Lionhearted

"Hey,”

Ron blinked blearily, dragging his gaze up from the bit of parchment sprawled across his lap, ink smudged where he'd dozed off against it. He was slumped in one of the sagging old armchairs by the fire, half-curled into it like a cat that had found a particularly good sunspot, though unlike a cat, the redhead wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up there in the first place.

He’d meant to work on his homework—something dreary and endless, no doubt, judging by the unfinished scribbles trailing uselessly across the page—but at some point, his brain had simply decided it had better things to do, like staring into the fire, letting the warmth sink into him, the flickering glow blurring the edges of everything into something soft and distant, and he couldn’t say how long he’d been sat there, half-awake, brain foggy, but it had been sort of nice, in that way where you know you’ve got things to do but just can’t quite bring yourself to shift.

Harry nudged him aside, making just enough room for them both to squeeze into the old armchair. Oddly enough—or perhaps not so oddly, given where they were—the chair seemed to accommodate them without protest, stretching just enough to keep them from tumbling over the sides. No one batted an eyelid at their closeness; after all, it wasn’t the strangest thing to happen in this castle.

"Where were you at breakfast?" Harry asked, frowning slightly at him.

Ron let out a vague, noncommittal grumble under his breath, rolling up his parchment with more force than was strictly necessary. "Bathroom," he muttered. "Stomachache." It was mostly true, though he wasn't in the mood for further questioning.

After what Hermione had said—words still rattling about unpleasantly in his head—Ron had done the only reasonable thing: barricaded himself in the boys’ bathroom and stayed there until the last possible moment before their first class. It wasn’t the most dignified way to handle things, sure, but it beat sitting in the common room, stewing under Hermione’s knowing glances and Harry’s inevitable questions.

The raven-haired made a thoughtful noise, finally giving him a proper look. "Huh." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not like you to skip breakfast."

Ron shrugged, keeping his whole attention fixed on his parchment as if it contained the meaning of life. He could practically feel Harry's scrutiny pressing against the side of his face, but he wasn’t about to elaborate. Some things were better left unsaid—especially when they involved spending an unnecessary amount of time overthinking in a draughty bathroom.

The redhead barely had time to react before Harry’s hand closed around his wrist, halting his movements with an easy sort of confidence that sent a jolt straight through him. The half-rolled parchment was forgotten entirely as Harry’s fingers slid between his own, threading together as if this were something they did all the time—as if it weren’t the most startling thing to happen to both of them all morning, possibly all week.

Ron's breath caught, and, just as quickly, a treacherous heat crept up his neck, settling in his cheeks with the kind of slow-burning mortification he usually reserved for public embarrassment. Instinctively, he flicked his gaze around the room, half-expecting someone—anyone—to be staring, smirking, nudging their neighbour. But no, the classroom carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Still, his mind whirred, a little too fast for comfort. 

This. 

This is what Hermione was talking about, wasn’t it? 

"Ron?"

"I'm—" Ron started, but the words barely made it out before they tangled up in his throat. He was confused—properly, dizzyingly confused—and that confusion curled up in his chest, pressing against his ribs in a way that made everything feel just slightly off. "I don't understand,” the redhead muttered, hurriedly untangling their fingers before he could dwell too much on how easy they had fit together. 

Harry frowned at that, his dark brows knitting together in a way that Ron found both endearing and slightly concerning—though he’d never admit the first part aloud. No, his immediate instinct wasn’t to dwell on how bloody adorable his boyfriend looked when confused, but rather to smooth those creases away before they became permanent fixtures on his face. Honestly, wrinkles at this age? Not on Ron’s watch.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, his green eyes narrowing slightly, as if Ron had just announced he preferred the Cannons over the Harpies—which, obviously, was a crime of the highest order.

Ron swallowed, suddenly felt like he’d been backed into a corner, except there wasn’t a literal wall behind him, just Harry’s unwavering stare pinning him in place. He barely had time to process the warmth of those comforting hands resting lightly on his thighs. The redhead then buried his face in Harry’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut in sheer, unfiltered embarrassment. “I'm sorry, just tired…” he mumbled against the fabric, voice muffled in exhaustion.

They sat there, still tangled up, neither quite willing to be the first to move, not until the common room started filling up with voices and the general racket of students returning from wherever they had been. And then—just his luck—Hermione walked in all strides and book-clutching, and Ron did what any self-respecting, still-slightly-miffed person would do: pretended not to notice. 

Harry must've clocked the look on his face because he started waffling about Quidditch, throwing in the odd nudge or pointed remark to break through Ron’s stubborn sulk. It should’ve been distracting, and it was, but in a strange, steadying way, like an anchor to keep him from getting completely lost in the whirl of irritation, regret, and whatever else was stewing in his head.

“Well then, how was your date yesterday, Harry?” Hermione began, never asking anything lightly. “I really do hope you didn’t do anything terribly embarrassing where people could see, and Ron, I hope you remember exactly what I told you.” she continued, full of that annoying self-righteousness she got when the bushy-haired thought she was being the responsible one. 

“Oh, I remembered, all right.” The redhead snarked, the problem was that the more Ron tried not to remember, the more the words rang in his ears, clear as anything. 

Harry, for his part, seemed to be taking it all in stride—except for the tiny furrow in his brow. "Erm—it's fine," the raven-haired said eventually, “I mean, I wouldn’t mind doing it again, I s’pose…”

“Hmm…that’s good,” Hermione murmured, barely looking up before bending over her own parchment, quill scratching away like she had far more important things to be focusing on.

“I think I’m going to bed now,” Ron said sharply, already stuffing his things into his bag in a hurried, clumsy fashion, papers crumpling, ink bottle rattling about. 

He was far too livid to even contemplate cracking open a textbook, let alone actually get any of his blasted homework done. Not that he didn’t have a mountain of it already piling up—Merlin knew every professor seemed determined to drown them in assignments—but at this rate, he hadn’t even had a moment to sit down with Harry, let alone go over their plans or, more importantly, sort out another proper date for Sunday.

Not that Ron could have focused on that either. 

His head was already too cluttered with the mortifying disaster that had been Quidditch practice. He’d flown like a complete tosser, missing shots he should have blocked and fumbling passes like some first-year who’d only just learned which end of the broomstick to sit on. The more he thought about it, the worse it got, because what if—what if—what if Harry had taken one look at Ron floundering about and decided he’d rather not be with someone who couldn’t even keep it together on a broom? 

“Damn it,” he muttered, his wrist ached something awful from scrawling out endless essays, and his fingers felt like they might just seize up entirely if he dared to write another word. Ron let himself slump forward, resting his head against the feet of the armchair, just for a moment, just long enough to pretend he didn’t have another three inches of parchment to fill.

“Want to get some rest?” came Harry’s voice, they’d been working side by side in the common room, sprawled across the rug because, frankly, trying to cram themselves into armchairs while attempting to write was more trouble than it was worth. At least this way, they could actually move their arms without knocking over ink pots or getting a dead leg every five minutes.

"I can't," Ron muttered, forcing himself upright and glaring down at his essay as though sheer determination might will the words onto the page. He pressed his quill to the parchment, concentrating hard, but the moment he tried to string together another bloody sentence, his head throbbed like someone had taken a Beater’s bat to his skull. It wasn’t just the workload getting to him—his mood had already been in tatters, thanks to Hermione helpfully sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted again.

And then there was Percy.

Stupid, pompous, Ministry-worshipping Percy, who’d seen fit to send him yet another letter, stuffed with the usual patronising drivel about Harry—how he ought to reconsider their friendship, how it would be wise to distance himself, how his loyalty was misplaced. As if Percy had any right to tell him where his bloody loyalties should lie. As if he’d ever even consider turning his back on Harry just to cosy up to those Ministry arseholes. 

The very thought made Ron’s stomach churn with something hot and furious.

He’d sooner fucking drink poison than admit Percy had a point.

Ron’s hand must have been shaking—as he ripped the parchment apart, shredding it with a kind of reckless fury before hurling the torn pieces into the fire. The flames flared briefly, swallowing up the ink-stained scraps, but it did nothing to cool the anger simmering in his chest.

He was still seething when Harry caught his wrist, before guiding him towards the armchair. The redhead let himself be manoeuvred, though the tension in his shoulders refused to ease—at least, not until Harry started tracing small circles over the back of his hand. His fingers moved with a knowing familiarity, pressing into the aching tendons, massaging away the stiffness from all that bloody writing earlier. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Ron’s breath hitch, enough to loosen the knots tightening in his muscles.

“Erm,” Hermione hovered awkwardly, clearly debating whether or not to say something else.

Neither of them so much as glanced at her.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, taking that as her cue to do something rather than stand there like a spare part. And if they weren’t going to acknowledge her presence, well—she might as well make herself useful. The bushy-haired plonked herself down, snatched up their abandoned essays, and began correcting them, deciding that at the very least, one of them ought to salvage their homework from complete disaster.

Harry studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed in mild concern, before reaching out and turning Ron’s hand over on his own, fingers pressing into the palm with a gentle but insistent touch. "Still hurting?" 

Ron, who had very much intended to brush past the whole matter, felt a rush of warmth crawl up his neck—whether from the unexpected tenderness or the sheer oddity of the moment, he couldn’t quite tell. "Blimey, why does this feel like it’s happened before?" he muttered, as though trying to shake off the strange sense of familiarity. 

A trick of the mind, surely. Or maybe just a side effect of having spent far too much time tangled up in odd and often alarming situations with Harry over the years.

Harry's face tinged pink, his grip on Ron’s hand loosening slightly as he cleared his throat. "Just returning the favour, you know—since you looked after mine before," the raven-haired mumbled, as though the words might excuse the fact that they were still very much holding hands in the middle of the room like a pair of daft schoolgirls caught in some sentimental moment.

Ron, equally afflicted by the creeping warmth of embarrassment, made a feeble attempt to move, but for some reason, neither of them quite let go. The whole thing hung between them in an odd sort of limbo—until, of course, the inevitable happened.

A cough shattered the quiet.

Both boys flinched, their heads snapping towards the fireplace, where Sirius’s face had materialised in the flames, his sharp grey eyes flitting from their clasped hands to their equally guilty expressions. There was a beat of silence—one of those dreadful, knowing silences that practically dripped with unspoken amusement—before Sirius lifted a single eyebrow in quiet demand, the kind that very clearly said, Right. So which one of you is explaining this, then?

By the time his head had hit the pillow that evening, he must have been out like a light. Not that he was surprised—after that rather exchange with Sirius Black, he’d already been fighting off sleep, his eyelids growing heavier by the second. It was hardly a shock that he’d drifted off the moment his body had sunk into the mattress.

Ron dragged a hand down his face with a sluggish groan, as though trying to scrape away the last clinging wisps of whatever muddled dream had been playing behind his eyelids. It wasn’t until his eyes adjusted to the faint light that they finally locked onto the unexpected figure now occupying the space beside him.

Harry. 

The raven-haired with his head turned slightly into the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it never was during the daylight hours.

This had become their ritual. Harry would wait until the dormitory was dark, the steady breathing of their roommates signalling the deep pull of sleep, and then, wordlessly, he’d cross the space between their beds and slide under the covers. And if the other boys noticed—and surely they must—they said nothing. There were fleeting glances, puzzled furrows of brows, sure—but no one dared ask why Harry and Ron were often found tangled in the same blankets by morning.

"Ron?"

A slow breath left his lips as he turned slightly, catching the faintest shift in the blankets beside him. Ron slid his fingers into the untamed mess of black hair, combing through it in slow, absentminded strokes. It was something small, something he never gave much thought to, but it soothed Harry. It always had. It was the easiest way to soothe him, to ground him, to wordlessly tell him I’m here.

“Go to sleep, Harry…” he murmured, though he knew well enough that he wouldn’t be getting any more rest himself. There was a sleepy hum in response, and for a moment, Ron thought it had worked. But then there was movement—Harry shifted, the bed creaking slightly, and suddenly, in the dimness, those sharp green eyes were peering at him, half-lidded.

“What’re you awake this early for…?” Harry’s voice was rough with sleep, barely more than a slurred murmur, but Ron could feel the weight of the question, the concern threaded through it, even in the drowsiness. 

“Sleep,” Ron repeated, firmer this time, though it came out softer.

The raven-haired let out a slow breath and sank back down against the mattress—but not without pulling Ron with him. This was ridiculous, really—utterly mad, even—but Merlin help him, he wasn’t about to move. Not when this felt so inexplicably, infuriatingly comfortable.

"Harry," Ron said, a warning as he felt Harry’s hand slip beneath his jumper, the warmth of those palms pressing against the bare skin of his back. The touch was very light, almost absentminded, but it sent a jolt through him all the same. 

Harry glanced at him, utterly unbothered, tilting his head with that maddeningly innocent look. "What?" he said, as if he hadn’t just done something completely mental. "You’re very warm."

Ron let out a sharp breath, one that felt like it had been punched out of him. "Yeah, well—so are fireplaces, but you don’t see me sticking my hands in one, do you?"

“Hm,”

The hands on his back shifted lower, fingertips grazing the curve of his waist. Ron’s breath stuttered, his whole body caught between tensing up and melting down. He didn’t realise just how much he wanted to be touched like this—not until it was happening. His stomach tensed as fingers skimmed over it, and something desperate and embarrassing caught in his throat. “Harry…” he whimpered, barely more than a breath, his own voice betraying him before he could wrestle it under control.

But there was no answer. And then Ron felt it. The slow, steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest against him. The bloody git had fallen asleep.

For a long, agonising moment, Ron just lay there, heat flooding his face so fiercely he thought he might actually combust. His whole body curled in on itself, fists clenched at his sides as the overwhelming stupidity of the situation crashed down on him. 

Ron let out a great, weary sigh, the sort that came from deep in the chest and carried the weight of a thousand exasperated complaints, as he wrestled with the bandage and tried—without much luck—to wrap it properly around Harry’s bleeding hand. The raven-haired had gone and done it again—stormed off, lost his temper, landed himself in detention after swearing blind he’d keep himself in check this time.

And Ron had gone deathly pale the moment Harry had stumbled into the common room, clutching his hand like he’d barely realised it was dripping blood everywhere, wrapped haphazardly in what might’ve once been a perfectly respectable scarf but was now soaked through and looking thoroughly worse for wear. 

And that was it—Ron had never been so scared in his entire life. Not when facing down a rogue chess set, not when nearly being eaten by a giant spider, and certainly not when that prat Malfoy had nearly gotten Buckbeak executed. 

This was different. This was Harry. And Harry was just standing there like a complete muppet, as if Ron wasn’t currently experiencing what could only be described as full-scale cardiac arrest.

"You know, sometimes I really do wonder what in the name of all things sane and reasonable possesses you to keep putting yourself through this." Ron muttered darkly, more to himself than anything, as he tugged at the bandage with far more force than necessary, just to make a point. “Because it’s not like you promised me, Harry, not like you sat right there, in that very chair, and swore you’d try, is it? Not like you’ve got an entire castle full of people who’d rather not see you come back looking like you’ve been duelling blindfolded in a potions cupboard—”

Harry, the great pillock, merely shrugged. As if this was fine, as if his hand wasn’t still bleeding and as if Ron wasn’t currently one deep breath away from throttling him. The redhead swore under his breath, wrapped the bandage entirely too tight on purpose, and resolved then and there to never trust a single one of Harry’s so-called promises ever again.

Oh, Ron knew everyone felt the same way—anyone with a shred of sense, at least. It was hardly a secret that Dolores Umbridge was about as popular as a Blast-Ended Skrewt at a picnic, except among those Ministry-worshipping types who’d have happily licked Fudge’s boots if he asked them to. But knowing that didn’t make it any less infuriating that she had to go and punish Harry like that—every single bloody detention, that foul, toad-faced old bat carving into his hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.

His jaw clenched as he stole another glance at Harry, sprawled cross-legged on his bed, shoulders slumped like a puppet with its strings cut, the very picture of exhaustion. And no wonder, really—after yesterday’s row, he’d probably used up whatever energy he had left. Hermione had come up with another one of her grand plans, and naturally, it had involved Harry doing all the hard work. A secret defence group, proper practical training, since Umbridge was hell-bent on making them read their way to victory instead of actually learning how to fight.

Ron hadn’t said much at the time—mostly because he’d been busy watching the colour rise in Harry’s face as he fought the urge to either punch a wall or throw a textbook at someone’s head. Harry was not the sort who took well to being volunteered for things, least of all something that put him in charge of an entire group of students who’d be hanging onto his every word. 

But the thing was…well, Hermione wasn’t wrong. Someone had to do something. If they wanted to stand a chance—if they actually wanted to learn how to defend themselves—they’d have to take matters into their own hands. 

Which, apparently, meant Harry stepping up as their new self-appointed teacher.

Harry had draped himself over heavily against Ron’s shoulder from behind, and judging by his slow, warm breaths—the raven-haired was probably half-asleep again, if not fully out of it. His arms were slung round Ron’s middle in a way that would’ve been almost comical if it weren’t for the state of his hand—red, raw, and still faintly lined with those cursed words that Dolores Umbridge had so helpfully etched into his skin. 

Honestly, it was like looking after an overgrown child who’d gone and scraped their knees from tearing round the playground only to come wailing back because—surprise, surprise—it fucking hurt. And, of course, Ron was apparently the designated mother in this situation, seeing as the redhead was the one bloody sitting here, carefully dabbing at Harry’s hand like some kind of overworked nursemaid.

Ron scowled, shifting slightly under Harry’s weight. “Right, that’s enough of that,” he grumbled, reaching for the robes hanging off the headboard and chucking them unceremoniously in Harry’s general direction. “Get up, change your clothes. You look like something the cat dragged in. Twice.” 

The raven-haired made a vague noise of protest, still half-flopped against him.

“No, seriously, mate, get off me before I start charging your clingy behavior.”

Harry grumbled something unintelligible again—then grabbed the robes and started pulling them on in slow, half-hearted movements, like a bloke getting dressed for his own execution. They trudged into the dormitory bathroom, both moving like ghosts, and brushed their teeth in the sort of companionable silence that only came from years of living in each other’s pockets. 

The raven-haired looked half-dead in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, hair a lost cause as usual. Ron, for his part, had long since accepted that his own reflection was never going to impress him, but at least he didn’t look like that. 

He spat, rinsed, and gave Harry a shove towards the door. "Come on. If we miss breakfast, I’m nicking your toast."

That got Harry moving.

By the time they made it to the Great Hall, the place was already buzzing, the low hum of conversation mingling with the clatter of cutlery and the occasional burst of laughter from the Ravenclaw table. Hermione was already at their usual seats, nose in a book, but she glanced up as they approached, giving them both a quick once-over, as if she was assessing how much trouble they’d gotten into overnight. If the bushy-haired had anything to say about last night’s conversation, though—the whole business of Harry possibly teaching them Defence Against the Dark Arts —she didn’t bring it up.

Which suited Ron just fine.

He wasn’t about to say anything about it either, though for entirely different reasons. It wasn’t that he was being tactful or waiting for the right moment—it was just that he didn’t particularly care. If Harry wanted to be a walking disaster in his own time, that was his problem, but the last thing Ron needed was another harebrained scheme landing them all in detention. 

Ron plopped down on the bench, grabbed the nearest bit of toast, and dunked it straight into his tea. 

"Let’s go to Hogsmeade this weekend, Harry," Ron said, already picturing a warm butterbeer in his hands and a distinct lack of Umbridge within a ten-mile radius.

Hermione, perched primly on the edge of her seat, gave him a look that could curdle milk. "And what about all the homework you've got piling up?" she retorted, her knife slicing methodically through her toast as though it were some sort of moral high ground.

"What’s the matter with you?" Ron muttered, before taking an exaggerated bite of his toast, crumbs spraying everywhere. "This castle’s stinking up worse than Umbridge’s rainbow knickers after a long day. D'you really think I want to sit around and marinate in it?"

Harry, sitting across the table, choked out a laugh mid-bite, nearly sending crumbs flying. 

"Well," she sniffed, her tone clipped as though she'd been holding back an avalanche of disapproval, "if you’re determined to shirk your responsibilities, at least have the good sense to keep out of trouble.”

"What, because those insensitive sods out there might catch wind of us?" 

Hermione's brow furrowed in that determined way that suggested she’d read several books on the matter and wasn’t about to let anyone challenge her findings. "I’ve done some research," she began, "About homosexuality among witches and wizards. And before you look at me like that, Harry—yes, I mean both of you—I’m not saying I’ve been lurking in obscure sections of the library for fun. Any spare moment I’ve had, I’ve dug into it. And do you know what I’ve found?" 

Harry looked like he wanted to groan. 

Ron just blinked. 

Hermione, unfazed, plowed on. "It’s normal. Completely normal. Has been for centuries, apparently. In fact, it’s hardly worth raising an eyebrow over in magical society, as long as the pair are compatible and can support one another. People didn’t much care who you fancied, so long as you weren’t off causing trouble and unwanted attention with it."

Ron opened his mouth, his brain was still back at compatible. "What—" he began, but the bushy-haired, clearly on a roll, cut him off.

"It’s the muggles," she said with a sigh, her tone suggesting she found the whole situation utterly exhausting. "The endless arguments about what’s ‘right’ and ‘natural.’ Honestly, they’ve tied themselves up in so many knots it’s a wonder they can still think straight." Hermione paused, catching the unintentional pun. "Oh, well…we can’t really ignore how people might react. Not magical folk, of course—they’re generally fine with it—but if you’re stepping into the muggle world, you’ve got to be ready for some unpleasantness—”

“Hermione,” Harry hissed, his cheeks flushing a deep red against his sun-kissed skin. He glanced furtively around the Great Hall, lowering his voice to a whisper that barely carried across the table. “Are we seriously going to have that conversation in the middle of breakfast?”

Hermione didn’t even glance up from her toast, methodically spreading marmalade with the precision of someone who believed herself in the right. “And why not?” she replied briskly, “It’s a perfectly normal conversation, Harry. I, for one, don’t see why we should tiptoe around it.”

"So what you’re saying, then," Ron began slowly "is that me and Harry being together...wasn't a bad idea after all?"

“When, exactly, did I say that, Ron?"

The redhead flailed a bit, gesturing vaguely, his ears turning the shade of crimson they often did when he felt cornered. "Well—well, before, didn’t you? You said it was a bad idea. I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what you meant—"

"Ron, I said it was seen as a bad idea—by narrow-minded people who can’t think beyond their own noses. Not by me. Quite the opposite, actually."

Ron blinked at her, the wheels in his head turning sluggishly but visibly. "Oh," 

Oh.