?"
The twins were staring at him now with that calculating expression Ron was learning to recognize.
"That's a really sophisticated question," Fred said slowly.
"For a ten-year-old," George added.
"I just want to understand how it works," Ron said. "Not just what to do, but why it works that way."
The twins looked at each other, one of those silent conversations.
"Most people don't ask why," Fred said finally. "They just learn the movement and move on."
"But if you understood why," Ron argued, "you could modify it. Make it more effective. Create new variations."
"That's dangerous," George said, but he sounded intrigued rather than concerned.
"Or brilliant," Fred countered.
They spent the next hour discussing color-change charm theory. Or rather, Ron asked questions and the twins tried to answer based on their practical experience. Why did the spiral work better clockwise than counterclockwise? What happened if you did multiple spirals? Could you target specific parts of an object instead of the whole thing?
The twins didn't have answers for most of it. But they were impressed by the questions.
"Our little brother the theorist," Fred said.
"Thinks like Percy but about useful things," George added.
"Like pranks," they said together, grinning.
Ron filed away their reactions. The twins valued practical application over pure theory. As long as his analysis led to better pranks, they'd accept it. Maybe even encourage it.
By the time dinner came around, Ron's brain was full of new questions on top of the old ones. Color-change charms. Transformation patterns. Whether magical effects could be combined or modified.
He sat down at the dinner table still thinking about it, barely noticing the food Molly put in front of him.
"Ron," Percy said from across the table. "You've been reading those spell theory books for three days now. What do you think?"
Ron looked up. Everyone was watching him.
"They're interesting," he said carefully.
"Interesting how?" Percy prompted.
This was dangerous territory. Ron knew he should give a simple answer. Something age-appropriate. Something that wouldn't raise questions.
But his brain was so full of actual questions that he couldn't stop them from spilling out.
"I'm confused about the Levitation Charm," Ron said. "The book says you do a swish and flick movement with the incantation. But it doesn't explain why that specific movement makes things float."
Percy straightened up, interested. "Well, that's how the spell is constructed. The wand movement channels the magic appropriately."
"But why?" Ron asked. "Why does swish and flick create levitation? What about that motion makes things rise? Is it creating an upward force? Negating gravity? Something else entirely?"
The table had gone quiet.
"That's actually a very sophisticated question," Percy said slowly. "Most students don't think about the underlying mechanics of spellwork."
"But someone must know," Ron pressed. "Someone created the spell originally. Which means they understood the principles well enough to construct a specific magical effect. So why doesn't Hogwarts teach that?"
"Because the curriculum focuses on practical application," Percy explained. "Students learn to cast spells, not design them. Spell creation is advanced magic, N.E.W.T. level at minimum."
"That's insane," Ron said before he could stop himself.
Everyone stared.
"I mean," Ron tried to backtrack. "How are you supposed to understand what you're doing if you don't know why it works? It's like teaching someone to drive without explaining how a car functions. They might be able to drive, but they won't understand what's happening or how to fix problems."
"The Muggle transportation, right?" Arthur asked, immediately derailed.
"Yup," Ron said absently. "But that's not the point. The point is, if nobody understands how magic actually works, then nobody can innovate. The whole system just... stagnates."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Stagnates," Fred repeated slowly.
"Big word," George added.
They were both watching Ron with suspicion now. Not playful suspicion. Real concern.
"Where did you learn that word?" Molly asked.
"I read it," Ron said. "In one of Percy's books."
"Which book?" Percy asked, sounding genuinely curious.
"I don't remember. One of them."
"Because that's a fairly advanced critique of magical education," Percy continued. "The kind of thing you'd see in academic journals about curriculum reform. Not in introductory texts."
"I'm just asking questions," Ron said, hearing the defensive edge in his own voice.
"Very sophisticated questions," Percy said. "For someone who's never been to Hogwarts. Who's never cast a spell."
Ron realized too late that he'd screwed up. Badly. He'd let his frustration with the books override his caution. Let his analytical brain run without thinking about how it would sound.
"I'm just curious," he tried.
"You're more than curious," Percy said, and there was fascination in his voice, not suspicion. "You're thinking critically about educational methodology and magical theory. At ten years old."
"Maybe he's just smart," Ginny said suddenly.
Everyone looked at her.
"What?" she said. "Ron reads all the time now. He asks questions about everything. Maybe he's just smart and we should stop acting like it's weird."
Ron felt something grateful toward his little sister.
"No one's saying it's weird," Molly said gently. "We're just... surprised."
"Pleasantly surprised," Arthur added quickly. "Ron's intellectual curiosity is wonderful."
"But unusual," Fred said.
"Very unusual," George agreed.
"For you," they said together, and there was the suspicion again.
"People change," Ron said. "Maybe I'm just growing up."
"At an alarming rate," Fred muttered.
"With impressive vocabulary," George added.
Molly was watching Ron with that concerned expression again. The one that suggested she was still thinking about St. Mungo's despite Arthur's protests.
"The resistance to educational reform is a valid concern," Percy said, thankfully changing the subject. "The Ministry has been resistant to curriculum changes for decades. There have been proposals to include more theory in magical education, but they're always blocked by traditionalists on the Hogwarts Board of Governors."
"Why?" Ron asked.
"Because change is viewed with suspicion in the wizarding world," Percy explained. "The current system has worked for centuries. Why modify something that isn't broken?"
"But it is broken," Ron argued. "If students graduate without understanding the fundamental principles of magic, they can't innovate or improve or create new spells. They're just repeating what previous generations did."
"Exactly!" Percy said, eyes lighting up. "That's precisely the argument reformists make. The educational system prioritizes tradition over understanding. It produces competent spell-casters but not magical theorists or innovators."
"So why hasn't anything changed?"
"Because most wizards don't care about innovation," Percy said. "They're content with the spells that already exist. They don't see the value in understanding underlying principles."
Ron wanted to argue that was stupid. That understanding systems was fundamental to improving them. That a society that didn't innovate would eventually fall behind.
But he caught himself. He'd already said too much. Revealed too much about how his brain worked.
"I guess that makes sense," he said instead, trying to sound less engaged.
But the damage was done. Everyone was still watching him. The twins with calculation. Percy with fascination. Molly with concern. Arthur with uncertainty. Ginny with defensive support.
He'd screwed up. Let his obsession with understanding magic override his caution about appearing normal.
"I'm going to go read," Ron said, standing up.
"You haven't finished your dinner," Molly said.
"I'm not that hungry."
He escaped upstairs before anyone could stop him, leaving confused family members behind.
In his room, Ron lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
Brilliant. Just brilliant. He'd managed to make himself even more suspicious. Used words like "stagnates" and "methodology." Had a sophisticated discussion about educational reform.
At ten years old.
The twins were definitely suspicious now. Molly was worried. Even Arthur had looked uncertain.
He needed to be more careful. Needed to remember that Ron Weasley wasn't supposed to care about systemic inefficiencies in magical education. Wasn't supposed to ask about underlying principles. Wasn't supposed to think critically about curriculum design.
But his brain couldn't help it. Couldn't stop analyzing. Couldn't stop asking why.
And now everyone knew it.
Ron closed his eyes and tried to figure out how to do damage control without making things worse.
Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Ron heard voices again from downstairs.
He shouldn't eavesdrop. He really shouldn't.
He crept to his door anyway.
"...can't just ignore it, Arthur," Molly was saying. "He's using words he shouldn't know. Asking questions that aren't normal for his age."
"He's reading advanced texts," Arthur said. "Percy's books. He's bound to pick up vocabulary and concepts."
"But he understands them," Molly insisted. "It's not just repeating words. He's actually thinking critically about complex topics. That's not normal development."
"Maybe he's gifted," Arthur suggested. "Some children are intellectually advanced."
"This isn't advancement. This is transformation. He was completely different a week ago."
Silence for a moment.
"I'm worried too," Arthur admitted quietly. "I want to believe he's just maturing. But you're right. The change is dramatic."
Ron's stomach dropped. Arthur was wavering. His main defender was starting to doubt.
"Should we take him to St. Mungo's?" Molly asked.
"I don't know," Arthur said. "Maybe? Just for a diagnostic? Make sure nothing's wrong?"
"I'll write to them tomorrow," Molly said. "Set up an appointment. Quietly. We don't need to worry him if it's nothing."
No. No no no. St. Mungo's meant tests. Tests meant discovery. Discovery meant everything falling apart.
Ron crept back to his bed, mind racing.
He had maybe a week. Maybe less. Before they took him to magical doctors who could probably detect all kinds of things.
He needed a plan. Needed to figure out how to pass whatever tests they'd run. Or how to avoid the appointment entirely.
But first, he needed to tone down the intelligence. Stop asking sophisticated questions. Act more age-appropriate.
Even though every instinct screamed to keep learning, keep analyzing, keep understanding.
Ron lay awake for hours, trying to figure out how to survive this.
Tomorrow he'd be more careful. More controlled. More normal.
Whatever that meant.