Lionhearted

Ron's gaze darted fretfully between the two scarves laid before him—one a deep, brooding garnet, the other a rich mahogany—his fingers twitching as though the mere act of choosing between them might somehow alter the very fabric of his existence. 

For twenty whole, excruciating minutes—an eternity, really—Ron had stood there, rooted to the spot like some hopeless, dithering fool, arms folded tight across his chest, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a manner, as though he were contemplating something of immense strategic importance rather than a bit of woven fabric meant to keep Harry’s neck warm.

The garnet possessed a depth, no-nonsense richness, the kind of red that seemed to carry itself with a certain quiet confidence—warm, bold, utterly self-assured. It was, in every possible way, the sort of colour that aligned perfectly with Harry’s whole effortless hero aura, as though woven specifically for someone who had an uncanny knack for stumbling into grand acts of bravery whether he wanted to or not. One could almost imagine it appearing in The Daily Prophet’s “Wizard and Witches' Autumn Essentials” feature, draped over the shoulders of some impossibly well-put-together wizard, the kind who probably owned an extensive collection of pocket watches.

"It looks exactly the same,” Harry observed, adjusting his round glasses with the absent-minded ease of someone who had absolutely no intention of engaging in what he clearly considered a pointless debate.

“Right, well, you're completely blind then,” The redhead exhaled sharply through his nose, before shooting one last, withering glance at the garnet scarf. Too bold, too showy, the sort of thing that reeked of unnecessary flair, as though it belonged slung over the shoulders of some ponced-up art professor who spent his days swanning about in smoke-filled cafés, spouting nonsense about the emotional resonance of brushstrokes. 

Absolutely not.

Ron’s hand shot out and seized the mahogany one instead—practical, unpretentious, and, most importantly, not the sort of thing that would make Harry look as though he were about to start lecturing. The redhead strode up to the counter, tossed a few saved Galleons down and took possession of the scarf without a second’s hesitation. 

"Here—let me see," Ron wound the thick fabric carefully around Harry’s neck, tugging it this way and that with the practised ease of someone who, despite his usual lack of interest in fashion, had somehow decided that this particular scarf and this particular moment required his full and undivided attention.

Harry stood there patiently, if Ron was being honest, like a man humouring a small child who insisted on tying his shoelaces for him.

"Well?" The raven-haired prompted after a moment, tilting his head slightly. 

Ron barely hesitated. "You look great," he said, flatly, matter-of-fact, like he was stating a self-evident truth rather than offering a compliment.

“So, I’m handsome then?” Harry leaned back with an insufferable sort of grin, in a way that suggested he was fully aware of the effect of his words.

“No,” he said, firm, clipped, final—or at least it should have been. But the moment it left his mouth, he felt it, that slow, creeping warmth unfurling at the base of his neck, betraying him in real time.

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really,” The redhead was only saying that to cover himself, all awkward bluster and red-eared discomfort, because saying anything else—saying what he really meant—would be too much. 

Harry laughed heartily in response as they ambled down towards the lakeside, with their pockets still weighed down by the spoils of Honeydukes—sugared delights wrapped in crinkling paper. Beneath the sprawling limbs of an old oak, they sank onto the grass, boots scuffing against roots half-buried in the soil. 

Ron, halfway through a Cauldron Cake, chewing with the absent-minded contentment of someone momentarily freed from the weight of schoolwork and looming responsibilities, barely registered Harry shifting beside him—his boyfriend flopped down, head landing squarely in his lap, grinning like he’d planned it all along. 

The sudden movement jostled his hand, nearly sending a crumb down the wrong way. Harry stretched out further, plucking a stray Cauldron Cake crumb from Ron’s jumper and popped it into his mouth. “Sweet.” he said, all as though he hadn’t just commandeered Ron’s lap without so much as a by-your-leave.

Ron flushed, flicking a stray crumb off his sleeve, resigned to the fact that, apparently, he had been relegated to furniture for the foreseeable future. 

For what felt like an eternity—but was, in reality, two hours—they remained by the lakeside, neither making much effort to move nor particularly eager to acknowledge the ever-growing list of responsibilities awaiting them back at the castle. But the reality had a nasty way of creeping in, and when the weight of unfinished homework became too impossible to ignore—they finally heaved themselves up with the sort of weary reluctance usually reserved for early-morning lectures. 

And with one last wistful glance at the lake, as if it might somehow offer an excuse to stay, Ron and Harry trudged back towards the common room, already regretting every bit of procrastination that had led to this moment.

It wasn’t much like Ron to dawdle about—truth be told, not with homework stacking up like a ruddy fortress on one side and Quidditch practice looming like an ominous storm on the other. But there he was, sprawled untidily in a battered armchair by the fire, absently thumbing through the pages of a small, mustard-yellow pocketbook Hermione had thrust into his hands earlier that afternoon with an expression of great importance. 

It was something about self-definition, gender diversity, and—Merlin help him—introspection. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why she thought Ron needed a guide for that sort of thing, but he supposed there was no harm in humoring her. Besides, it was either this or rewriting that sodding Potions essay for the third time, and frankly, he’d rather take his chances with whatever scholarly nonsense Hermione had deemed enlightening this week.

"Harry," Ron began, flicking idly through another page of the book, his brow furrowing at a particularly long-winded paragraph about self-discovery or some such thing. Opposite him, the said Harry was half-heartedly scribbling at his homework, quill drooping in his fingers as his head lolled dangerously close to falling asleep. "Are you err, perhaps—gay?"

The raven-haired who had been silent for so long he might as well have been petrified, suddenly jolted upright with a strangled sort of noise, inhaled sharply—and promptly descended into a violent coughing fit.

"Bloody hell, mate—breathe!"

And Harry, after much internal dithering and no small amount of self-examination, had to concede—if only to himself—that, yes, he was indeed quite undeniably, glaringly, inescapably gay. It wasn’t as if this was some great revelation, nor was it a matter that had particularly required much in the way of deep philosophical debate, considering the rather obvious fact that he and Ron were, by all reasonable definitions, very much dating.  

“What are you, then?” Harry asked, voice careful but not hesitant, as if he’d been mulling over the question for a long while.

Ron’s brow furrowed, his gaze flicking up to the ceiling as if the answer might be scrawled somewhere among them. “Dunno,” he admitted, “I'm still trying to figure it out, really. I mean, I s’pose I’ve thought about it, but—not properly, not like—I dunno…”

Harry’s lips twitched into a small sort of smile. “Yeah, that’s alright,” the raven-haired said simply. “I wasn’t sure at first either. But then, when you told me you fancied me last year…err, I kind of spent the rest of the year thinking about it…”

Ron felt his stomach give an unhelpful jolt. “You—” He blinked at him, mouth suddenly a bit dry. “You did?”

”It's a bit unavoidable, really.”

“B-blimey, mate, that’s...that’s got to be rough, right?” Ron mumbled, voice awkwardly pitched somewhere between sympathy and sheer helplessness. A whole year. Harry had been sitting on this for a whole, sodding year? So, while he’d been wallowing about how pathetic he was for even daring to have feelings in the first place, Harry had already been considering it? 

This was entirely Hermione’s fault. If she hadn’t stuffed that ruddy book into his hands in the first place, none of this would have happened. It was unbearable. Absolutely, incomprehensibly unbearable. And he had no one to blame but himself. 

“Ron.” Harry’s hand was on his thigh, the warmth of it seeping straight through his trousers. “I'm fine,” the raven-haired added, unbothered in that infuriating way of his. "It never stressed me out, you know. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Ron swallowed, forced himself to look away, his fingers twitching against his knee. “It’s not only that…” he muttered, his voice coming out more defensive than he’d meant it to. "But why didn’t you say anything to me? You could’ve—I dunno, mate—given me a sign or something?" 

"I just thought at some point you’d stopped feeling anything for me.”

Harry was an idiot. No—Ron was the idiot. They were both idiots, sitting here like this, skirting around things they should’ve said ages ago. The redhead then let out a breathless, incredulous sound. “You’re an idiot, Harry,” he sighed. 

"..."

Ron couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—after everything they’d been through, after all the madness, he was back to feeling absolutely miserable again. They had all sat down in that dingy little room at the Hog’s Head, discussing Hermione’s latest brainwave about Harry teaching them Defence Against the Dark Arts—and instead of walking out with a bit of hope in his chest, all he felt now was the bitter, sickening taste of frustration. It had been bloody difficult to keep the conversation civil. Every time someone opened their mouth with something particularly daft, he could feel his patience thinning, a rush of heat starting to bubble up inside him. 

To be fair, they really ought to be celebrating. For once, someone was willing to teach them—an improvement by any standard, especially compared to that great, insufferable, interfering toad of a woman back at the castle. But no, instead of a bit of gratitude, instead of even the slightest acknowledgement that they might finally be getting somewhere—they’d had to sit there, listening to Zacharias Smith, of all people, as if he were some Ministry official conducting an inquiry. He'd demanded proof that Harry had actually faced You-Know-Who and survived it. As though anyone who had witnessed it could ever doubt Harry’s courage.

"Ah, why is this day so bloody frustrating?" Ron grumbled, collapsing onto the armchair with all the elegance of a trampled coat. He unrolled his parchment with a sigh, flattening it out on his lap with the heel of his hand. His quill, which had already left a few unfortunate ink splotches along the margins, wobbled slightly as he dipped it into the inkwell, muttering under his breath about how much of a slog this homework was. 

By the time Ron scrawled the last word, his fingers were aching, his ink was running low, and his patience had thinned to a thread. He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temple before dragging his eyes over the finished paragraph. To his surprise—and, admittedly, no small amount of relief—it actually looked decent. Might even make sense. He read it again just to be sure, tapping the quill against his lip as he scanned the words. 

He hadn’t realised he could write this well when he was in a foul mood. It was almost alarming, really. He’d been seething over the sheer drudgery of it all, and the next, his quill had flown across the parchment as if possessed, churning out something that actually sounded—well, half-decent. And just like that, the frustration that had been gnawing at him vanished, leaving behind a rather smug sort of satisfaction.

“You’re in a good mood,” Hermione observed, lowering herself into the vacant armchair—a thick book was tucked beneath her arm, the edges of its pages slightly frayed from excessive handling.

“Oh—yeah,” Ron replied, stretching his arms behind his head with a self-satisfied grin. “Finally finished that bloody essay. Thought I’d lose my head over it, but it turns out, I do my best work when I’m absolutely annoyed.” He punctuated the statement with an exaggerated yawn, as if the entire ordeal had been such a dreadful weight on his shoulders that even recalling it was exhausting.

Hermione gave him a mildly sceptical glance, brushing a stray curl from her face with the back of her hand. “Well, whatever works for you,” she said airily, though there was a distinct note of amusement in her voice. “Where’s Harry?”

“Already gone upstairs.” Ron then shifted in his seat, scratching the back of his neck as if contemplating whether or not to say what was on his mind. Then, rather abruptly, he blurted out, “Er—have you got another copy of that book you lent me?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up so fast it was a wonder they didn’t vanish into her hairline altogether. She stared at him, her fingers frozen mid-page-turn, as if she needed a moment to process what she had just heard.

“You’ve already finished it?” the bushy-haired asked, the words leaving her lips so incredulously that Ron felt an immediate surge of indignation, despite the fact that her reaction was entirely justified.

And before Hermione could launch into a full-blown interrogation about what exactly he’d learned from it, he blurted out, “It sort of helped Harry, so I figured whatever you give us is probably useful in some way?” He could tell the bushy-haired was still sizing him up, eyes narrowing like she was about to start cross-examining him.

“Well, there weren’t exactly an abundance of books on that in the library,” Hermione remarked, folding her arms in that distinctly matter-of-fact way she always did when she was about to launch into an explanation. “Most of the ones I did find weren’t particularly helpful, either—nothing that actually got to the point, at least. If you really want to read more on the subject, I suppose I could ask my parents to pick up a few books for me. Though, of course, I’d have to make it clear that they’re not for me.”

Ron’s smirk was immediate, settling into place with the ease of someone who had been waiting for the perfect moment to make a dig. “Yeah, wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea, would we?” 

Hermione shot him a pointed glare, though it was somewhat undermined by the way her lips twitched at the corners, betraying her amusement. “Anyway,” she said, straightening in her seat, “you mentioned that the book was somewhat helpful for Harry. In what way, exactly?”

Ron exhaled, shifting in his chair as he scratched the side of his nose. “He, er…told me he was—well, you know.” He glanced around, wary of the few students still lingering nearby. Hermione’s expression didn’t change much, but he could see the way her eyes sharpened, as if she was turning over a dozen thoughts at once. “I suppose you already knew about it?” he added, not quite able to keep the accusatory edge out of his voice.

“Not really,” Hermione said, tilting her head in that thoughtful way she did when she was picking apart a problem. “I don’t like making assumptions—not until I hear it from the person themselves.” Then, with that same directness that always managed to catch him off guard, she asked, “But what about you?”

Ron blinked. “What about me?”

“What are you?”

There was a pause, and he felt something tighten in his chest, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “What am I?” he repeated, baffled, his brow furrowing. “Oh, you mean if I were—if I were the same as Harry?”

“Yes?” she prompted, there was no demand in her tone, only quiet encouragement. “But you don’t have to tell me, of course.”

Ron's fingers had found each other in an anxious tangle, rubbing and twisting in a futile attempt to keep his nerves at bay. “Well, I fancy Harry,” He had no idea why admitting it felt so much as stepping off a cliff. “I don’t really understand what the book says, anyway,” he muttered, as if that might explain away some of his discomfort. “I mean, I get that it’s important and everything, but it just seemed…I dunno. I just think it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s the same as any other couple, right?”

The redhead dared a glance up at Hermione then, half-expecting some sort of correction or a pointed lecture, but she only nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly in something close to reassurance. “It very much is,” she said simply.

Ron heaved a great sigh and slumped further down into the armchair, arms flung over the sides as though he were a particularly put-upon king surveying his domain. He wasn’t about to go bothering with any of that nonsense today. There was still time, loads of it. Besides, that peculiar, stomach-twisting sort of feeling he’d been getting whenever Harry wandered into the room was still hanging about, so everything must be in order. There was no reason to start panicking yet.

He stayed put, warm and content, chatting away with Hermione about all sorts, and somehow the words kept coming and, for once, they weren’t bickering. It was almost strange, in a good sort of way, and he found himself thinking that, the next time they went off to Hogsmeade, he really ought to get her something decent. No idea what yet—probably something bookish, something she’d go all pink-cheeked over and try to pretend wasn’t a big deal—but still, it was a thought.

The following days were no kinder to them, offering no relief from the growing sense of unease that had settled over their small, secretive gathering. They had gone about their clandestine meetings with a certain cautious optimism, convinced that they had managed to keep their activities hidden from prying eyes. But any illusion of security was shattered one morning when they entered the Gryffindor common room and found, to their collective horror, a large, boldly printed notice affixed to the house notice board.

A strict decree, declared in no uncertain terms that any and all student organizations, societies, or gatherings, of whatever nature, were henceforth strictly forbidden. The punishment for defying this new rule was severe—immediate expulsion. Ron felt a slow, creeping sense of dread unfurl in his chest. It was all too easy to imagine the worst—some snake-hearted turncoat, some eager little informer who had scurried off to Umbridge the moment their back was turned. He could practically see them now: wide-eyed, nodding earnestly as they blabbed every detail, every name, every whispered plan.

But Hermione dismissed the notion with an emphatic shake of her head. "Impossible," she declared, "I hexed the parchment they signed their names on. If anyone had gone snitching, we'd know about it—believe me.”

Ron had a distinctly unpleasant sensation creeping up his spine, the sort that made his stomach churn in an altogether disagreeable fashion. Something about the whole business sat wrong with him, though he couldn't have said precisely what. It wasn’t a sharp, immediate sort of wrongness—no flashing warning lights or sudden, heart-stopping realisations—just a slow, nagging feeling that settled itself at the back of his mind, whispering that all was not quite as it seemed.

Still, he supposed there was no real point in mentioning it. Harry had been in good spirits lately, and that alone was something of a relief. 

Ron stepped out of the changing room, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his broom, the wood slick from the rain that had been pelting down relentlessly for the past hour. The sky overhead was an unforgiving expanse of inky blackness, clouds rolling and shifting in a way that promised nothing but more misery. He tipped his head back slightly, blinking as fat droplets struck his face, running in cold rivulets down his neck and into the already damp collar of his robes. Brilliant. Just brilliant. As if an evening of being shouted at by Angelina and flung about the pitch in what had amounted to little more than a battle against the elements wasn’t enough, now he had to trudge back to the castle in the dark, half-soaked and aching in places he hadn’t even realised could ache.

He swiped a hand across his forehead, sending a fresh spray of rainwater flying, and squinted into the gloom. His face was still under the effects of a rather useful charm to improve visibility in foul weather, but even with that, the pitch was a haze of shifting shadows, the goalposts looming faintly in the distance. At least the evening hadn’t been a complete disaster. His performance as Keeper had been solid enough—well, as solid as it could be, given the state of things. The rain had turned the Quaffle into a slippery menace, the wind had done its best to unseat him more than once, and Angelina had been in one of her no-nonsense moods, barking out orders with the kind of intensity that made even George think twice before cracking a joke.

Still, he hadn’t let in too many goals. That was something, wasn’t it? A small victory, if ever there was one. He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as the exhaustion properly set in. If nothing else, a hot shower and a warm bed were waiting for him, and after an evening spent being battered by wind and rain, that was enough to keep him moving forward.

Ron could think of nothing else but a hot bath—one so blisteringly warm that it would chase the damp from his bones and ease the stiff ache in his limbs. The thought had settled firmly in his mind, the only thing keeping him moving as he trudged toward the changing room with the others. The rain had been ceaseless, the wind had done its best to strip him of any remaining body heat, and the sodden state of his robes was nothing short of miserable. 

He had just begun to push open the door when a yelp of pain split the air. Ron’s head snapped up, his muscles tensing on instinct. The rest of the team had frozen as well, their gazes swinging toward Harry, who stood rigid, his towel pressed tightly over his face.

"Harry?" The redhead ugged off his gloves without thinking, shaking the damp leather from his fingers as his concern deepened. 

They stood rooted to the spot, watching as the others hesitated for a moment before drifting toward the exit, muttering amongst themselves. It wasn’t until Angelina—the last of them had disappeared through the door that Ron hurried toward him properly. Harry’s expression, what little could be seen beneath the towel, was one of deep discomfort—his brow drawn sharply, his posture stiff with pain. 

Harry had confided in him, as he spoke of the dull, persistent ache in his scar. He spoke, too, of You-Know-Who—that strange, disquieting connection between them, the way he could sense the shifts in the You-Know-Who's mood, as though a thread bound them together against his will. Ron had listened intently, brows drawn together, before reaching out without hesitation, fingers brushing over the jagged scar that had marked Harry since infancy. The redhead traced the shape of it with his thumb, pressing lightly in an attempt to ease the discomfort, offering what little solace he could. His touch was careful, almost instinctive, as if familiarity had made the gesture second nature. 

Then soft words followed—a hushed reassurance meant only for Harry’s ears. It was something Ron had done before, back at Grimmauld Place, when nightmares had stirred the raven-haired from sleep or when restless energy had kept him pacing in the dead of night. He would spoke in a low, sleepy voice, saying anything that came to mind—Quidditch plays, the absurd things Fred and George had done that week, even the dullest details of his mother’s source of anger—until exhaustion had won over them both, and they had drifted off together. 

He watched as Harry’s hand drifted to his own wrist, fingers curling over the skin as if reassuring himself. At first, Ron took it as a sign that whatever storm had been raging in Harry's head had finally passed—but then the raven-haired turned to him, and then there was something so open, so utterly unguarded in his expression that Ron felt his stomach lurch. "Ron," Harry whispered, and before the redhead could even think to react, Harry was leaning in. And then—warmth. A featherlight touch against his lips, over almost as soon as it began. 

It was just the barest press of Harry’s mouth against his—but it was enough to send a shock through him, a sensation that curled hot in his chest and spread outward, setting his skin alight. 

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, the word slipping from his lips with a kind of hesitance that Ron recognised all too well. The raven-haired promised, after all—promised to wait, to let things unfold in their own time, to keep himself from pushing too far, too soon.

But Ron had long since abandoned any strict sense of caution. So he did what felt right—what felt inevitable, really—and reached out, his hands finding the sides of Harry’s face with a kind of instinctive gentleness. Fingers brushed against his skin, warm beneath his touch, and for a moment, just a moment, he hesitated. He had never done this before. But, before doubt could creep in, before the moment could slip away from him entirely, he closed the space between them and pressed his lips to Harry’s. 

It was uncertain—hardly a kiss in any real sense. More a soft collision than anything else, as though neither of them quite knew what they were doing, nor how to make sense of it. And then, with an intake of breath, he pulled back—only slightly, only just enough to see Harry’s expression.

Ron had never, in all his fourteen years, so much as entertained the notion of kissing anyone.  It was not that he had never witnessed such things—on the contrary, his parents were prone to those brief but affectionate displays, the sort that made his younger siblings giggle and pull faces. But the redhead had always found himself turning away, wrinkling his nose in distaste, feeling an odd sort of second-hand embarrassment creeping over him.

Back then, the whole business of lips meeting in such a way seemed utterly baffling, not to mention rather revolting. He supposed it was something that grown-ups did, much in the same way they enjoyed drinking tea in quiet contemplation or discussing the price of cauldrons in the Daily Prophet. It had simply never occurred to the redhead to consider it as something that might one day concern him personally. Even now, the very thought made his ears burn in a most inconvenient fashion.

Harry must have read that as an invitation to carry on, because before Ron could so much as gather his wits, he felt Harry's lips press firmly against his own. A startled squeak escaped him—undignified, really, but entirely involuntary—and his hands shot up, grasping Harry's face in a motion so instinctive he wasn’t sure whether he meant to push him away or pull him closer.

Not that it mattered, because his body had apparently made the decision for him. He found himself moving in tandem with Harry, his mind dissolving into a haze where time ceased to exist altogether.  

“Wait—” Ron managed to choke out, his voice a breathless rasp as he wrenched himself back, gasping in a lungful of much-needed air. His breath barely had the chance to steady before Harry's lips were on his again, insistent this time, hungry in a way that sent the redhead's already tangled thoughts into complete disarray.

He then felt something warm and slick pressing hesitantly at the seam of his lips, a silent plea that sent a fresh surge of heat straight to his ears. But his lips parted all the same, entirely without his permission, and the moment they did, the sensation deepened—intimate, searing, something that sent his stomach plummeting straight to his shoes. A strangled, half-swallowed sound clawed its way up his throat, and Ron barely bit it back in time, mortified at the idea of making a noise so utterly humiliating. 

Harry suddenly went still, as if someone had hit him with a Full Body-Bind Curse, and then, just as suddenly, he jerked back, , the raven-haired looked as if he wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here in the first place. It was as though he’d been yanked out of some strange trance, reality crashing back into him all at once. “Sorry—shite—are you okay?” 

Ron, on the other hand, was having considerable difficulty forming a coherent thought, much less a proper response. His entire body felt oddly weightless, his head full of something thick and muddled—and it took him a moment to realise that his fingers were still tangled in the back of Harry’s hair, clutching far too tightly. 

“Uhm,” he mumbled, his mind struggling to catch up with his body, to piece together exactly what had just transpired between them.

“Yeah.” Harry said, nodding far too much, his face positively aflame. “Yeah, no, I—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Ron interrupted, though his heart still hadn’t quite settled into its normal rhythm. And before he could second-guess himself, before the moment had a chance to slip away, he said it—honestly, unthinkingly, perhaps a little recklessly. “I liked it.”

Harry blinked, his breath hitching audibly. He stared, as if trying to decide whether he’d heard correctly, whether Ron had actually said what he thought he had. “You did?” The words finally stumbled out.

Ron nodded, his ears were burning, and he had the distinct urge to disappear into the floor. 

The raven-haired was still staring at him, as if Ron had suddenly sprouted an extra head. “Right,” he said, almost to himself, eyes flickering over Ron’s expression as if he was committing something to memory. “Good. That’s…yeah. Good.”

And then—quite suddenly, absurdly—they started giggling. Not the kind of polite chuckle one might expect after an awkward moment, but real—helpless, slightly delirious laughter. It bubbled up out of nowhere, shaking their shoulders, making it impossible to stop.