Lionhearted

Ron jerked awake, sprawled awkwardly on the side of his bed, teetering dangerously close to toppling over the edge. The insistent rap-rap-rap of knuckles against his door echoed through the room, accompanied by someone calling his name in a voice that was just this side of impatient. He blinked blearily, his head swimming, and it hit him—he’d dozed off in the middle of scribbling his last letter to Harry. The half-finished parchment was still clutched in his hand, smudged and crumpled from where his head must’ve rested on it.

The door suddenly swung open before he could so much as croak out a reply, and there was Hermione, standing in the doorway.

The redhead scrambled to shove the letter beneath one of the pillows, but he realised the inkpot had tipped over, dark blotches spreading across the bedsheet and smudging his hands. Brilliant. Just what he needed—Mum having a go at him for ruining the linen on top of everything else.

"They've been calling you for breakfast," Hermione said pointedly. "What on earth are you up to?"

"Last letter for Harry," Ron muttered, as he hauled himself off the bed, his legs tangling awkwardly in the sheets. He stood there for a moment—as if that would somehow make the guilt of what he was doing a bit less obvious. "I'll be down in a minute," he added quickly, hoping Hermione wouldn’t push him on it.

"Alright," she said, though her tone was anything but convincing. "But make sure it is the last, Ron. Professor Dumbledore was quite clear we weren’t to write to Harry anymore until he got here."

Ron snatched a crumpled jumper off the chair—looked like it hadn’t seen the inside of a laundry basket in weeks—and tugged it over his head. Hermione let out one of those exasperated sighs that could probably wither a mandrake, but she didn’t press him further. She turned and padded off, leaving him to stare at his ink-smudged hands, his brain whirring with the kind of guilty thoughts he’d rather shove under the bed with last week’s socks.

Dumbledore had said not to write—but really, what did the old codger expect? Harry was stuck in that miserable place. Someone had to do something to keep him from going spare. It’s not like Dumbledore had to put up with the Dursleys screeching like a flock of banshees every blasted day of the summer. 

He’d promised himself—absolutely sworn, hand on his heart—that this would be the very last time. Just one more letter, and if a reply came, he wouldn’t answer it. Not this time. But blimey, it was impossible to keep that vow when the only thing in the world that made his chest swell like a ruddy balloon was the sight of Hedwig swooping into this drafty old place.

And so, before heading down to the kitchen, Ron ducked into the nearest bathroom to scrub his hands, working the ink stains off as best he could. The last thing he needed was anyone asking questions. Once the worst of it was gone, he hurried off to join the others, hoping no one would be any the wiser.

Ron hadn’t had much to do these past few days, other than scrubbing and dusting this grotty old house. His Mum had gone on about how it’d been left to rot for ages, so naturally, it was up to them to sort it out. He glanced at the cobweb-draped chandelier overhead, half-expecting it to start whispering curses or spitting sparks. Well, so long as there weren’t any spiders lurking about, he reckoned he could manage cleaning the whole place. 

When Ron stepped into the kitchen, he was already greeted by the clatter of pans and his Mum bustling about, frying up breakfast while hollering at the twins to "stop that infernal apparating this instant!" Fred and George didn’t seem the least bit bothered, though, grinning like madmen as they popped in and out, each time more reckless than the last.

Ron mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, slumping into his seat. He grabbed a plate and piled on a generous helping of eggs, shoving a forkful into his mouth before anyone could press him further, though earning an exasperated glare from Hermione, who seemed utterly scandalised by his lack of decorum.

After finishing his portion of breakfast—Ron hastily mumbled some excuse about needing to sort his things and bolted up the stairs to his room. 

The letter was still there, precisely where he'd stashed it—tucked beneath the lumpy pillow on his unmade bed. He fumbled it out with shaking hands, his fingers brushing the crinkled parchment. It wasn’t much, just a few scribbled lines he had written. They hadn’t exchanged much more than queries about how each other was doing. Nothing big, nothing groundbreaking. 

He knew Harry would be furious with him—there was no way around that.

Ron could already picture Harry’s face: the flash of green eyes narrowed in disappointment, the way his jaw tightened when he was trying not to yell. "This is for the best," he muttered to himself, though the words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. Is it, though? a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind. 

He’d written the words as best he could—short and to the point—but he still wasn’t sure if they were the right words. How could anyone be sure about something like this? “Right, then,” he said to himself, as if the words might bolster his courage. “He’ll get the letter, and…and when he comes back, I’ll explain everything.”

Ron flopped onto the sagging arm of the knackered sofa the next morning, arms clamped tight across his chest, his jaw was clenched like he’d been sucking on a lemon, and honestly, he felt thoroughly put out. Unfamiliar faces had started turning up at the place, drifting in and out, sparing him and the others these quick, shifty glances like they weren’t supposed to be there. The whole thing was starting to feel a bit off, and Ron couldn’t shake the niggling thought that they were being treated like a bunch of kids, not worth the trouble of explaining anything to.

His mum had made it crystal clear they weren’t supposed to be poking their noses into the meetings. “Strictly Order business,” she'd said.  

“What are you two up to now?” Ron demanded, his voice strained as he dropped the bucket of water with a clunk that reverberated far louder than he’d planned. His arms were already aching from endless scrubbing. It all blurred together after a while—grime, dust, and who-knew-what-else—and none of it seemed to be giving up without a fight. They’d also been firmly warned against using magic for the cleaning, especially when the house was still crawling with curses, lying in wait to flare up at the slightest hint of a spell.

The twins, naturally, had wedged themselves into the cramped little nook under the staircase, right above the door where the Order's meeting was rumbling on in muffled tones. Fred was fiddling with the strange, flesh-coloured ears they were holding. Before Ron could properly register what was happening, the ears flopped down toward the kitchen door, dangling.

Then came a sound—a low murmur of distinct voices drifting up from the kitchen. “Oh my god,” Ron breathed, before wedging himself between the twins, practically elbowing his way in to listen. “What are they talking about? Is it about Harry? I—” He could make out a few voices now, though it was hard to tell who was speaking. From what he could gather, it sounded like they were arguing—something about taking turns on guard duty. The words were sharp, overlapping at times, and it didn’t take much to guess that tempers were starting to fray.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps sent a jolt through the three of them. Fred muttered a sharp curse under his breath as he yanked the Extendable Ears back with such urgency that the string nearly tangled in his fingers. The door then creaked open, and all three scrambled back, flattening themselves against the wall. 

George, with a look that was part excitement, part warning, leaned closed at him. “Now, dear ickle brother,” he whispered, “keep that gob of yours shut, or we’ll miss the lot of it.”

Ron’s face turned a blotchy red, his nerves bubbling over into barely restrained anger. “Just wait till’ Mum spots that thing in your hand,” he hissed, "You'll be hearing a lot more than their secret meeting, I can tell you!” 

“Of course, she wouldn’t,” Fred remarked with a dismissive wave of his hand, as though the idea of their mother catching them was as far-fetched as a dragon in the garden. “We’ll try again tomorrow—if there’s another meeting, that is.”

Two days later, the next meeting convened, and as sure as sunrise, the twins were up to their usual antics with the Extendable.

"I still don’t think this is a good idea," Hermione murmured, though her tone lacked its typical bite of authority.

Fred flashed a cheeky grin. "Oh, lighten up, Hermione. You’re just as desperate to know what they’re nattering about as we are."

"Exactly. Don’t try and deny it," George added, brandishing one of the Extendable Ears like a trophy. "These lot are drowning in secrets, and we’re stuck out here twiddling our thumbs."

"We’ve got every right to know what’s going on," Ron muttered, nudging the bushy-haired with his elbow. "It’s not like we’re asking to sign up for a duel or anything."

"Fine. But only for a minute, and if we get caught, it’s on your heads."

They all leaned in closer, their breaths held as the muffled voices beyond the door became clearer through the Extendable Ears. This time, the discussion centered around tracking Death Eaters. Unfortunately, someone inside was on the move again, and in a moment of flustered panic, he realized they’d have to pull the Extendable Ears away—sharpish—before whoever stepped out and spotted them. 

After the meetings, they were forced to put on a show of industrious tidying, as his Mum had developed an uncanny knack for appearing at the worst possible moments. It was becoming harder and harder to keep their secrets under wraps, and the constant tension made even Ron’s normally easygoing nature feel frayed at the edges.

But their luck finally ran out one fateful afternoon. 

Emboldened by the lack of recent interruptions, Fred and George had crept back to their favourite eavesdropping spot near the drawing room door, and, not wanting to be left out, Ron reluctantly tagged along, his nerves jangling. But before they could glean more than a few tantalising words of the muffled conversation within, the door suddenly swung open.

Mum was there, her face flushed with fury, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “And what, may I ask, do you lot think you’re doing?” she bellowed, her voice ricocheting off the walls. The woman was beyond reason now, her words flying as fast as her temper. “And you, Ronald!” she snapped, turning her full wrath on him. 

Protests bubbled up in Ron’s throat, but he knew better than to voice them. Mum was on a warpath, and there was no escaping the fallout. Before the redhead knew it—he was being marched upstairs with a broom and bucket thrust into his hands, assigned to one of the third-floor rooms—a dreary, cobweb-laden relic that hadn’t seen a proper cleaning in decades, by the looks of it.

Just as he was finishing the last dusty corner of the room—a cramped, shadowy space where the light barely reached—he suddenly heard it: a low muttering, scratchy and barely audible. “Filthy blood traitors…unworthy of this house…oh, how far we’ve fallen…”

It was small and hunched, shuffling near the far wall, its gnarled hands clutching a bundle of rags. As it stepped into a patch of weak sunlight, Ron felt a jolt of recognition. The bat-like ears, the bulbous eyes, the sour, pinched expression—it could only be Kreacher, the ancient house-elf who seemed to be more a part of the house than the furniture itself.

He’d heard plenty about Kreacher’s nasty temperament from Sirius, but he’d never been this close to the elf before. There was something unsettling about the way he moved, muttering darkly to himself as if completely unaware—or perhaps utterly indifferent—to Ron’s presence.

“Oi,” Ron managed, his voice cracking slightly. “What are you doing here?”

Kreacher paused, his muttering trailing off into a low growl. Slowly, he turned to face Ron, his eyes narrowing with disdain. The elf sneered at him, his voice dripping with contempt. “Always skulking about, always making messes for Kreacher to clean. Filthy, ungrateful brats.”

Ron bristled, the indignation flaring in his chest. “I’m cleaning up, not making a mess! And I’m not the one who’s been lurking about like a—like a creep!”

But Kreacher didn’t reply. He simply gave Ron a look of such pure loathing that it left him momentarily speechless, then turned and shuffled away, disappearing through a hidden doorway Ron hadn’t even noticed before.

“Blimey,” the redhead muttered under his breath, scrubbing furiously now just to be done with it. “This place really is the worst.”

By the time Ron dragged himself back to his room, he was too exhausted to even lift a finger, let alone deal with the state of himself. His arms ached from scrubbing, his back felt as though it had been bent over for hours—because it had—and his legs were like jelly beneath him. He flopped onto his bed without bothering to change out of his dusty clothes, too tired to care about the streaks of grime now smearing the covers.

When dinner finally came, he roused himself just enough to stumble down to the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken and potatoes hit him like a lifeline. He didn’t bother with manners or conversation; he simply piled his plate high, shoving food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Fred and George watched him with matching smirks from across the table, clearly finding his misery amusing. “What’s the matter, Ron?” Fred teased, leaning back in his chair. “Hard day at work?”

Ron glared at them between bites, too hungry and too tired to muster a proper retort. “Shut it,” he mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, earning a sharp look from Mum, who was already on edge from earlier.

But even her disapproving glare couldn’t dampen his appetite. He ate with the single-minded focus of someone who felt like he’d been starved for years, barely pausing to breathe between bites. By the time Ron finished, his plate was spotless, and he leaned back in his chair with a groan, feeling both thoroughly stuffed and utterly drained.

“Well, at least you won’t have to clean anything tomorrow,” George quipped, winking at Fred.

“Not unless Mum finds another reason to rope me into it,” Ron muttered darkly, his eyelids already drooping as he contemplated the long climb back up to his bed. The thought alone was exhausting, but he supposed it was a small mercy that Kreacher and his mutterings weren’t waiting for him there. 

It had been weeks since Ron last sent that letter to Harry, weeks of waiting and worrying.

They had gotten no word, not a single sign that Harry was safe, until that one letter—a brief, hurried scrawl that made Ron’s heart race with both hope and dread. But even that, the only sign of life from his best mate, had been met with silence. The replies they so desperately wanted to send were impossible, lost in the void of the restrictions placed upon them.

Then the news finally reached them—Harry had been summoned for a hearing at the Ministry, for using magic outside. This scant bit of news about Harry’s situation was all they had, and the uncertainty was driving him mad. He'd debated for days whether to send a letter, but Hermione had sternly warned him. That left him stuck, and Hedwig—still at this maddening place—was becoming increasingly restless. The snowy owl’s frustration had turned into aggression, and Ron had the bite mark on his hand to prove it. The deep nip throbbed faintly as he glared at her, muttering under his breath, “Blimey, Hedwig, it’s not my fault!”

Now, seeing Harry standing in front of him, looking just as he always did—slightly disheveled, but alive—Ron felt an overwhelming rush of emotions. The weight he hadn't realised was pressing on his chest seemed to lift, and for a moment, everything felt right again. 

As they attempted to explain everything, they were met with nothing but seething anger, the kind that radiated off him like heat from a roaring fire. Harry's emerald eyes, usually brimming with curiosity or warmth, now fixed on them with a cold fury that seemed to slice through the room.

"And what then?" Harry snarled, his gaze darting sharply between Ron and Hermione. "Now happy, are you? That you two were having a nice little holiday here, all alone together, while I was dealing with all this?”

Ron’s ears flared crimson, a sure sign of his growing discomfort. “Harry, no! It’s not like that!” he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of desperation. "You read my letters, didn’t you? I told you we were going to explain it—” 

"I haven’t received any letters!" Harry exploded, his voice sharp and trembling with anger, an almost frantic edge to it. His fists clenched at his sides as though gripping onto the last threads of his restraint. "Not a single fucking one! All summer, I’ve been left completely in the dark! I didn’t know what was going on until—until this!”

Ron could feel the conversation spiraling out of control, each word they exchanged seeming to topple over like an unsteady stack of cauldrons, crashing down and making Harry even angrier. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that somehow, it was his fault—his own blundering actions that had caused Harry to feel so lost, so alone. 

And the dinner, if anything, was worse than it had been earlier. The atmosphere at the table had shifted abruptly, and the once-comfortable chatter had turned into a full-fledged argument. 

Ron, far too exhausted to even care about the din around him, lethargically lifted his fork, his eyes glazed over, barely registering the tension in the air. His head was aching, his body was drained from the day's events, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught up in another argument. But as he began to push his peas around, the table gave a sudden rattle—so sharp and forceful that it startled him, making his hand jerk, almost spilling his drink.

It was then that he realised the source of the disturbance: Sirius and his mum, the last two people he expected to be at odds, were at each other like two ferocious dogs. The moment had come, and with a resigned sigh, they were shooed from the kitchen. It was clear from Sirius’s determined stance that the matter was settled—he had managed to win the argument, a rare feat in itself, and now Harry was to be let in on the full story. 

Harry came out from the room, looking somewhat weighed down by the bits of information he’d managed to piece together from the others. 

His mum then ushered them along, her tone firm and no-nonsense. "Off to bed, all of you," Ron and Harry reluctantly made their way up the stairs, and the fact that they were sharing a room didn’t bother him—not much, at least—but it sat in the back of his mind like an unnoticed detail. 

"Are you alright?" Ron whispered as they both settled onto their respective sides of the room, the soft creak of the bed frames filling the silence.

Harry tilted his head slightly, the exhaustion clear in his eyes. "Do I look like I’m alright to you?"

Ron shot him a bewildered glance, his brow furrowed in momentary confusion. He turned away, tossing a few bits of treats to their owls perched on top of the wardrobe. They fluttered and squawked in response. “Turn off the light,” he muttered instead.

Harry didn’t say another word. Instead, he reached over and flicked the switch, plunging the room into darkness. The only light now filtered in weakly through the grime-smeared windows, casting a dull, silvery glow across the room.

Ron was too irritated by the fact that they were acting as though they hadn’t made any promises to each other before. But...he couldn’t very well blame Harry, could he? Ron couldn’t, in good conscience, pile more on him—no, that wasn’t fair. The redhead wasn’t about to load Harry with whatever mess was brewing between them. There were far too many pressing things demanding his attention, far more important than his own daft feelings. 

He changed into his pajamas, the fabric soft against his skin, before slipping under the covers of his bed, burying himself beneath the warmth of the blanket. He made a mental note to clean it tomorrow—another task for another time. For now, he just wanted the quiet, the comfort, and the escape the bed offered.