hi! i absolutely love your boy with a scar series and i've been wondering the past few weeks how the series would have gone down if ron was the chosen one? or hermione?
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,
born to a family who has thrice defied him,
born as the third month dawns.
And the Dark Lord will mark him as an equal
but he will have power the Dark Lord known not.
And either must die at the hand of the other
for neither can live while the other survives.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord
will be born as the third month dawns…
Ronald Weasley was born, sixth of seven children, on March 1 1980. His little sister, Ginevra, was born in August of the next year. He had never known his uncles, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, who had died opposing the rising tide of pureblood fanatics while a young Molly had still been in school.
Ron’s eldest brother, William, called Bill, started Hogwarts in September 1981 under the shadow of war. While Bill ate pumpkin pasties in the Great Hall that Halloween, Tom Riddle, called Voldemort, murdered Arthur and Molly Weasley in their own home. He failed to hurt their youngest son, except for the lightning scar that Ron would carry for the rest of his life. Molly and Arthur left behind seven children.
In this world, James and Lily Potter did not die on October 31st in Godric’s Hollow under the broken safety of a friend’s betrayal. They were rarely at home, in those months before the war ended. Harry spent his first year of life in Order bases, babysat by those not out on mission– Arabella Figg, squib; Mad-Eye Moody, nursing a broken leg; Remus Lupin resting between stints undercover.
James and Lily did not go into hiding. Peter Pettigrew did not betray their confidences and lead the Dark Lord to their home, but he did whisper secrets and strategies. The Death Eaters ambushed a recon party Peter had compromised and, trying to get the rest of his team out, James took an Avada Kedavra to the chest.
James lived a few weeks less than he would have, if he had died instead on Halloween on the floor of his own home. But Lily limped home from that battle, her arm around Sirius’s shoulders, his around hers, both of them holding each other up. When they reached the Order headquarters, she pushed past condolences and shock and strategic meetings, all the way to where Harry was napping in a back room under Mrs. Figg’s anxious eye. Sirius went to tell Remus, and Lily sat at the foot of Harry’s bed and cried.
After the war, after the Weasleys had been buried, and the champagne had been drunk, and the newspapers had announced the end of their terror, Lily took her son and went back to her closed-up home in Godric’s Hollow. She unboarded the windows and swept the floors. Sirius changed the dusty sheets on every bed and they both bullied Remus into napping on the couch with Harry while the two of them did the work.
Lily slept in her bed alone, except for nights when Harry had bad dreams. Charms had been one of her best subjects in school, and she had used and used it in the long days of the war. Curses and hexes came easy to her tongue. She practiced conjuring butterfly lights for Harry, who reached after them on wobbly legs. When the Ministry reached out to Order veterans, she signed up for the Auror program, Sirius on her heels.
The six youngest Weasley children were bundled up and sent to the nearest relative, a Prewett cousin with a wife and two small children of his own. Charlie, ten, saw the pinched panic around their eyes as the six redheads walked, wobbled, or were carried through the front door into their three-bedroom house. He made sure to linger when Mrs. Prewett changed Ginny’s diapers and helped Ron with potty training, so he would know how when they sent them away. Fred and George, four years old, taught their cousins the swear words Mother had always tried not to say in front of them.
The first set of Prewett cousins lasted until Bill came home for the summer. Ginny was bigger now, waving grasping hands and saying sparse words and cackling whenever Fred and George did anything clever. They passed them on to another house of Prewetts, with a damningly and temporarily white couch and a library they weren’t supposed to go into. Charlie taught Bill how to do diapers. Fred and George made goofily horrified faces to convince Ron and Ginny to swallow down their broccoli.
They bounced from home to home– always Molly’s family, never Arthur’s, whose mother had been disowned for marrying a blood traitor. Charlie went to school next, and Percy stepped into the responsibilities he and Bill had left behind them. Ginny got into scuffles with cousins who tugged her hair and called her missy. Ron got his first chess lesson from a great-uncle they lived with for three quiet weeks.
When Charlie and Bill could get Professor McGonagall’s permission, they Flooed home on the weekends to teach their brothers and sister to fly in the yard behind the clean little house with its pristine couch, in the weedy one behind their great-uncle’s cramped little home in magical Oxford, or in the acres of rolling pasture behind their spinster aunt’s home out in the country.
For the year and a half they lived with their squib accountant cousin and his Muggle wife out in Chesterford, they had to sneak far out afield to find someplace safe to fly.
Fred and George got very into Sunday morning Muggle cartoons. Bill stood beside the couch, watching figures move on screen, and thought about how much his dad would have loved that. Bill didn’t say anything, though, because Charlie was old enough to remember himself, and Ron was staring happily at the screen like he didn’t know he’d once had a father who had wondered about the telephones and televisions and microwaves they all knew now how to use.
Percy went to Hogwarts next. He gave shrill, stern, panicked instructions to Fred and George for the weeks before he and Bill and Charlie left. He cornered them one last time on Platform 9 ¾, the train whistles shrieking in the background.
Bill and Charlie were jogging around with Ron and Ginny on their respective shoulders, playing Spot-the-Wizards-Among-the-Muggles. “There, an owl!” shouted Ginny. “Found one!”
“Look at that one’s hat,” Ron said, but Charlie said, “Nah, kiddo, I think that’s just fashion. Remember Aunt Jenny’s shawl?”
Looming over the twins narrowly, Percy continued, “And Ginny won’t eat–”
“Her greens,” said Fred. “We know.”
“So you gotta hide them places,” said George.
“Or make funny faces,” said Fred. “But it’s so hard for you, Perce, you already look funny just as you are.”
“You need to take this seriously,” Percy squeaked, hugging his folded set of hand-me-down robes to his chest.
Charlie came over, swinging Ginny down to the ground, where Fred took her small hand absently. “You just keep an eye on them, okay? It’s gonna be fine. Cousin Stew seems nice enough.” Cousin Stew was, but he only lasted four months. Cousin Agnes, who came after, was nice enough, even if she did insist on table manners for everyone.
Percy sent anxious letters home full of questions and checkups. Charlie got some extra pocket money, working for Hagrid on the grounds, and sent home every sweet he could buy from Hogsmeade.
When Bill was
seventeen he graduated from his last year at Hogwarts and then he took
his siblings back to the Burrow. Ron was seven years old, and Ginny
They unboarded the windows and swept out the dust, scoured the rusted pots back to shining. (Well, not quite shining.) Bill and Charlie were the only ones who could vaguely remember whose room had been whose, but they just let the others run up and down stairs and claim the ones they liked best, and then they ironed out the squabbles that resulted.
Ginny took the room at the top of the house, right below the lonely old ghoul in the attics. Ron chose a ground floor bedroom whose windows were nearly swallowed by vines and flowers. Charlie fried up eggs in their mother’s kitchen for their first breakfast.
Fred and George were discovering all the interesting corners of the house and Bill was having a hard time swallowing his eggs, because his little brothers were discovering, but when he had walked through these creaky old doors it had felt like coming home. He ate as many mouthfuls of egg as he could handle, and then he dragged them all out to the broomshed to see what had survived.
The other shed outside the Burrow had been their father’s, filled with Muggle junk or treasures. Boarded up like the rest of the house, it had been left there for years. Mice had gotten to some of their father’s notebooks, and mold to a few secondhand Muggle textbooks, but the old Ford Anglia had been hidden under a tarp and a dozen stasis spells.
Ginny liked to hide out there. She’d open one of the car doors and climb inside, going through the papers abandoned in its glove compartment, the years-old hard candies there. The bulky owner’s manual was there, too, but it would be years before she would do more than just doodle on its pages.
In a couple years, Fred and George would head off to Hogwarts, too, and Ron would run after the train, waving, while Bill held Ginny (who was getting too big for this) up on his shoulders so she could see. They were waiting, impatient, these two last Weasleys, to go to Hogwarts, too. Bill reached out for Ron’s hand, and then they all headed home.
In this world, there was another little boy waiting impatiently for a Hogwarts letter to come. Harry knew there was magic in his world. He would never live in a cupboard under any stairs.
In this world, Sirius would never call Harry ‘James.’ Sirius changed his diapers. When Lily took Harry to ‘bring your kid to work’ day Sirius let him tumble into the giant fountain and soak himself to his gleeful bones.
Sirius listened patiently through six year old Harry’s obsession with broom manufacturing, and his seven year old obsession with dinosaurs. Lily and Remus bought Harry Muggle books on stegosauruses and pterodactyls. Sirius read them with him on the ugly, garish rug he had bought James and Lily once as a joke, and which they had kept just to torment him.
James had hated cornflakes, and Harry loved them, especially if he could drown them in chocolate milk. Harry’s hair was always messy, not because he mussed it for show, but because as a child he’d fallen into the habit of tugging on it while he was thinking. He loved to fly just as much as his father had, and Sirius taught him how in the big yard behind the Godric’s Hollow house.
Sirius called Harry 'kiddo,’ 'little monster,’ 'sauerkraut,’ 'boppet.’ He called him 'Harry.’ He never called him 'James.’
Lily brought her work home, boxes and papers and scrying spells all spread out over the old Potter heirloom of a dining room table. Most nights she brought her Auror partner, too, and Sirius bounced Harry on his knee while they poured over open case files and complained about coworkers.
They had started with filing broom speeding tickets and other people’s paperwork, before they had gotten their first robbery, their first curse, their first murder, their first Dark wizard to hunt down and capture.
Now, between arson investigations and tracking down the Lestranges, they dug up the cold case of Peter Pettigrew, terrorist, fugitive, and read through it in their off-hours like a bedtime story.
The Ministry didn’t like werewolves, but that didn’t make this any less Remus’s fight. He slunk through Lily’s back door, bones stark under his exhausted skin, and told his friends what he had found. They made him drink hot tea and eat vegetables and get some sleep in a soft, safe bed, but they didn’t stop Remus when he went out again.
Lily didn’t believe in hiding things from the children. Harry grew up knowing his father had died scared, and brave, and well. “Lily,” James had said. “Take the others and go. I’ll try to hold them off.” Harry knew that sometimes his uncles sat with carrot soup and whiskey and talked about Peter until late in the night.
grew up knowing that sometimes the people who love you betray you, and
that sometimes they stick around and teach your kid how to brush his
teeth and how to tie his shoes and how to fly.