Lionhearted

Ron Weasley hadn’t the faintest idea how long he’d been aimlessly traipsing up and down the same blasted aisles of Zonko’s Joke Shop, eyes flitting from one garishly labelled product to the next in a desperate bid to keep himself occupied. He started with the smaller trinkets—exploding bonbons, hiccup sweets, and those infernal dungbombs—before his gaze drifted towards the more elaborate contraptions, some of which the redhead wasn’t entirely sure how to operate without losing an eyebrow. 

His legs, he now realised, had grown alarmingly numb from all the standing about, but he was determined not to succumb to impatience. 

No, that simply wouldn’t do—not today of all days. 

Today was his first date. 

The thought struck him afresh, sending a peculiar jolt through his stomach, as though he’d swallowed an entire jar of those bloody hopping toffees. His very first date. Merlin’s beard. The words alone made Ron's palms slightly clammy, his ears uncomfortably warm, and suddenly, standing in the middle of a joke shop, pretending to be fascinated by a shelf of Nose-Biting Teacups, felt like the most ridiculous thing he had ever done.

Ron placed the product back onto its shelf, his fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary, as though the very act of setting it down might somehow restore order to his rapidly fraying composure. He then cleared his throat—rather more forcefully than intended—and squared his shoulders, as if that alone might rid him of the jittery sensation that had taken up residence in his chest. Right. He needed to get a grip. He couldn’t very well turn up to meet Harry looking as though he’d just stepped off a particularly turbulent broomstick.

But, Merlin, the nerves weren’t budging. 

If anything—they seemed to be growing stronger, twisting in his stomach like a particularly malevolent nest of Doxies. His mind, utterly incapable of leaving well enough alone, leapt straight into overdrive, dragging him through a veritable parade of worst-case scenarios. What if, the very moment he laid eyes on Harry, his legs decided to betray him and he tripped over absolutely nothing, sprawling face-first onto the ground. What if he opened his mouth to speak and, instead of forming a sentence, produced some incomprehensible jumble of syllables that would make Harry wonder why on earth he’d agreed to this date in the first place? What if—horrifying thought—he did something so catastrophically embarrassing that it put Harry off him entirely?

No, he was being ridiculous. Completely, madly ridiculous. This was Harry—Harry Potter—who’d seen him at his most pathetic, who’d battled at his side, wolfed down obscene amounts of food with him, put up with his whinging over homework and his ranting at chess pieces, and still, somehow—against all logic—had decided he wanted this. 

That Harry wanted him.

That had to mean something, didn’t it?

“Ron?”

Ron yelped, grabbing hold of the item he’d just put down as though that might somehow help, only for the little box to suddenly spring to life and—bang—explode right into his face, dousing him in a splatter of ink. The redhead slowly turned to Harry with the kind of slow, reluctant movement one might make when peering over the edge of a very high ledge, and—oh, for pity’s sake—if the floor had any sense of mercy, it would crack open beneath him and save him the ordeal of enduring this moment a second longer. 

But no, Ron was still here, still fully conscious, and, to his utter dismay, still perfectly capable of noticing that Harry, of all people, had apparently decided today was the day he’d abandon his usual state of endearing disarray in favour of looking—well—presentable. His hair—his perpetually untamed, perpetually catastrophic hair—had been tamed, the sides actually appearing as though someone had taken the time to comb them. And, as if the universe weren’t cruel enough, there it was, the final insult—he looked handsome.

Ron wanted to cry. Properly, desperately cry. Instead, he smothered his face with both hands, fingers digging into his cheeks as he groaned, "I'm sorry!" The words came out in a miserable wail, barely coherent. "I didn't mean—I was supposed to—I just—" the redhead tried to string together something resembling an explanation, but before Ron could make a bigger fool of himself, he felt fingers wrap around his wrist, and suddenly his hands were being pried away from his face.

"We could use the loo in the Three Broomsticks." the raven-haired suggested, disturbingly casual, as if the whole spectacle wasn't utterly mortifying for both of them.

They hurried outside, and Ron had already reached his absolute limit of public humiliation. He yanked his jumper up over his face, as though burying himself in wool might miraculously erase both his existence and the sheer, gut-wrenching embarrassment clinging to him like a curse.

They made it to the loo at the Three Broomsticks, slipping inside with the kind of desperation usually reserved for people fleeing the scene of a crime. Harry pulled out a small towel, wetting it under the tap before turning back to Ron, who instinctively flinched away as if Harry were about to douse him with boiling water rather than just wipe his face.

"I can do it," Ron mumbled, thoroughly miserable, ears burning with embarrassment. "Your shirt—I'll just ruin it."

Harry arched an eyebrow but, annoyingly, didn’t argue. Instead, the raven-haired simply handed over the towel—which Ron snatched up with unnecessary urgency before scrubbing at his face like he could erase the entire situation along with whatever mess was on his skin. "I wish I knew how to fix this properly," he muttered, voice muffled against the damp fabric. "There’s got to be a spell, right? You think something else could help with the stain?"

"Well, yeah," Harry admitted, leaning against the sink. "But I don’t think you’d like it."

"Harry," Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his still-damp face, "there is absolutely no time for me to not like it—”

"Undress, then," 

Ron stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, his brain scrambling for some kind of reasonable explanation—any explanation—that wasn’t the one currently presenting itself. Then, with all the blind panic of a man whose world had just been upended, he seized the damp towel and flung it straight into Harry’s face.

"What—!" Harry sputtered, yanking it off as his composure finally cracked. "I was thinking of buying you a new set of clothes, you prat—"

"Well, you could’ve at least chosen better wording!" 

Their first date had been, without question, the most disastrous endeavour they had undertaken. Once Ron had made himself presentable, they stepped out into the brisk evening air, pointedly avoiding the matter of refreshments—Ron, for his part, steadfastly refused to let Harry squander so much as a single knut on his account. This, naturally—led to a quarrel that carried them all the way through the streets of Hogsmeade. 

It was only the sudden chime of a bell that interrupted their bickering, drawing their attention to the couple who had just emerged, all smiles and hand-holding. It was then that they realised, with a sinking sense of dread, precisely where they had found themselves—directly outside Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop. The place was a nightmare of pastel horrors, every inch of it a sickly shade of pink, lace and frills assaulting the senses. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” the redhead muttered, grimacing.

“Same,” Harry murmured, his face taking on an alarming pallor.

They both exchanged a look, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word needing to be said. “What,” Ron let out a smirk, arms folding across his chest in defiance "is Harry James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, scared to go inside?"

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from wary to determined in an instant. “Are you challenging me, Ronald Billius Weasley?”

They marched inside, shoulders colliding with deliberate force, each stubbornly insisting that they were not afraid to enter such an establishment—after all, they were Gryffindors. The argument carried them through the doorway, leaving them breathless by the time they finally stood within the frilly nightmare of a tea shop. And then, quite suddenly, they became acutely aware of the silence that had fallen over the room. Every couple in the place had turned to stare at them, their whispered conversations halted—their teacups poised mid-air, eyes filled with varying degrees of curiosity and disapproval.

“Good afternoon!” A sickly sweet voice rang out from the back, and a large woman bustled into view, wrapped in an offensively frilly apron, a tray of heart-shaped teacups balanced expertly in her hands.

“Err—” He glanced at Harry, who looked equally horrified. "C-Can we seat on those...?" Ron stammered —his ears turning a deep crimson as he gestured awkwardly toward the small, intimate tables scattered around the room. 

“Yes, of course!” Madam Puddifoot beamed, her smile so wide it was nearly unsettling, before ushering them towards a vacant table with enthusiasm.

Harry, now deeply regretting every decision that had led him here, hunched over slightly, attempting to shield his face from the curious onlookers who had resumed their whispering. “This is your fault,” he muttered.

Ron, his face now a remarkable shade of red, hastily lifted the menu to hide behind it. “How is this my fault?” the redhead hissed. “I wasn’t the one trying to turn this into a bloody challenge—” 

They had ordered two teas, a seemingly harmless choice at the time, but the moment the syrupy liquid touched their tongues, they realised the full extent of their mistake. It was ghastly—unbearably saccharine, as if someone had emptied an entire jar of honey into the pot and then, for good measure, stirred in a bag of sugar. The cloying sweetness clung to their throats, every sip a struggle, and it took all their willpower to choke it down without outright gagging. 

Harry and Ron exchanged wide-eyed looks of mutual suffering, they abandoned their cups with barely concealed urgency, rising so abruptly that their chairs scraped against the floor. 

But as they walked down the street, hands occasionally brushing against each other in an absent-minded way, the absurdity of it all began to sink in. First, it was just a poorly suppressed snort from Harry—then Ron bit down hard on his lip to stop a grin from spreading across his face—before long, they were both stifling laughter, shoulders shaking as they kept pace with one another, fingers eventually tangling together in the process.

This date had been nothing short of catastrophic, a complete and utter disaster from start to finish. But—somehow—they had still managed to have fun, even if it had come at the cost of their dignity.

"Fancy stopping by Gladrags Wizardwear?"

"Er—yeah, sure, why not," Ron shrugged with a touch of indifference, though he wasn’t particularly eager to set foot inside an establishment he knew would be full of pricey wizarding attire. He reluctantly railed after the raven-haired, his eyes flitted about, deliberately avoiding the displays of finely embroidered robes and silk-lined cloaks. The redhead stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling distinctly out of place among the lavish fabrics and gleaming mannequins, which only reminded him how out of reach most of it was for him.

Harry slipped away into the labyrinth of racks, leaving Ron marooned amidst the oppressive silence of the shop. He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, the polished floor beneath him feeling as though it might swallow him whole at any moment. The suspicious gaze of the shop assistant settled on him, as if Ron’s very presence threatened the sanctity of the high-priced items surrounding him. His face warmed with the thought of breathing too hard and accidentally toppling something ruinously dear.

Time stretched unbearably, each second dragging its heels as Ron fought to distract himself, his thoughts ricocheting between how absurdly uncomfortable he felt and just how long Harry could possibly need to find whatever it was he sought.

His eyes flicked about nervously, and he began to wonder if Harry had perhaps fallen into some abyss at the back of the establishment. Just as Ron’s patience thinned to a fraying thread, the raven-haired reappeared, his strides brisk and determined, a small but impeccably wrapped bag cradled triumphantly in one hand.

Harry walked straight up to him, his expression unreadable, and thrusted the thing towards Ron with a casual sort of gesture, as though it was no big deal.

"What’s this?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the bag but made no move to take it. His voice carried a note of feigned indifference, though his ears turned slightly pink. He had a sneaking suspicion about what this might be, and it immediately made him feel both uneasy and guilty.

"Quidditch gloves," Harry replied simply. "I reckon they’ll fit you."

"Harry, I don’t need new gloves," Ron mumbled, his ears turning a vivid scarlet, the idea of someone spending money on him made his insides twist uncomfortably, and his tone came out uneven, almost pleading. “You should’ve saved your money, or—or spent it on yourself,”

"And why can’t I spend it on you?" Harry’s green eyes fixed on him, daring him to argue. “Just take it, alright? I don’t want Angelina forcing you to wear Oliver’s old gloves—they’re practically in tatters.”

“But, Harry…” Ron began, his words faltering as he glanced up, finding himself face-to-face with Harry’s unyielding expression. 

“If you’re going to be that difficult,” Harry interrupted, “then next time we’re out, just buy me something nice as well. That way, we’re fair.”

Ron let out a frustrated huff, his brow furrowing as he snatched the small bag from Harry’s hand with an almost petulant tug. The action was brusque, but it lacked any real venom; it was the kind of scowl Ron reserved for moments when he knew he’d already lost the argument. “Fine,” he grumbled.

The raven-haired grinned widely, the corner of his mouth quarking in that infuriatingly charming way. Ron knew full well that he should not be feeling giddy, not when this had unravelled into an unmitigated disaster, the sort of first date that would have anyone else slinking away in mortification. But there it was—that flutter in his chest, as though his heart hadn’t quite got the memo that things had gone thoroughly pear-shaped. 

They made their way back to the castle, the grand old structure looming against the afternoon sky, its many towers and turrets standing watch over the grounds. Their footsteps rang along the stone corridors as they slipped into the dormitory. It was just the two of them now, alone in their shared little world, away from the bustle of the day. They settled onto the bed, bodies close, warmth mingling, breaths interwoven in the stillness. 

Ron felt those very hands onto his waist once again, and a shiver ghosted down his spine as the fabric of his shirt was gently lifted, exposing the bare skin beneath. His breath faltered, catching in his throat, and he instinctively screwed his eyes shut, mortified by the heat that rushed to his face.

Harry’s voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the moment. "Is this all right?" he asked hesitantly.

Ron swallowed, his head jerking in a small nod. "Yeah," he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. And then, before he could second-guess himself, he felt those warm hands pressing against his skin—steady, grounding, and inexplicably soothing.

It was only then did he dare to open his eyes, and what he saw nearly sent him reeling. The raven-haired was watching him—no, gazing at him—with a softness that made Ron’s fingers drift forward. The pads of his fingertips grazed Harry's cheek, trailing lightly, reverently, before slipping up to brush away the stray strands of jet-black hair that had fallen over his forehead. 

Then Harry leaned in. It was slight, barely a movement, but Ron felt it instantly, like an electric current shooting down his spine. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, jerking back instinctively, the redhead expression flaring with alarm. 

The shift was small but enough. Enough for Harry’s expression to change, to falter, confusion settling into his features before something far worse crept in—hurt. His brows pinched ever so slightly, his mouth parting as though caught mid-thought, and his voice, when it came, was quiet. Uncertain. "Sorry," he murmured, drawing back a fraction. "I thought—"

“No!” Ron gasped, his stomach twisted, panic clawing at his ribs as he scrambled to correct himself. "No, it's—it’s fine, Harry! I—I mean, I think—I think it's finally the time, see—?"

"Ron..." Harry pushed himself upright from the edge of the bed, his round glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. “We don’t have to rush into it."

“I was just—” Ron blurted out, embarrassment crept up his spine like a slow-burning curse. Ginny had once gone on about how Muggle couples kissed beneath exploding fireworks, all golden light and dramatic timing, and he’d scoffed at the time, but now—well, now he rather hated to admit it, but there was something maddeningly appealing about the whole thing.

“It’s actually a good idea, you see," Harry mumbled, gaze fixed somewhere off to the side. “I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself…” 

Ron's brain floundered uselessly, stumbling over itself in its frantic attempt to process what had just been said—what Harry had just confessed, and all the impossible implications it carried. “Oh—bloody hell—” was all the redhead could sputter before instinct took over, and he seized the nearest pillow, launching it straight at Harry’s face with all the force of his bewilderment.

There was a satisfying whump as it struck its target, sending the raven-haired reeling back with an indignant noise. This had become something of a reflex at this point—an instinctive, deeply ingrained defence mechanism for whenever the bespectacled git said something that made Ron’s brain short-circuit—and judging by the muffled laughter coming from beneath the pillow, Harry knew it too.

Ron shovelled a forkful of pie into his mouth, as if the act might serve as a barrier between himself and the sharp-eyed scrutiny of Hermione Granger. And if there was a single person alive who truly grasped the full extent of what existed between him and Harry, it was her—bushy-haired, infuriatingly perceptive, and, by all appearances, already in possession of the entire ruddy truth. 

The trouble of it was, Hermione had caught them—him and Harry—right in the middle of what she no doubt considered a saccharine moment, though Ron would argue it wasn’t anything of the sort. 

They’d merely been strolling back toward the common room, hands loosely clasped, chatting idly about their latest Quidditch practice. Nothing scandalous—just two blokes who happened to be dating and, apparently, could still discuss Bludgers and goal strategies without the world coming to a screeching halt. 

But of course, the bushy-haired had clocked it in an instant, and now she was looking at him as if she’d just unearthed the grandest secret Hogwarts had ever known, as if he’d single-handedly confirmed every wild theory spinning through that infuriatingly brilliant head of hers.

“All right,” Ron huffed, shifting in his seat with obvious impatience. He hadn’t the tolerance for whatever lecture was simmering behind her scrutinising stare, and he certainly wasn’t about to sit here and wait for her to unleash it. “What d’you want?”

“Oh, nothing,” Hermione replied airily, far too brisk, far too innocent, and—if Ron knew her at all—positively bursting with something.

“Don’t oh nothing me, Hermione,” he snapped, his fork clattering against his plate as he shot her a glare. “You’ve been giving me those blasted looks all day, and it’s getting right on my nerves.”

Hermione hesitated, her eyes flickering around the room as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping before she leaned. “Well,” she began, with the air of someone about to deliver a revelation of great importance, “don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

Ron frowned, “What?”

The bushy-haired exhaled sharply, an exasperated little huff that set his nerves on edge. “You and Harry!” she hissed, her bushy hair practically bristling with indignation as she cast another furtive glance around. “Are you not the least bit concerned that people might notice—that they might find out about your—” she lowered her voice to an urgent whisper, “—relationship?”

“Hermione!” Ron hissed, his stomach lurching as he shot a wary glance around the crowded table. Did she want the whole ruddy school to hear? The last thing he needed was some nosy sod picking up that particular detail—especially when the students were packed so closely together that even a whisper could carry further than was remotely comfortable. 

“I’m worried!” Hermione hissed back, “Well—actually, I don’t particularly mind, personally, but you don’t want anyone getting caught up in all of this, do you? He's already had enough grief with what the Daily Prophet’s been saying!”

Ron nearly choked on his own outrage, his fork clattering against his plate as he gaped at her, utterly appalled. “Are you seriously telling me that this is my fault? That I’m to blame for—what, for daring to be in a relationship with him—?”

"I’m only saying that you two ought to be careful!" The bushy-haired very nearly screeched, “Not everyone here would take the news well—they can be rather…insensitive. And I rather suspect that some may view it as something one ought not to pursue—not because it is a bad thing, but because they have been led to believe it is—”

The redhead stared at her, his brow furrowing so deeply it might have swallowed his eyes. What on earth had she just said? But then, the words settled in—bad thing—and his blood ran hot with indignation, so fast he could feel the flush creeping up his neck. Hermione had called his relationship with Harry a bad thing. Or—well—she might as well have, because that’s how it sounded to him, and frankly, Ron couldn’t bring himself to care whether he’d misunderstood or not.

The implication was there, skulking beneath her hushed words, and that was enough to set his temper sparking like a lit fuse.

Before Ron could think better of it—he shot Hermione a look of sheer fury, and stormed away, his every step radiating outrage.