The first time Harry Potter touches Ron Weasley, it’s an accident. At least, that’s what Ron assumes.
They meet in the middle of a crowded train station, and then again in a cramped compartment on the Hogwarts Express. It’s the sort of meeting that feels like it should be ordinary, but it isn’t—not to Harry. Because nothing about this is ordinary to him. He’s never sat across from someone his own age like this, never had a conversation that didn’t end with him being ignored or scolded. Never had someone laugh with him instead of at him.
And Ron—weary, nervous, dressed in secondhand robes that don’t quite fit—is kind.
Not just polite. Not the distant, impersonal kindness of a stranger offering directions. Not the forced pleasantness of teachers or shopkeepers. Ron is casual in his kindness, like he doesn’t have to think about it, like he doesn’t even realize he’s being kind at all. And Harry—who has spent eleven years being handled like an afterthought—is starving for it.
The first touch happens when Harry reaches for a sandwich. Their hands brush, just a fleeting press of fingers, but Harry stills. For a moment, his breath catches in his throat, because it feels warm.
Warm, and solid, and real.
He doesn’t even realize he’s still holding his breath until Ron glances at him and says, “Alright, mate?” through a mouthful of corned beef.
Harry blinks. His face burns with embarrassment. He nods. “Yeah.”
The second time, it’s his sleeve. Ron says something funny—Harry doesn’t even remember what, just that it makes him laugh, and he’s never laughed this much before. The next thing he knows, his fingers have curled into the fabric of Ron’s sleeve, grasping onto it like an anchor. It’s only for a second. A quick squeeze before he lets go, but the feeling lingers.
Ron doesn’t seem to notice.
The third time, he does.
When the Trolley Witch comes by, Ron groans and shoves his hands into his pockets, muttering something about not having enough money for sweets. And then Harry, without thinking, buys the whole cart. Not just for himself—he’s never even had sweets before—but because Ron wants them, and Harry can give him that.
Ron gapes at him, wide-eyed.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. But his voice is hesitant, like he wants to accept but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.
Harry shrugs. “I’ve never had pocket money before,” he admits, fumbling for some kind of explanation. “And—I mean, I never really had sweets, either, so…”
Ron brightens. “Blimey, you’re in for it, then.”
And that’s that. They eat their way through Pumpkin Pasties and Chocolate Frogs and Licorice Wands, and with every laugh, every story, every new thing Harry learns about Ron’s family, he finds himself sitting closer. Leaning in. Letting their shoulders bump and stay there.
By the time the train nears Hogsmeade, it’s no longer subtle.
Ron shifts to grab his trunk, and Harry’s hand darts out—gripping his wrist before he can move away.
Ron pauses. Looks down at their hands. Looks up at Harry. “Er.”
Harry yanks his hand back, mortified. “Sorry,” he says quickly, curling his fingers into his palms, stuffing them between his knees. “I didn’t mean—”
But Ron just scratches his nose, looking confused but not upset. “Nah, it’s alright. Just, er—you do that a lot?”
Harry swallows. His ears are burning. He looks down at his trainers and shrugs. “I dunno.”
It’s not a lie, exactly. He doesn’t know why it happens. All he knows is that when he touches Ron—when he lets his fingers brush against his sleeve or his shoulder or his wrist—something deep inside him eases. Something uncoils, just a little, like a fist that’s been clenched too long.
Ron doesn’t push. He just shrugs and grabs his trunk, and Harry—without thinking—grabs onto his sleeve again.
This time, Ron doesn’t pull away.
---
It gets worse after the Sorting.
After the Sorting Hat announces Gryffindor!, Harry is shuffled to his new house table, greeted by grins and cheers and claps on the back. Ron arrives a few minutes later, face still pink with nerves, and Harry barely thinks before grabbing his arm.
Ron startles. “Alright?”
Harry nods too quickly.
It’s irrational, he knows that. Ron was right next to him on the train, but for those few minutes while he sat on that stool with the Sorting Hat whispering in his ear, it felt like Ron had been pulled away—just out of reach, just far enough that Harry wasn’t sure if he’d come back. But now he’s here, and Harry’s fingers tighten around his sleeve, grounding himself.
Ron looks down at Harry’s hand. Raises an eyebrow. But instead of pulling away, he just plops down beside him and reaches for the food.
Harry lets out a breath.
That night, after the feast, they follow Percy up the winding staircases to Gryffindor Tower. Ron complains about how full he is, how unfair it is that he still has to climb all these stairs. Harry listens, exhausted but content, until they finally reach their dormitory.
There are five beds. Seamus, Neville, and Dean take theirs quickly. Ron moves toward one by the window, stretching as he flops onto it.
Harry hesitates.
His own bed is right next to it. That should be fine. It should be fine. But Ron is already lying down, already an arm’s length away, and after a day full of warmth and laughter and something almost like belonging, Harry doesn’t want it to end.
So he sits on the edge of Ron’s bed instead.
Ron lifts his head. “Er—”
“I can move,” Harry blurts. “I just—I don’t—I mean—”
He stops. He doesn’t know what he means.
Ron watches him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he sits up.
Harry braces himself for rejection. For Ron to push him away, or call him weird, or—
Instead, Ron just sighs and shoves his pillow against the headboard. “Dunno about you, mate, but I think today was mad,” he says, stretching.
Harry blinks. “Yeah?”
Ron huffs, flopping back against the pillows. “Yeah. Dunno how we’re supposed to sleep after all that.”
Harry hesitates. Then—very carefully—he shifts closer. Their shoulders brush, just like on the train. Then he lets himself lean, just slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of Ron beside him.
Ron doesn’t pull away.
Harry breathes in.
For the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel alone.