The first thing Ron noticed when he woke up was that everything smelled like old socks and cinnamon.
The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't dead.
Which was weird, because he was pretty sure he'd just died.
He sat up, blinking against the sunlight streaming through a window that definitely wasn't his, in a room that definitely wasn't his, wearing pajamas that were also not his. The walls were covered in Quidditch posters. Quidditch. Like the fake sport from those Harry Potter books he'd never read because, you know, being poor meant choosing between food and entertainment, and food usually won.
His head felt stuffed with cotton, memories sliding around like they couldn't decide where to settle. There was his life, seventeen years of poverty, shitty foster homes, and working three jobs just to survive, and then there was nothing. A gap. And then this.
He looked down at his hands. Small hands. Kid hands.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
His voice cracked. Prepubescent.
"What the actual fuck."
A woman's voice drifted up from somewhere below. "RONALD! BREAKFAST!"
Ronald? Who the hell was Ronald?
He stumbled out of bed, this weird cramped bed in a weird cramped room, and nearly tripped over a rat in a cage. A rat. As a pet. That was somehow worse than waking up in a strange body.
There was a mirror on the wall, cracked and slightly crooked. He walked over to it, already knowing this was going to be bad.
Red hair. Flaming red hair. Freckles everywhere. Gangly kid body, maybe ten or eleven years old, drowning in orange pajamas that had definitely seen better days. He looked like a traffic cone had a baby with a ginger root.
"No," he said to his reflection. "No, no, no."
More memories slammed into him, but they weren't his. They were someone else's. A kid named Ron Weasley. Six older siblings. One younger sister. A house called "The Burrow" that sounded like it should be condemned. Parents named Molly and Arthur. A world of magic.
Magic. Actual fucking magic.
He gripped the edge of the dresser, trying to process this. Either he'd gone completely insane, or he'd somehow transmigrated into a fictional character's body. In a world where magic was real.
And if this was Harry Potter world, then that meant Harry Potter was real. The Boy Who Lived. The famous kid who defeated Voldemort as a baby. Everyone knew about Harry Potter, even in his previous life the name had been everywhere. Memes, references, that weird coworker who wouldn't shut up about the movies.
But here, Harry Potter wasn't just a character. He was a real person. A famous person. The most famous person in the magical world.
And Ron Weasley was supposed to be his best friend.
"Oh fuck," he muttered.
"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, IF YOU DON'T GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"
"COMING!" he yelled back, voice cracking again.
Great. Puberty round two. Just what he needed.
He grabbed the first clothes he found, all hand-me-downs, all faded, all screaming "we're poor," and got dressed on autopilot while his brain tried to catch up.
Okay. Okay. Think.
He'd died at seventeen. Probably. The last thing he remembered was actually, what was the last thing he remembered? Everything was fuzzy, like trying to recall a dream. There was cold. And then nothing. And then this.
And now he was Ron Weasley. Ron Weasley from Harry Potter.
Harry Potter.
He sat down hard on the bed. The rat, Scabbers according to the memories supplied unhelpfully, squeaked at him.
"Shut up, rat. I'm having a crisis."
He knew about Harry Potter the same way everyone knew about Harry Potter. Cultural osmosis. Memes. That one coworker who wouldn't shut up about it. He knew there was a kid with a scar, and a villain with no nose, and something about a school. Hogwarts. That was it.
He knew Harry Potter married someone. He knew there were houses. Gryffindor was the good guy one, Slytherin was the evil one. He knew Dumbledore died. He knew someone named Hermione existed and was smart.
That was it. That was literally all he knew.
Which meant he was fucked.
"RONALD!"
"I SAID I'M COMING!"
He thundered down the stairs, multiple floors of them because this house was impossibly tall, following the smell of breakfast and the sound of chaos.
The kitchen was small, cramped, and somehow contained five people plus two parents. It shouldn't have been physically possible, but magic, he supposed. Everyone was talking at once. Two identical redheads, the twins Fred and George according to the memories, were arguing about something that involved the words "dung bomb" and "Percy's room." A redhead with glasses, Percy, was reading what looked like a book about cauldron regulations and occasionally making disapproving noises at the twins. A little girl with red hair, Ginny, was poking at her eggs with a fork and looking bored.
And at the center of it all, a plump woman with kind eyes and frazzled hair was magically floating pans and plates and what looked like an entire pig's worth of bacon.
Molly Weasley. His mother. No, not his mother. Ron's mother. He was just borrowing the body. This was going to be so fucking weird.
"There you are!" Molly said, spotting him. "Honestly, Ron, I've called you three times! Sit, sit, breakfast is ready."
He sat. A plate appeared in front of him, piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, and beans. His stomach, Ron's stomach, their stomach, whatever, growled loud enough to be heard over the chaos. When was the last time he'd seen this much food on one plate?
Never. The answer was never.
"You alright, Ronnie?" one of the twins asked. Fred, maybe? "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Nearly Headless Nick doesn't live here," the other twin, George probably, added with a grin.
"We don't have a Nearly Headless Nick," Percy said without looking up from his book. "And even if we did, ghosts don't reside in private homes. They're bound to locations of their death or significant emotional attachment, which in this case would be entirely impractical given the nature of residential—"
"Percy, nobody cares," Ginny said.
"I was providing educational context, Ginevra."
"Don't call me that."
Ron tuned them out and started eating. The food was good. Really good. Molly Weasley could cook. He ate, and ate, and ate, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real breakfast. Foster homes didn't usually spring for bacon. His last apartment didn't have a stove that worked.
This was nice. Weird, but nice.
"Ron, dear, are you feeling well?" Molly asked, peering at him with concern. "You're very quiet."
"I'm fine," he said around a mouthful of eggs. "Just tired."
"Bad dreams again?" Arthur Weasley asked kindly from the head of the table. He was a thin man with red hair going bald, wearing what looked like a mismatched suit. He had the kind of face that looked like it smiled a lot.
Wait. Again? Did Ron have nightmares?
"Yeah," he lied. "Bad dreams."
"Well, eat up! You'll feel better with food in you." Arthur smiled at him warmly before returning to his own breakfast.
He ate. Because the food was there, and it was good, and he still couldn't quite believe he was sitting at a table with a family. A real family. Even if it wasn't technically his.
"So, Ron," Percy said, finally looking up from his book. "Mother tells me you'll be getting your Hogwarts letter next year."
Next year. So it was 1990. Summer of 1990. Ron, he, whatever, was ten years old. Hogwarts started at eleven.
"Yeah," he said cautiously.
"It's a significant responsibility," Percy continued, adjusting his glasses. "The Weasley name has a reputation at Hogwarts. Bill was Head Boy, Charlie was Quidditch Captain. I'm hoping to be made Prefect next year when I'm in fifth year. You'll be expected to maintain certain standards of behavior and academic achievement."
"Percy, let him eat," Molly said gently.
"I was merely offering guidance."
"You were being a prat," Fred said cheerfully.
"Frederick Weasley!"
"It's true though," George added. "Nobody wants a lecture with breakfast."
"Some of us value education," Percy said stiffly.
"Some of us value not being boring," Fred countered.
Ron watched this chaos unfold, trying to reconcile the memories in his head with the reality in front of him. These people were loud, and overwhelming, and clearly loved each other despite the constant bickering. When was the last time he'd been around a family like this?
Never. The answer was never.
"Where are Bill and Charlie?" Ron asked, the question coming from genuine curiosity and the need to orient himself.
"Bill's in Egypt, dear," Molly said. "Working at Gringotts as a Curse-Breaker. He wrote last week, says the work is fascinating but dangerous."
"And Charlie's in Romania," Arthur added. "With the dragons. Living his dream, though I do wish he'd visit more often."
"Dragons are brilliant," Ginny said suddenly, looking up from her eggs.
"Dragons are dangerous," Molly corrected. "Though I suppose Charlie knows what he's doing."
Ron processed this. Right. Bill and Charlie were grown up and gone. Living their adult lives far away. It was just Percy, the twins, him, and Ginny at home now.
Five kids. Still a lot. Still loud. Still overwhelming.
"I think I'd like to read about Hogwarts," Ron heard himself say. "Before I go."
Everyone stopped and looked at him.
"Really?" Percy asked, straightening up with interest.
"You want to read?" Fred asked skeptically.
"Voluntarily?" George added.
"It's not that weird," Ron said defensively. "I'm going there next year. Might as well know what to expect."
Molly's face softened into a warm smile. "That's very mature of you, dear."
Percy looked genuinely pleased. "I have several books you can borrow. Hogwarts, A History is essential, of course, but I also have texts on basic spell theory and the history of magical education. I'll gather them for you after breakfast."
The twins exchanged a look that Ron couldn't quite interpret. Ginny was staring at him with open confusion.
"What?" he asked.
"You never want to read," Ginny said. "You always complain when Mum makes you practice writing."
Shit. Did Ron not like reading?
"Maybe I'm growing up," he said, using the first excuse that came to mind.
"You're ten," she pointed out.
"Never too early to start being responsible."
Fred and George were definitely watching him now, and Ron realized he needed to be more careful. These weren't stupid kids. They'd notice if he kept acting weird.
"Well, I think it's wonderful," Molly said firmly. "Ron's taking an interest in his education. That's nothing to tease about."
"We're not teasing," Fred said innocently.
"Just observing," George added.
"Observing how weird he's being," they said together.
"Boys," Molly warned.
"Speaking of education," Arthur said, clearly trying to change the subject. "I got a fascinating new Muggle artifact at work yesterday. It's called a 'rubber duck.' Apparently Muggles put them in their baths? I can't quite figure out the purpose."
"Dad, it's just a toy," Ginny said.
"But why a duck? Why rubber? What makes it suitable for bathing? Do Muggles have a spiritual connection to waterfowl?" Arthur looked genuinely puzzled.
Ron bit back a laugh. Right. Arthur Weasley was obsessed with Muggle stuff. The memories confirmed it, but seeing it in person was something else.
"It's just for fun," Ron said. "Kids play with them in the bath. It's not that deep."
Arthur's eyes lit up. "Fascinating! So it's purely recreational? No practical function?"
"Pretty much."
"Remarkable. Muggles have such creative approaches to leisure activities."
The conversation devolved into Arthur asking increasingly detailed questions about rubber ducks, which Ron answered as best he could while trying not to reveal too much modern knowledge. Percy returned to his book looking bored. The twins whispered to each other and kept glancing at Ron. Ginny finished her breakfast and started kicking the table leg impatiently.
After what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, breakfast finally ended. Ron helped clear the table, which earned him another surprised look from Molly, and then tried to escape outside before anyone could ask him more questions.
"Ron, wait!" Percy called. "Let me get those books for you."
Right. The books. He followed Percy upstairs, aware that Fred and George were watching him go with identical calculating expressions.
This was going to be complicated.
---
Percy's room was exactly what Ron expected. Immaculately organized, shelves full of perfectly arranged books, a study desk with neat stacks of parchment, and various academic awards displayed on the walls.
Percy was pulling books off his shelf. "I've selected several texts I believe will be beneficial for your preparatory studies." He set down a stack on the desk. There had to be at least ten books there.
"That's a lot of books," Ron said.
"Education is important, Ron. If you want to succeed at Hogwarts, you need to take your studies seriously." Percy picked up the top book. "Start with Hogwarts, A History. It covers the foundational information about the school's structure, history, and traditions. Then move on to Basic Spell Theory and—"
"Thanks, Percy," Ron interrupted. "Really. I appreciate it."
Percy blinked, clearly surprised by the genuine gratitude. "Well. Yes. Of course. That's what older brothers are for." He adjusted his glasses. "If you have any questions while reading, feel free to ask. I'll be happy to provide clarification. I take my academic responsibilities very seriously, especially now that I'm hoping to be made Prefect next year."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Ron gathered up the books, which were heavier than they looked, and headed back to his room. He passed Fred and George in the hallway. They were definitely plotting something based on the way they stopped talking when they saw him.
"Books?" Fred asked.
"From Percy," George finished.
"Yeah. Thought I'd learn about Hogwarts before I go."
The twins exchanged another one of those looks.
"Interesting," Fred said slowly.
"Very interesting," George agreed.
"We just finished our first year," Fred said.
"Still figuring out the castle ourselves," George added.
"But we've learned enough to recognize weird when we see it," they said together.
"I'm not being weird."
"You're being very weird," Fred said.
"Extremely weird," George agreed.
"Since when do you care about studying?" they asked together.
"Since I realized I'm going to Hogwarts next year and I don't want to be completely lost," Ron said, going for defensive annoyance. "Is that a crime?"
The twins studied him for a long moment.
"Not a crime," Fred said finally.
"Just unusual," George added.
"We'll be watching you," they said together, then walked away.
Ron continued to his room and shut the door, dropping the books on his bed with a heavy thud.
Great. Just great. The twins were suspicious after literally one breakfast. He had a whole year of this before Hogwarts, and he was already fucking it up.
He needed to act more normal. More like the original Ron. More loud and impulsive and less like someone who'd lived an entire other life.
But looking at the stack of books on his bed, he couldn't bring himself to not read them. He needed to understand this world. Needed to learn how magic worked, how the economy functioned, how to survive in a place where the rules were completely different from anything he'd known.
Knowledge was power. And power meant safety. Meant never being helpless again.
He picked up Hogwarts, A History and opened it to the first page.
Time to start learning.
---
The Burrow was surrounded by fields and trees and open space. Ron needed air, needed to think, so after reading for an hour he escaped outside.
The house itself looked like it should collapse at any moment, held together by magic and hope, leaning slightly to the left with mismatched windows and a chimney that definitely wasn't up to code. But it was also kind of charming in a chaotic way. Like the family inside it.
He found a spot under a tree and sat down, trying to process everything.
He was ten years old in a world of magic. He had a family of seven siblings who'd notice if he kept acting wrong. He had one year before he'd be thrown into a plot he barely remembered with stakes he didn't understand.
And he was terrified.
But he also had something he'd never had before. A family. A home. A second chance.
The thought should've made him feel better. Instead, it just made him more anxious.
Because families could be lost. Families could leave. And he had no idea how long this second chance would last before the universe decided he didn't deserve it and ripped it all away.
"Ron?"
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Ginny stood a few feet away, looking at him curiously. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she had dirt on her knees from something.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked.
"Thinking."
"About what?"
"Hogwarts."
Her whole face lit up. "Really? Me too! I can't wait to go. Everyone else has already been, and I'm stuck here for another whole year after you leave." She sighed dramatically and sat down next to him without invitation. "It's not fair."
"You'll get there eventually."
"I know, but waiting is terrible. Fred and George leave in two weeks to go back for second year, and Percy's going back for fourth year, and then next year you'll leave too, and I'll be here all alone for a whole year." She kicked at the grass. "It's so boring."
Ron felt a stab of sympathy. He knew what it was like to be left behind, forgotten.
"I'll write to you," he said. "When I'm at Hogwarts. I'll tell you about everything."
She looked at him skeptically. "Really?"
"Really. Every week if you want."
"Bill and Charlie never write. Fred and George only write when they want something. Percy's letters are so boring they might as well not count."
"I'll write," he promised. "Every week. Full details about everything."
Ginny stared at him for a long moment, like she was trying to figure out if he was serious. "Okay. But if you forget, I'm telling Mum you're the one who broke her favorite vase last month."
"I didn't break it! That was Fred!"
"I know." She grinned wickedly. "But Mum doesn't."
"You're evil."
"I learned from the best." She stood up, brushing grass off her pants. "Come on. Mum's going to make us de-gnome the garden soon. Might as well go do it now before she has to yell."
Ron followed her back toward the Burrow. Ginny was already halfway there, talking to herself about something, probably planning her future Hogwarts conquest.
A family. He had a family now.
She'd just threatened to blackmail him. Over a broken vase. In his old life, that would've been a genuine threat, something to worry about. Here, it was a joke. Sibling banter.
He didn't know how to process that.
This family thing was going to take some getting used to. Assuming he didn't fuck it all up first.
Which, let's be honest, he probably would.
---
That evening, Ron found himself at the dinner table again, surrounded by the controlled chaos of the Weasley family. Molly had made shepherd's pie, and there was enough of it to feed an army.
"So, Ron," Arthur said between bites. "Your mother mentioned you had bad dreams last night. Do you want to talk about them?"
Every eye at the table turned to him.
"Not really," Ron said. "I don't remember them that well."
"Sometimes talking helps," Arthur said gently.
"I'm fine, Dad. Really."
Arthur studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. But if you ever do want to talk, about anything at all, you know where to find me."
"Thanks."
Except he didn't know if he could talk to Arthur. About anything real. How would that conversation even go? "Hey Dad, so I'm actually a seventeen-year-old orphan from another world who died and woke up in your son's body. Pass the potatoes?"
Yeah. That would go over well.
The conversation moved on to other things. Percy talked about his summer reading list. The twins made plans for their remaining two weeks before going back to Hogwarts. Ginny complained about being bored. Molly fussed over everyone's eating habits.
And Ron sat there, eating shepherd's pie that was better than anything he'd ever tasted in his previous life, surrounded by people who actually cared about each other, and tried not to think about how temporary all of this might be.
He had one year before Hogwarts. One year to learn magic, make plans, and figure out how to survive in this world.
One year to make sure he never ended up cold and alone and dying in a shitty apartment again.
One year to build something worth keeping.
And then hope like hell the universe didn't take it away.
---
Later that night, lying in Ron's bed, staring at the ceiling of this borrowed room in this borrowed life, he finally let himself feel the weight of everything.
He thought about his previous life. Seventeen years of fighting to survive. Three jobs. Never enough money. Living in a shithole apartment with a broken heater. Eating ramen for every meal because it was cheap. Being alone. Always alone.
No family. No friends. Nobody who cared if he lived or died.
And then cold, and nothing, and this.
He had a family now. A weird, chaotic, loud family that seemed to actually care about each other. A little sister who'd threatened to blackmail him over a broken vase just to make sure he'd write to her. Parents who'd asked if he was okay at breakfast. Siblings who teased each other but would probably fight anyone who threatened them.
It was overwhelming. And terrifying.
Because the other shoe always dropped. Things that seemed good never stayed good. People left. Situations changed. Nothing lasted.
"Alright, universe," he muttered to the ceiling. "You gave me a second chance. Magic, a family, a world of possibilities. Don't fuck with me now."
He had one year before Hogwarts. One year to prepare. One year to figure out how to never be poor again, how to understand this magic thing, how to make sure he didn't fuck everything up.
One year to prove he wasn't going to waste this.
No pressure.
Just, you know, his entire second life riding on not screwing up.
Easy.
He closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come easy. His mind kept spinning through plans, problems, possibilities. What if the twins figured out he wasn't really Ron? What if someone noticed the memories didn't line up? What if magic could detect transmigration? What if Dumbledore knew? What if—
Eventually, exhaustion won.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he fell asleep in a bed that wasn't his, in a house full of people, and didn't wake up screaming.
That was something, at least.