Lionhearted

Ron felt utterly drained.

His shoulders sagging from the constant strain of cleaning the doxies in the drawing room. He worked diligently, though his attention was noticeably elsewhere, pointedly avoiding Harry’s presence as the latter sprayed the pesky creatures from their hiding spots. His breathing came in shallow gasps, the scarf wound tightly around his nose and mouth turning each breath into a struggle rather than a reprieve.

For days on end, they plodded wearily from one room to the next, battling the filth and decay of the wretched house. It seemed never-ending, as if the place itself were sneering at their attempts to bring it to heel. By the time evening rolled around, Ron would collapse into bed, bone-tired and aching, but sleep was no refuge. His nights were broken by restless dreams and, worse, the sudden jolt of waking to Harry’s muffled cries in the dark. 

Ron swung his legs out of bed, his feet meeting the chill of the floor with a sharp intake of breath. He shuffled across the room, squinting in the gloom as his hands flailed about for the blasted light switch. "Where's the ruddy thing?" he muttered under his breath, blinking furiously to shake off the stubborn fog of sleep. After a moment's clumsy struggle, he gave up on finding the switch altogether and made a beeline for Harry’s bed instead. 

Harry was the first to move—a slight adjustment that turned him just enough to face Ron, as though cautiously testing the balance of their shared space. The shift gave them both a touch more breathing room, not that Ron had minded the closeness in the first place. Still, this felt easier somehow—less clumsy, less suffocating.

"Ron," 

The redhead let out a muffled grunt, barely lifting his head from the pillow. His hair stuck up in every direction, and his expression was a blend of groggy irritation and half-conscious confusion. He didn’t bother opening his eyes, muttering something incomprehensible that might have been an attempt at, "What?"

"I can't fall asleep," Harry muttered, his tone heavy with frustration.

“What’s biting your nose off?” Ron mumbled groggily, his voice muffled as he burrowed further into the cocoon of his blanket. His red hair was a tangled mess against the pillow, and his freckled face barely peeked out from beneath the worn fabric. He tugged the blanket higher, shielding himself from both the chill of the room and the annoyance he could sense brewing.

“You,” Harry sighed in exasperation, “You’re stealing my blanket, Ron.”

Ron blinked slowly, his brain still muddled with sleep as Harry’s accusation registered. “What’re you on about?” he grumbled, he held the blanket close, the thought of relinquishing it completely unthinkable. “This one’s mine,” he added, his tone defensive, as if the matter was already settled in his favour. 

Ron had fallen asleep not long after pulling the blanket snug around himself, its warmth a rare comfort in the draughty old house. Morning came with a sluggish sort of clarity, his mind thick with the remnants of sleep and the faintest impression of something half-remembered. There’d been Harry—he was sure of that—tossing about in his. Still, it hadn’t seemed that bad, not enough to make a fuss over. Maybe he’d been too knackered to care properly, or maybe his brain had decided to chuck it into the “not my problem” drawer for safekeeping. Either way, the edges of the memory blurred, and he wasn’t about to waste energy piecing it together.

His other side was empty, the covers tangled and rumpled as though Harry had left in a hurry. Ron groaned under his breath, the effort of sitting up in bed feeling like a monumental task. For a gravely moment, he seriously considered collapsing back onto his mattress and burying himself in the duvet. But then the thought of breakfast drifted into his mind—toast, eggs, maybe even bacon if he was lucky—and the promise of food was enough to propel him forward.

Muttering under his breath, Ron blindly reached for his slippers, their worn soles offering little protection from the cold seeping up from the floor. 

He was halfway down the staircase when Ginny appeared, emerging from her own room with her hair still tousled. "Morning," she said, throwing him a quick, knowing look as they passed each other. "You look like you’ve just rolled out of bed."

"That’s ‘cause I have," Ron grumbled, "Seen Harry anywhere?"

Ginny shrugged, tugging at the sleeve of her jumper. "Haven’t. But if he’s already in the kitchen, he better not have eaten off all the food." 

Maybe Harry was already halfway through a plate of toast and sausages while Ron shuffled along like a half-dead Flobberworm. Sure enough, Ginny’s guess wasn’t far off. When they reached the kitchen, Harry was already at the table, a slice of toast in hand, crumbs scattered around his plate and dusting the corner of his mouth. He sat leaning slightly forward, his attention fixed on Sirius, who lounged across from him with a faint grin tugging at his lips, clearly amused by whatever Harry was saying. 

Ron hesitated for half a second in the doorway, the warmth of the kitchen washing over him, before trudging in, stomach growling in protest.

Hermione was there too, perched at the far end of the table, carefully feeding Crookshanks small morsels of food. The cat, looking as smug as ever, pawed at her arm between bites, clearly spoiled by her doting attention. Hermione seemed entirely absorbed in her task, though her brow twitched faintly at intervals, as if she were half-listening to Harry and Sirius's conversation.

His mum bustled about near the stove, her wand flicking expertly as stacks of plates began to fill the table, each piled high with eggs, sausages, bacon, and freshly baked bread. “Finally decided to join us, have you?” she said without turning, her tone brisk but warm.

Ron grunted in response, his eyes already scanning the table for the nearest plate. “Good morning,” he mumbled, sliding into a chair next to Harry.

“Morning, Ron,” Harry greeted with a slight smile, his voice warm but tinged with something that made Ron think the ravenhead was trying to gauge his mood. “Did you sleep well?”

Ron blinked at him, feeling a bit disoriented as he stared at the half-eaten piece of toast in his hand. His mind didn’t want to settle into the rhythm of the morning, and the dreamless night still felt faintly unsettling. “I…do?” Ron muttered, his voice trailing off as though he was still trying to remember the details. “I think so.” 

"Good," 

Ron felt his cheeks flush a little, warmth spreading across his face as if he’d been caught in a moment of vulnerability. He picked up his fork—stabbing at his sausage with more force than necessary, trying to focus on the task in front of him rather than the thoughts swirling around in his head.

Ron couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. 

It had crept up on him the moment they’d started the wretched cleaning, though at first, he’d brushed it aside. After all, his only real concern was finishing the blasted chore so he could finally get something to eat. His stomach had been grumbling so loudly, he was half afraid it might attract a ghoul from the attic.

But no matter how determined he was to stick to his task, Harry always seemed to appear out of nowhere, swooping in with the same air of grim determination he wore. It was infuriating. Harry would ask—no, demand, really—if Ron thought he could manage the job he was already halfway through, as though it were some kind of life-or-death mission only Harry Potter himself could properly execute.

Take the incident with the boxes the other day. 

Ron had been hauling two particularly unwieldy ones—his arms burning, his knees threatening to buckle under the strain—when Harry materialized, that familiar look of grim determination fixed on his face.

“I’ll handle the boxes,” the raven-haired announced, stepping forward as though he was about to pry them from Ron’s grasp without so much as a second thought.

Ron stared at him, sweat trickling down his temples. “It’s fine,” he muttered, striving for nonchalance. “Why don’t you go help Hermione with the curtains or something?” he nodded toward the next room, where Hermione’s voice carried through the doorway, muttering exasperatedly about dust charms refusing to cooperate. “She sounds like she could use the help,” he added, hoping it would steer Harry off his current course.

Harry hesitated for a moment before muttering something about “checking on Hermione,” and finally turned to go. If they were going to make it through the chaos of cleaning Grimmauld Place—let alone the fight against You-Know-Who—they’d all need to figure out how to stand on even footing.

Then the following afternoon found Ron stationed in the kitchen. He worked with a kind of resignation, scrubbing at each plate as though the harder he worked, the sooner the task would be over. Though this was better than scrubbing down the upstairs cabinets, which seemed enchanted to grow new cobwebs the moment you turned away. 

Ron stood at the sink, arms elbow-deep in hot, soapy water, as he slid the final plate into the drying rack. He glanced sideways, and there was Harry, sleeves rolled up like he was gearing up for some grand duel instead of a sink full of suds. The redhead froze, his hands still wet and dripping soap, a slow frown creeping onto his face. “What’re you doing?” Ron finally asked, eyebrows shooting up as Harry picked up a sponge with the air of someone accepting a noble quest.

“Helping you,” Harry said simply, as though this wasn’t a completely mad idea.

Ron plucked the sponge out of Harry’s hand like a parent confiscating a dangerous toy from a child. “Harry,” he began, voice laced with that particular blend of weariness and affection only a best friend could manage, “it’s not your turn yet. Mum said you’re meant to be resting with the others, remember? There’s enough scrubbing to keep us busy for days—might as well save your energy for later.”

The raven-haired shrugged, “I could, yeah, but it’s boring waiting around,” he said, leaning against the counter like he had all the time in the world, as if Harry was trying to make scrubbing a pan seem like an exciting alternative.

“Boring? You call sitting down for five minutes boring?” Ron said incredulously. “Blimey, Harry, some of us would kill for a bit of boring.” He punctuated the statement with a loud huff, attacking a particularly stubborn patch of grime on a pan like it had personally offended him. 

The redhead could feel Harry’s gaze on him, like an itch between his shoulder blades. Ron groaned under his breath, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Fine,” he muttered, tossing the sponge in Harry’s direction with a wet splat. “If you’re that desperate for something to do, you can dry.”

Harry’s grin spread across his face, that annoyingly triumphant sort of look he always got when he thought he’d won some grand argument. “Cool,” he said, snatching up a towel like it was some prize. 

It was beginning to get downright peculiar—Ron thought. Harry, for reasons utterly beyond comprehension, had developed a knack for appearing at the exact moment Ron didn’t particularly need him. It wasn’t that Harry wasn’t welcome, per se—it was just odd. 

Every time Ron set to a task that clearly didn’t require a second wand—carting up crates of forgotten heirlooms, sweeping away decades of dust, or rummaging through ancient junk that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the last century—there the raven-haired was, lurking at the edge of his vision like a shadow that refused to leave.

And for the life of him, Ron couldn’t decide whether Harry’s sudden bouts of over-eagerness were meant to be helpful—or something else entirely.

Ron’s grip tightened on the handle of the ancient candelabra he’d been half-heartedly dusting. His brow furrowed as his thoughts churned with the sort of irritation that came when things didn’t quite add up. It wasn’t just that Harry seemed determined to help him with every menial task. No, it was the way he always managed to show up when Ron was on his own, like he’d timed it deliberately. 

At first, he’d told himself Harry was just restless, the way he always got when something big was looming on the horizon. The Ministry hearing was enough to make anyone jumpy, wasn’t it? 

"Er, Harry," Ron began, still clutching the candelabra in one hand, holding it aloft like he was presiding over some ridiculous medieval court. “Not that I’m complaining about the company or anything, but why do you keep showing up whenever I’m trying to do something on my own?"

Harry blinked, his head jerking up as though Ron’s question had yanked him out of some distant thought. "I err…dunno," he mumbled, the words barely audible and about as convincing as Gilderoy Lockhart's signed photographs.

Ron’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the candelabra tightening. "You ‘dunno’?" he repeated, his voice laced with scepticism. "You’ve been following me around like a lost Crup all week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed."

"I don’t like sitting around, alright?" Harry said at last, his voice low and rough, as if he’d been wrestling with the words for hours. "And it’s not like there’s loads of time to talk. Not properly, anyway.”

"Well, you could’ve just said so instead of sneaking up on me like a bloody poltergeist."

The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. “Didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” Harry muttered, his gaze dropping to the worn carpet. 

“Alright,” the redhead supposed, in Harry’s shoes, he might’ve done the same. Merlin knew they all had a lot on their minds these days. "We’re here now, aren’t we? And it’s not like anyone else can overhear."

Harry hummed in agreement, his hands moving carefully as he sorted through the pile of trinkets in front of him. For a moment, it seemed like that was the end of it, the conversation drifting off into comfortable silence. But then Harry paused, his fingers brushing against a tarnished silver frame, and he looked up. 

“I’d like to apologise,”

“Yeah?” Ron frowned, tilting his head. “What for?”

The raven-haired set the frame down, his eyes flickering to Ron’s face before quickly darting away again. “For being a righteous prat when we first got here,” 

Ron blinked, his brow knitting in confusion. “What are you on about, mate? You were upset—anyone would’ve been. It’s fine, honestly.”

Harry shrugged, his expression oddly calm. “Just thought I’d say it,” he murmured, voice steady in a way Ron could only dream of. “Been acting like a bit of a git, haven’t I? Figured I should own up.”

“Well, uh—” the redhead scratched the back of his neck, words fumbling as his thoughts tripped over each other. “Not like I’ve been keeping tabs or anything.”

Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but for a heartbeat, that calm faltered, giving way to something quieter, something almost uncertain. “Still,” he said softly, “I thought you should hear it.”

Ron didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded, his face still uncomfortably warm. He turned back to the trinkets, fumbling with a chipped candlestick to avoid meeting Harry’s gaze. They worked in silence, hands moving automatically as they sorted through the last of the oddments. Each trinket found its place—shelved here, tucked there—and slowly, the room began to take on a semblance of order. The cluttered chaos that had swallowed the space for days receded, revealing something almost homely beneath. 

Now that everything was finally sorted—every book shoved back into its proper spot and every stray bit of parchment crammed into a drawer—Ron just stood there, hands on his hips, staring blankly at the room as if it might offer up some grand solution to his sudden aimlessness. He supposed he ought to go back to the others. Hermione was almost certainly elbow-deep in some obsessive library overhaul by now, muttering about misfiled books with a dangerous glint in her eye. And Mum? She’d have sniffed out another impossible chore for them all by now—probably something involving rust and a scrubbing brush. After all, there was never any shortage of grime or misery in Grimmauld Place.

Ron hesitated, his hand hovering awkwardly at his side. The room had gone still, the kind of stillness that made every faint creak of the floorboards sound louder than it should. It struck him, quite suddenly, how rare this was—just him and Harry, without Hermione’s chatter or Mum’s constant flurry of activity filling every gap. Not that he minded the company of the others; in fact, he usually relied on it to keep things from getting too awkward or heavy. 

But this was different. 

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stick around a bit longer. Moments like this didn’t come often—not in Grimmauld Place, where quiet was a rarity and privacy even more so. Ron’s eyes flicked over to Harry—who was crouched by a low shelf, steadily arranging the last of the trinkets, as though the act of aligning old knick-knacks was the most important thing in the world.

Who knew when they’d get another chance like this? Ron shifted his weight from one foot to the other, debating with himself, before finally clearing his throat. “Er, so…” he began, his voice breaking the stillness, though it came out more hesitant than he’d intended. “What do you reckon we should do next? I mean, I could head back and see what the others are up to, but…” 

“Yeah?”

Ron scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm his face felt. “But, you know…might as well stick around,” 

Harry’s soft chuckle broke the momentary silence, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Right,” he replied, “Wouldn’t want to leave a half-done job, would we?” 

Ron nodded, as he stared down at his battered shoes. They were scuffed and worn, barely holding together—a small miracle they hadn’t fallen apart yet, given the punishment they’d endured.

"Ron..." Harry’s voice broke through him, calm but probing, as he straightened up from where he’d been crouched moments before. But before the moment could tip into something the redhead couldn't explain—let alone handle—a low, gravelly muttering broke through their conversation.

Both their heads shot up at the same time, and there he was—Kreacher, the grimy, hunched house-elf, dragging his feet into the room with a face like he'd just bitten into a lemon. His muttering carried across the room, low and sharp, filled with his usual venom about "filthy little brats" and "grubby fingers desecrating Mistress’s treasures." He seemed entirely unaware—or perhaps entirely indifferent—to the charged moment he’d stumbled into.

They both scrambled to their feet, their awkward fumbling masked by an exaggerated burst of industry. Cleaning supplies were snatched up, brushes and cloths brandished like shields against the thick silence that had replaced whatever fragile thread had been stretched between them moments before. With a forced sort of purpose, they busied themselves, acting as though they’d just now noticed the towering mess they’d apparently been too distracted to address properly.

Kreacher halted, his beady eyes narrowing with a suspicious glint as he glared at them.