One
"Today is born the seventh one...he is the chosen one."-Stephen Percy Harris
March 1, 1980
Molly Weasley graciously took the hand of her chauffer as she stepped out of one of her family's cars. She could've sent one of the many maids, butlers, assistants elves, and footmen surrounding the Burrow on this particular errand, but she was itching for fresh air.
Why her beloved husband was choosing to be so tetchy about this particular pregnancy, she didn't know. Arthur Weasley always got a bit overprotective when they were expecting, but this was entirely different altogether.
They already had five sons. William Arthur, Charles Everett, Percival Alexander, George Fabian and Frederick Gideon, were the lights of her life. And though she wanted a daughter, another red-headed little boy with round cheeks and Weasley freckles would've suited her quite well.
She was due any moment and everyone had been fussing over far too much for liking, thank you very much.
So, to Diagon Alley she went. Her destination was Flourish and Blotts.
Truthfully, she just wanted a moment's peace. Being the matriarch of a powerful magical family was hard enough. There were events to plan, children to feeds, elves to order around. Add an incoming child to the mix and the whole thing bordered on chaotic.
She didn't want anyone to ask her about how she was feeling, or if she was ready, or what they were naming the new addition. Molly and Arthur, being traditional, wanted it to be a surprise and had chosen not to find out the sex of their baby.
She walked into Flourish and Blotts, looking for a new copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
"Molly?" called an eager voice.
She turned to see the firey red hair of young Lily Potter. She'd known Lily a long time as she had used to babysit Bill and Charlie when they were younger. The gossip in the Wizarding World was as strong as anywhere else so it was common knowledge that the Lily was expecting a baby of her own in the summer.
"Lily," Molly smiled at the beaming young lady who clearly a glow.
"Look at you," Lily said. "You're radiant."
"Any day now," Molly said cupping her belly. "And you, you're positively shimmering."
Lily laughed. "Bit longer for me. James and I are excited."
"Oh, you should be. There's nothing like it."
"Any advice?"
"Get as much sleep as you can now, you'll forget what it is later on," Molly said. "Oh, I just thought about it. They'll be at Hogwarts together, won't they?"
Lily beamed as she picked up a small flag with a red and gold "G" emblazoned on it. "Here's hoping they'll be in Gryffindor."
"Cheers to that."
The two women parted ways, and Molly smiled, remembering what it was like to be a new mother and wishing nothing but the best for Lily and James Potter.
She arrived back at the sprawling estate known as the Burrow with a smile. It had been in her husband's family for nearly a thousand generations. No sooner than she had stepped into the foyer, she felt her water breaking.
"Arthur!"
Three and a half hours later, Ronald Billius Weasley of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Weasley was born.
An hour after his grandparents had arrived to fawn over their newest grandson, the Minister of Magic and Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts arrived at their doorstep.
Molly, less than eager to part with her newborn son, held him tightly in her arms when the Minister, Rufus Scrimengeour, asked for a private word with her and Arthur. They stepped into Arthur's study and Molly got the sense that something very strange was going on.
"Dumbledore," Arthur said slowly. "I've a feeling you're not just hear to offer your congratulations."
The aged Headmaster smiled. "Arthur, I wish that that were all. I'm afraid I've news for you. But you're right that you are to be congratulated. Not only do you have a son, but you have a Seventh Son."
The looks of shock that crossed the Weasleys' faces were exactly what Dumbledore had expected. After all, there hadn't been a Seventh Son of a seventh son in the British Isles in nearly 1,000 years, and that was a story that had not ended well.
"That's not possible, Dumbledore," Molly said. "Ronald is our sixth."
Dumbledore nodded. "Your sixth live child, if I may, Molly. But not you're sixth pregnancy?"
Molly colored a bit. She had never thought of that. "I had a miscarriage four years ago," she admitted, lowering her eyes and smiling down at her young son. "But what does that have to do with—,"
"It means that the child you lost was a son," Mr. Scrimengeour interrupted. "Which makes your newborn son a Seventh Son. Because Arthur is a seventh son."
"Arthur only has two brothers," Molly said, not wanting to believe what she was hearing.
"Yes, because his four older brothers died in a Goblin flu epidemic years before Arthur was born," Dumbledore said patiently.
Arthru hadn't said a word. He could think of nothing to say. His son, newly arrived into the world, a Seventh son? He could hardly believe it. Though, it made all the sense in the world.
A Seventh Son was a legendary figure in the Magical world. There were many. Godric Gryffindor himself was said to have been one. Many claimed to be, but this was often proved false. For a true Seventh son had nearly unlimited magical power and powers that were very rare for Wizards in general.
But this power could also prove to be a curse. Most Seventh Sons were often under threat because it was believed that you could harness their magic from them. And often it could be extremely hard for them to control their powers. Not to mention there would always be some dark force attempting to use or exploit them.
"I know this is all a little overwhelming," the Minister continued. "But it's happening. He's the first Seventh Son born in Britain in a thousand years. And he must be trained, he must be protected."
"What if he isn't?" Molly insisted. "What if he has no special abilities? What if he's a...a...a Squib?" she said in near horror. For no magic was decidedly worse than too much magic.
No sooner that the words left her mouth than the blue-eyed baby boy with wisps of red hair already covering his head floated out of her arms towards the ceiling.
"Merlin's Beard," Arthur said when he realized his youngest son was, at five hours of age, flying without a broom, a well-known trait of Seventh Sons.
Dumbledore raised his hand "Descendo," he said as he slowly brought the baby back into this mother's arms.
Molly held him tightly, not knowing what to do.
"What do we do?" she heard Arthur ask.
The Minister smiled "For nothing, enjoy you're the birth of your son. When it's time, we will know. When he's seven, he'll most likely have to—"
"I believe we've put enough on the Weasleys' shoulders tonight, Rufus," interjected Dumbledore. "There'll be plenty of time to discuss what will need to happen later on."
The Minister nodded and the two soon left the now highly perplexed parents alone. On the one hand, being a Seventh Son was a great honor. It had traditionally meant a life protecting the interests of the magical country one belonged to and the magical world as a whole.
In Britain's modern age, no one could say for certain what role a Seventh Son could or should play. All Molly knew for certain was that her life, for better or worse, was changed forever.
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