Lionhearted

Ron Weasley stirred awake, his face scrunching as an irksome weight pressed against his chest. With a groggy grunt, he shifted, only for something—or rather, someone—to tighten their grip around his waist. He fumbled for the edge of his blanket and peeled it back, his bleary vision adjusting to the sight beneath it. A wild, unruly mop of hair—familiarly disheveled—was nestled against him, an arm—definitely not his—was draped lazily across his middle. 

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, while Harry had nuzzled even further against his chest. There was the tickling sensation, light as a whisper, right against his skin. His stomach gave an odd sort of lurch, a slow, creeping heat blooming in his face before he could even think about stopping it. His cheeks burning up like a ruddy furnace, all because Harry, in his sleep-heavy oblivion, had decided that Ron’s chest was the best possible place to nestle into. 

Well, the raven-haired had been in a foul mood, mad about Seamus and his blasted lack of faith. It all came back to that sodding Daily Prophet, didn’t it? Printing lies and drivel, twisting the truth, making out that Harry and Dumbledore were a pair of lunatics rather than the only ones with their heads screwed on straight. 

Ron's hand moved almost of its own accord, long fingers brushing tentatively against Harry’s hair—soft, warm, and just the slightest bit fluffy, like it had barely dried properly after a wash. A quiet hum reached his ears, and the raven-haired was stirring against him, tilting his head in that slow, sleep-dazed way—his face now turned up towards Ron’s with a lazy, utterly contented smile. 

"You're like a marshmallow, d'you know that?"

The redhead felt the heat climb up his neck at an alarming speed, his brain scrambling for a response that wouldn’t make him sound completely thrown. "Shut up," he muttered hastily, scowling to cover the fact that his entire face was now definitely red. He cleared his throat, desperate to shift the focus onto anything else. "And you’re heavy, I dunno what you’ve been eating."

“As it happens, we’re quite literally sharing every meal together these days,” Harry remarked, wrapping his arms tightly around Ron, pulling him into an embrace that was firm, perhaps a little too firm, as if he wished to preserve this moment indefinitely, to hold onto the warmth and familiarity of it for as long as humanly possible. “Can we stay like this?” he murmured, his voice just a touch muffled against Ron’s shoulder, as though, if he said it softly enough, he might trick the universe into granting him this wish.

Ron, however, let out a disgruntled noise, one that was equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. “No,” he stated flatly, wriggling in Harry’s grasp before giving him a rather lightly shove. “It’s already morning, you great lump, and I’m not about to be late for our breakfast just because you’ve decided you’d rather stand about clinging to me like a barnacle.”

Harry pulled back with an indignant little huff, lower lip jutting out in an unmistakable pout. "That’s unfair," he muttered, frowning as though he were preparing to stage a full-blown protest.

The redhead reached out with a boyish smirk, his fingers finding purchase on Harry’s sun-warmed cheeks before giving them a hearty pinch. He tugged at the soft skin, stretching it outward with a mischievous glee that lasted precisely until Harry let out a sharp yelp of protest. His boyfriend had wrenched himself away, staggering back with a scowl. His hands flew to his now-flushed cheeks, rubbing at the lingering sting as he shot Ron a look brimming with indignation—the kind that spoke of wounded pride as much as genuine discomfort.

They moved through the familiar motions of dressing, though there was little urgency in their movements. The weight of sleep still clung to them, and the quiet companionship of the moment made them languid, stretching out the act longer than necessary. Across the room, however, Seamus was in a flurry of hurried gestures and clipped motions, as though he could not be out of their presence fast enough—undoubtedly still bristling from yesterday’s quarrel. Ron watched him for a moment, brows furrowing in mild bemusement before shrugging it off. If Seamus Finnigan wanted to make a grand exit over a row, well, that was his business.

"Just ignore him," Ron declared with a slightly defiant air, his hands fumbling with the round glasses perched on Harry's nose. He adjusted them carefully, the act taking on a tenderness he wouldn’t dare acknowledge, as they both prepared to descend the winding staircase. He stepped back with a quick, self-conscious motion, his ears glowing faintly pink. "Honestly, so what if no one’s willing to believe you? It'll be their own ruddy fault in the end.”

Harry gave a nonchalant shrug, with a casualness that seemed at odds with the weight of the world he so often carried. "I don't really care much anymore," he admitted, though the flicker of weariness in his eyes told a more complicated reason. "I just want it for this year to belong to us."

Ron flushed, a strange heat crawling up his neck to his ears. Clearing his throat hastily, as if to smother his own embarrassment. “We'll try, Harry. After all, I did promise you something, didn’t I?” he said with a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

Harry tilted his head ever so slightly, his brow furrowing as if the gears in his mind were turning but not quite catching. “Did you?” he asked, his tone betraying an innocent sort of bewilderment that often seemed to find him in moments like these.

The redhead let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes skyward as though silently imploring some unseen force to grant him patience. “Yes, Harry. I promised we’d sort out that business when the term began, didn’t I? Honestly, mate, were you even paying attention?”

“Oh,” Harry murmured, blinking in quick succession as the penny finally dropped. “I thought we’d already done that. Back at Grimmauld Place, I mean.”

"Harry!"

Ron had a nagging, downright frightening feeling that he was destined to turn into his mum one day. Not that he could pinpoint why exactly—it was just this creeping sense that somehow, he’d end up fussing and fretting like Molly Weasley herself. And lately, with Harry teetering on the edge of his temper and snapping at everything in sight, the thought seemed less and less far-fetched.

It hadn’t helped that earlier in the day, he and Hermione had gone head-to-head over Snape’s involvement in the Order. Hermione had been all logical points and exasperated huffing, while he had met her with his usual storm of emotion and righteous retort, until Harry had finally had enough. He’d turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Ron and Hermione standing there, awkward and a bit stunned, in his wake.

The redhead dashed across the bustling corridor, as he made a beeline for Harry. The moment he’d realised Harry had abandoned his lunch, he’d felt a sort of motherly obligation to intervene—because honestly, skipping meals? That was practically criminal in Ron’s book. He fumbled through his school bag, fingers brushing past stray quills and a rather suspiciously melted chocolate frog wrapper, he unearthed a half-squashed, but still edible, breakfast roll he’d stuffed in there that morning. 

“Oi, here—” Ron began, but before he could properly shove the salvaged meal into Harry’s reluctant hands. “Leave me alone,” the raven-haired snapped. 

"C'mon, mate.” he insisted, tightening his grip on the now slightly squashed roll as if it might somehow convince Harry to take it. 

“No,” Harry muttered, slumping down against the cold stone wall beneath the trapdoor to their Divination classroom. His arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the floor, the very picture of stubborn misery. “I'm not hungry—”

"Yes, you are,” Ron cut him off before Harry could even attempt to argue, leveling him with a look that clearly said, Don’t even start.

Harry cast a wary glance at the bundle of food pressed into his hands, his fingers curling around the wrapping with all the enthusiasm of a man being handed a live grenade. With a sigh heavy enough to rattle his ribs, he peeled back the paper, pausing only to sniff at it in a manner both suspicious and begrudging before finally taking a bite. A low, dissatisfied grumble rumbled from the depths of his throat as he chewed, his mood as sour as ever.

Ron, watching him with the keen eye of a man who had long since mastered the art of reading Harry’s moods, allowed himself to speak further. “We really ought to do something about that temper of yours,” he remarked, his tone light but not without a trace of concern beneath it.

Harry's chewing slowed, his gaze snapping to Ron with a look that teetered somewhere between indignation and mild offence. “I’m not—” he began, but Ron, unbothered by the protest, cut him off with a shake of his head.

“You’ve got to get a grip,” he reminded him, for someone who had spent far too much time watching his best mate unravel. “I was mad too, believe me—but the best way forward right now is to calm down.” His words, though measured, held an undeniable firmness, as though he were attempting to anchor both himself and Harry.

“How could I possibly calm down when this blasted thing always happens to me—” Harry’s voice rose, his frustration bubbling over like a kettle left too long on the hob, his hands tightening into fists around the half-eaten food as though sheer force alone could will the universe into fairness.

“Harry,” Ron interjected, nodding pointedly toward the food in Harry’s grasp, lifting a brow in quiet insistence—as if somehow knowing that the conversation would be far more manageable—once the raven-haired was no longer half-starved and fuming.

“Oh, fine,” Harry said with all the enthusiasm of a man sentenced to a lifetime of cold porridge. He shoved the food into his mouth, chewing with the distinct air of someone enduring great suffering. 

To Ron’s astonishment, Harry somehow managed to rein in his temper, the rigid set of his shoulders easing ever so slightly, his expression no longer one of barely restrained fury. It was a welcome change, really—though it certainly hadn’t come about on its own. No, it was only after that dreadful old bat, Umbridge, had gleefully slapped Harry with a bloody detention—It was as if something inside him had finally snapped, the last thread of resistance giving way, leaving the raven-haired in a state of reluctant surrender rather than outright rage. 

Ron rubbed his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as a dull ache began to form—a headache, no doubt, and he could already feel it settling in. After all those exhausting talks with Harry about keeping his temper in check, it felt utterly pointless, as if they’d been going in circles the whole time. 

He had also scolded Hermione for tricking the house elves, setting them up to be free by leaving out hats—which, unsurprisingly, had nearly escalated into a full-blown argument. And on top of all that, there were the endless piles of homework and essays weighing him down like a sack of cursed gobstones. Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his mind completely.

The only thing that managed to pull his mind away from all the madness was his evening training sessions with his new broomstick. Every Tuesday evening, he would sneak out, the cool night air sharp against his face as he soared over the empty pitch, pushing himself harder with each lap. And Ron knew he had to—if he had any hope of making the Quidditch team, he couldn’t afford to slack off. 

Still, just the thought of actually trying out still made his stomach twist with embarrassment. The idea of standing there, in front of everyone, proving himself—or worse, failing spectacularly—was enough to make him want to bury his face in his pillow and never come out again.

The moment Ron stepped into the dormitory, Harry was already on him. "Where have you been?" he demanded suspicion, his gaze narrowing as he took in the dishevelled state of his best mate.

Ron, heart lurching violently in his chest, barely had a chance to summon a coherent thought before he realised—with a sickening jolt of horror—that he was still clutching his broomstick, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle like a criminal caught red-handed. 

"Wha—Harry!?" he choked out, his voice cracking in a way that did absolutely nothing to help his already crumbling credibility. In a blind, hopelessly futile attempt at damage control, he jerked the broomstick behind his back, as if simply shoving it out of sight might erase the damning evidence entirely. "What are you doing?" he added hastily, as though he might somehow turn the tables with sheer force of indignation.

Harry, entirely unmoved by this weak attempt at deflection, merely lifted an eyebrow and regarded Ron with the air of someone watching a rather poor performance. "What?" he said flatly. "I always sleep here." To emphasise the point, he gave his mattress a firm pat, his expression one of tired patience. Then, suppressing a yawn, he muttered, "Come on, I'm knackered."

Ron remained rooted to the spot, the broom still gripped as if it had welded itself to his palm. His brain scrambled for something—anything—to say that might salvage the situation, but all that came out was a strangled noise somewhere between protest and surrender. His mouth opened, then shut again, as though words were entirely beyond him. In the end, with all the dignity of a man choosing to ignore his own downfall, he released a sharp breath through his nose, muttered something entirely unintelligible under his breath, and stomped over to his trunk. If he simply acted normal, he reasoned, perhaps—by some miracle—Harry would let it go.

"Don't sulk. You’ve been flying, haven’t you?" Harry observed, his voice laced with quiet amusement as he regarded Ron with the knowing look of someone who had long since learned to read him like an open book.

Ron, already teetering on the edge of mortification, promptly went scarlet. In a clumsy, entirely doomed effort to rid himself of the evidence, he fumbled to shove the Cleansweep under his bed, nearly knocking over a pair of battered trainers in the process. "Please don’t laugh," Ron sank heavily onto the edge of his bed, his back turned to Harry, shoulders hunching as if he could physically shrink from the inevitable. "I—I was trying for the Keeper position," he admitted embarrassingly, the words escaping in a rush, as though saying them quickly might lessen the humiliation.

But no teasing remark came. No snide comment, no knowing smirk. Instead—without warning—Ron felt warmth, solid and undeniable, wrapping around his waist. His entire body locked up in an unadulterated shock as Harry buried his face against his back. The sensation of his breath, warm even through the fabric of Ron's shirt, and it sent something dangerously unfamiliar ricocheting through his ribs. 

"Actually," Harry murmured, voice muffled against him, "it's brilliant."

Ron's brain—for all its usual blundering attempts at reason, had well and truly deserted him. It had, at some point during this increasingly bewildering evening, thrown up its hands in surrender and left him to fend for himself in the treacherous waters of whatever this was. He remained motionless, acutely aware of the warmth pressed against his back, the steady rise and fall of Harry’s breath, and the fact that they had been sitting like this for far longer than could be considered remotely normal.

At last, some semblance of rational thought kicked in, and Ron shifted—just enough to turn and face Harry properly. His best mate—no, he corrected himself hastily, his boyfriend. The word still felt dangerously unfamiliar, almost too big to fit inside his head, let alone his chest. Ron then reached out, giving Harry a light shove to the side, more out of habit than anything else.

"Harry, are you...alright?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he searched Harry’s face for any sign of what was really going on. Because Harry didn’t just do things like this. Not unless something was bothering him. Not unless he was trying—however clumsily—to seek comfort without actually asking for it.

"Yeah," Harry replied wearily, but Ron wasn’t entirely convinced.

Ron hesitated, but in the end, he let it be. He pushed himself upright, rubbing the back of his neck as he moved to dig through his trunk. "Alright," he muttered, "I'll go change my clothes first," he was already reaching for the hem of his robes, intent on ridding himself of the day’s discomfort, when—

A hand closed around his wrist.

Ron’s breath caught in his throat. His pulse, which had previously been keeping a relatively reasonable tempo, promptly abandoned all restraint and launched into an outright sprint.

"Don’t,"

"Harry," Ron began, making a valiant attempt to sound put-upon rather than unnerved, "I need to take my robes off, at least. I’m not about to sleep in my school uniform, am I?" The redhead rolled his eyes for good measure, as if that might somehow distract from the fact that his face was rapidly turning crimson.

"Fine," the raven-haired relented, even though there was something distinctly impish in the way he said it. "Hurry up, though. Or I’ll take all your pillows."

Ron bit his lip, forcibly swallowing the entirely unhelpful thought about how utterly stupid—and, if he was being painfully honest with himself, adorable—Harry looked right now. The redhead moved quickly, swapping them out for his pyjama top and trousers with a sense of urgency he refused to examine too closely, before finally, finally slipping back into bed. 

Harry, having spent the entire time waiting with thinly veiled impatience, barely gave him a second to settle before making a quiet, pleased sound—a low hum of contentment as Ron returned to his side. They both shifted closer, bodies falling into the kind of easy familiarity that came with years of shared space. The redhead exhaled, letting the warmth of it all sink into his skin—the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest against his own, the gentle press of arms winding around him. He simply let himself be there, let the slow pull of exhaustion settle over him like a heavy quilt.

Just as his mind began to wander, lulled by the heavy pull of sleep, he felt it—a touch so feather-light he might’ve imagined it, fingertips skimming the hem of his shirt. Ron's breath caught, his entire body going rigid as Harry’s hand, moving with slow intent, slipped beneath the fabric, coming to rest against the bare skin of his waist. A violent shiver coursed through Ron, his stomach twisting traitorously. He stayed perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, as though the slightest movement might shatter whatever strange spell had fallen between them.

The redhead would never have dared to call it a complaint—not really—not when the touch had been so unexpectedly warm, so grounding in a way he hadn't realised he’d needed. And so, rather than pull away, Ron allowed himself the indulgence of leaning into it. The grip, however, tightened in response. "Harry," he whispered, his voice scarcely more than a breath, barely daring to disturb the fragile stillness between them.

A sigh came from behind him—wearied, reluctant. "Sorry." The warmth was suddenly gone—Harry's hands vanishing as though he feared he had done something wrong. Ron's brows drew together as he caught hold of the retreating hand, he guided it back to where it had been, where it belonged, where it had offered him something he wasn’t ready to name. 

But then—his eyes flickered downward. 

"Harry, what's that—?"

Before he could so much as finish the question, Harry snatched his hand away with startling speed, pressing it close to his chest, concealing it beneath the other as if that alone could erase whatever Ron had glimpsed. Narrowing his eyes, he turned properly to face Harry, his instincts already screaming that something was off. He reached again—quicker, more determined this time—and caught the hand on his own. His fingers curled around it, holding firm, feeling the heat of irritated skin beneath his thumb. And then, he saw it.

There was something scraped across the flesh—deep, merciless—but left no scar. Only an angry flush, rising and raw, as though the wound had been fresh mere moments ago, still throbbing with the phantom sting of whatever had carved it there.

“Who did this to you?"

“I—” Harry flinched slightly. "Umbridge," he confessed at last.

The redhead shot upright at once. "That vile old crone—!" 

"Ron!" Harry grasped his arm, holding him back. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Are you completely daft? We have to tell someone—Professor Dumbledore, or P-Professor McGonagall—you can't possibly let her do this to you, Harry—" Ron's mind was in absolute turmoil, thoughts crashing into one another like a raging storm at sea. The redhead hadn’t the faintest idea what to think—let alone what he was meant to do. 

"I’ll be fine," Harry said, too quickly, too dismissively.

"Don’t—"

"It’s my fault, alright?" Harry cut in, his jaw tightening. "You told me to control my fucking temper, and I didn’t—"

"But she’s hurting you!" Ron burst out, his hands trembling with the sheer force of everything boiling inside him. He wanted to shake his best mate—to knock some sense into him, to do something, anything, because how could Harry just sit there and accept this? 

Harry’s expression softened, the hard edges of his frustration melting away into something Ron couldn’t quite place. Before he had a chance to react, he was yanked forward with surprising force, a sharp gasp escaping him as he tumbled straight into Harry’s chest. Arms then wrapped around him, firm and unyielding, holding him close—as if to anchor him in place.

Ron’s cheeks burned as hot as a freshly stoked hearth, the flush spreading over his face the moment he felt Harry nestle his face into his untidy, ginger hair. He tried to brush it off, willing himself to appear unaffected, but it was a hopeless task. “You can heal me by just staying like this,” Harry murmured softly, the words brushing past Ron’s ear like a breeze. 

“You’re absolutely barmy,” Ron huffed, the words spilling out in a hurried, almost desperate attempt to cover the heat blooming across his face. His cheeks still burned with the intensity of a late summer sun, and before he could think twice about it, the redhead let himself lean forward, his forehead finding a resting place against Harry’s chest.

And that was why—whenever the raven-haired dragged himself back from detention, looking worse for wear, Ron always had that small jar of ointment tucked away. He’d gone to great lengths to get it, practically begging Madam Pomfrey for it with a hurried tale about mosquitoes biting him mercilessly and how he’d developed a sudden and severe allergic reaction. It was a blatant lie, of course, but he’d delivered it with such earnestness that the matron had only given him a suspicious glance before relenting. The guilt of lying didn’t bother him much, not when it meant he could help Harry, even in the smallest of ways.

He hadn’t even managed to join in the celebration of his own triumph earlier that day—winning the Keeper’s position at tryouts—because he’d been too busy waiting for Harry. The cheers and backslaps from Fred and George had barely registered as he’d made some excuse and slipped away, his thoughts consumed by whether Harry would return from detention in one piece. 

“Your hand, please,” Ron said quietly, his voice firm but not unkind as he led Harry to a secluded corner of the common room, away from prying eyes and the constant hum of chatter. Harry obediently extended his hand, though the weariness in his movements didn’t go unnoticed. Ron frowned as he inspected it. The redhead hadn’t managed to put enough ointment on earlier—he’d been rushed, called away by Angelina to sort out some nonsense about Oliver's Quidditch robes right in the middle of tending to Harry.

Now, Ron intended to make up for it. “Hold still, yeah?” he muttered, grabbing the jar and dipping his fingers into the salve. His brow furrowed with concentration as he worked to cover the raw, irritated skin he hadn’t properly treated before. The redhead then glanced upward, but found Harry’s gaze fixed squarely on him, rather than his own hand. Ron felt the heat rise to his cheeks, his ears burning something fierce as he cleared his throat rather more loudly than he’d meant to. 

Harry started, blinking rapidly, as though the sudden noise had yanked him back to the present moment. "I—err—sorry?" he mumbled, looking a bit lost.

Ron let out a huff, as if that might make him look less flustered. "Do you still want me to put more on, or what?" 

Harry’s fingers fumbled at the back of his neck, rubbing absentmindedly as his gaze skittered away. "N-no," he muttered, though he didn’t sound entirely sure. "Err—thanks."

"Alright," Ron said, snapping the lid back onto the jar with a satisfying twist, then sitting back to admire his handiwork with a rather self-satisfied air. 

Harry flexed his hand experimentally before offering a small smile. "It doesn’t hurt anymore."

Ron exhaled, relieved. "Yeah, well, I reckon whatever Umbridge was using wasn’t messing with the wound—could’ve been a right nightmare."

"And what if it had been like that?" 

"Then I’d bloody well deck her," Ron huffed loudly. "Don’t care what anyone thinks—I’d plant one right in her thick, pink, grotesque face."

The raven-haired gave a sudden, incredulous snort, shaking his head at the sheer cheek of it all, nuy his expression softened, something undeniably warm glinting in his gaze. And without so much as a word, their hands edged closer, fingers hesitantly brushing before intertwining—concealed beneath the folds of their robes, safely out of sight from prying eyes.

“D’you fancy going out with me this weekend?” Harry murmured, his voice pitched just low enough to remain between the two of them. “Hogsmeade?”

Ron’s ears turned the telltale shade of pink, as he cast Harry a sidelong glance. “S’pose I could,” he grinned, “Long as you haven’t got detention.”

“Next weekend, then?”

“Alright,” Ron said, he gave Harry’s hand a firm squeeze, his thumb brushing idly against the back of it, and for a moment, everything else—the distant chatter of their housemates, the endless absurdity of the world—seemed to fade into irrelevance.