Ron didn’t mean to become the dorm dad. It just sort of… happened.
It started subtly. Like reminding Dean to grab his Charms essay from under his bed before class. Or passing Neville a calming draught before Herbology because Professor Sprout’s Niffler Unit had him so anxious he was practically vibrating. Or grabbing Seamus by the collar when he tried to sneak a dungbomb into the library and saying in his best mum voice, “Don’t make me write your Howler for you, mate.”
At first, it was funny.
Dean would nudge him and say, “Dad Ron’s at it again.” Seamus would throw an arm around his shoulder and say, “Give us an allowance, Pops.” Even Harry started calling him “Papa Weasley” on occasion—usually when Ron was scolding him for skipping dinner.
But after a while… it wasn’t really a joke anymore.
Because the thing was—Ron didn’t try to act like a dad. He just cared. And somewhere between being the youngest brother and the best mate and the awkward kid who grew into himself, Ron had learned how to look out for people.
He knew what tired looked like. Real tired. The kind where it wasn’t just sleep you were missing, it was safety. He’d seen it in Harry too many times. And when he saw it on Neville’s face after a long letter from his gran or on Dean’s after a long silence from home, he didn’t need a reason to act. He just did.
Like that Tuesday evening, the one after McGonagall handed back their Transfiguration results and Neville looked like someone had kicked his Puffskein. The common room was loud with post-class chatter, but Neville had retreated to the corner with his head low and hands clenched tight in his lap.
Ron didn’t say anything. He just wandered over, plopped down beside him, and handed him a chocolate frog from his pocket.
Neville blinked. “Er… thanks?”
“Eat it,” Ron said, tone final.
Neville obeyed. A minute passed in silence.
“She gave me a D,” he murmured eventually. “I really tried.”
“I know.”
“I studied. I even—Dean helped me. And I still—”
Ron nudged him gently with his shoulder. “A D’s better than a T. And it’s one bloody letter. McGonagall gave me a D three times in a row third year and I turned out alright.”
Neville looked doubtful. Ron took another chocolate frog from his pocket and handed it over.
“Eat another. Trust me. It helps with the emotional scarring.”
Neville let out a surprised laugh. Just a little one. But it stayed with him the rest of the night.
---
The next moment came on a Friday night.
Harry had vanished after dinner. He did that sometimes—disappeared to the Astronomy Tower or the pitch or somewhere no one else was. Ron tried not to take it personally. He knew why Harry needed space. Still, the longer he was gone, the heavier the common room felt.
So when Ron found him sitting outside by the lake, shoulders hunched and wand in hand, Ron just sat beside him. No questions. No pressure.
After a long while, Harry murmured, “He would’ve liked it here. My dad. Maybe.”
Ron glanced sideways. “Course he would’ve. He was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
They sat quietly for a while, the sun dipping low over the Black Lake. Ron pulled out two biscuits from his robe pocket and handed one over.
“I’m starting to think you just keep food hidden all over you,” Harry muttered, but took it anyway.
“Survival instinct,” Ron said.
Harry hesitated. “Thanks.”
Ron didn’t say anything. He just bumped shoulders and stayed there, solid and warm, until the sun dipped out of sight.
---
Then there was the night Seamus came back from a weekend in Hogsmeade with a black eye and an attitude, muttering about “bloody Slytherins” and trying to pick a fight with everyone.
Ron stepped in the moment he shoved Dean. No yelling. Just firm hands on Seamus’s shoulders and a voice that left no room for argument.
“Alright. That’s enough.”
Seamus was breathing hard, shaking with frustration, but Ron didn’t let him flinch away.
“Talk to me, or you’re going to detention for brawling.”
Seamus blinked. “I didn’t—”
Ron just raised an eyebrow.
And slowly, the story came out. The taunts, the hex in the hallway, the stupid comment about Muggleborns that lit the fuse.
Ron sat with him until it was done. Then got him ice. Then sent him to bed with a blanket and a mug of something warm and honeyed.
He didn't say much. He didn’t have to.
The next morning, Seamus called him “Dad” without a hint of irony.
---
It all came to a head two weeks later.
Fourth-year boys were sword-fighting with brooms in the common room. A first-year was crying because someone jinxed her hair pink. The twins (not his twins, thank Merlin) were hiding under the stairs with a box labeled “Do Not Open (We’re Serious).”
And Ron—sixteen, tired, homework undone—rose to his feet with a sigh.
“Alright! That’s it!” he barked. “Brooms down. No one touches the hair potion. You, stop laughing and help her fix it. And if I see that box move again, I’m Vanishing it.”
Everything stopped.
The room went silent.
Half the younger students looked terrified. The other half were in awe.
Ron realized too late he’d used the dad voice.
He turned red and dropped back onto the couch.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Dean was the first to crack. “Told you. Gryffindor Dad.”
Seamus wiped an invisible tear. “They grow up so fast.”
Neville handed him a biscuit from his bag. “You earned it.”
Even Harry, sprawled on the rug doing his Potions homework, looked up and grinned. “You better not start wearing slippers and a pipe, mate.”
“Shut it,” Ron groaned, but he was smiling.
Because the thing was—it wasn’t so bad.
Being the one who noticed. Who steadied. Who gave out chocolate frogs and scolded first-years and made sure Harry actually slept.
He wasn’t the smartest, or the chosen one, or the most talented wizard in the room.
But he was there. And sometimes, that was the magic that mattered most.