Lionhearted

Ron stirred, shifting awkwardly in the armchair where he had, quite unintentionally, fallen asleep. His body ached from the unnatural position he had ended up in—his side pressed against the worn upholstery, one arm curled around Harry in a manner that suggested neither of them had given a moment’s thought to how they might wake up. Harry lay sprawled beneath him, his back against the sagging cushions, head lolling to one side in deep, undisturbed slumber.

His memory of the evening was hazy at best, but certain moments stood out with a peculiar sort of clarity. He knew, without a doubt, that they had kissed. That much was firm in his recollection, though the rest of it unravelled in scattered impressions—flashes of movement, the sensation of cool rain against flushed skin—the breathless laughter that had escaped them as they ran hand in hand through the downpour, their fingers tangled together as though neither was willing to let go.

By the time they had stumbled back into the common room, clothes damp, hair plastered untidily to their foreheads, exhaustion had settled over them in a way that left little room for thought. They had collapsed, somewhere near the warmth of the dying fire, their bodies too heavy with weariness to make it up the stairs to their dormitories. Sleep had crept over them immediately, pulling them under before either could consider whether curling up on the common room floor was the best idea.

Then somewhere in the muddled spaces between wakefulness and dreaming, he recalled speaking to Dobby. Or, at the very least, he was fairly certain Dobby had been there—pressing a mug of chocolate into his hands with the kind of enthusiasm that made refusing impossible. Frowning slightly, he lifted Harry’s arm instead, squinting at the timepiece fastened around his wrist. Four o’clock. Bloody hell. They had only a handful of hours left before the rest of the castle began to stir, before footsteps would sound on the staircases and the common room would fill with the usual early morning shuffling of students dragging themselves towards breakfast.

He supposed he ought to move, to shake Harry awake and suggest they haul themselves upstairs before anyone had the chance to find them sprawled out like a pair of idiots who hadn’t quite made it to bed. Ron shifted, pressing his hands against the arms of the chair to steady himself before rising to his feet. His limbs protested the movement, stiff from having been curled up for far too long in a position no sane person would ever choose for a night’s rest. The warmth of sleep still clung to him, but the cool air of the common room, untouched by the fire’s dying embers, made him shiver slightly, coaxing him further into wakefulness.

His gaze dropped to Harry, still sprawled out in the chair, his head resting at an angle that Ron was fairly certain would leave him with an aching neck for the rest of the day. He reached out, giving his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Oi. Time to get up."

Harry made a vague noise in response, shifting slightly but showing no real intention of moving. His brows furrowed, and he nuzzled further into the cushion, clearly determined to ignore Ron’s attempts altogether.

Ron huffed, leaning down to shake him again, this time with a little more insistence. "Come on, mate, we’ve gotta get upstairs before someone finds us down here looking—" He hesitated, glancing at the state of their rumpled clothes, Harry’s hair in an even worse mess than usual. "—well, dodgy, to say the least."

Still, Harry refused to cooperate, burrowing deeper into the chair as though he could will himself back into sleep if he ignored Ron long enough. It took several more minutes of prodding, coaxing, and the eventual threat of leaving him there to be discovered by the early risers before he finally stirred, blinking up at Ron with bleary resentment. Harry looked thoroughly unimpressed with the entire situation—his eyes still heavy with exhaustion as he sat up with all the reluctance of a man being forced to leave the comfort of a warm bed on a cold morning.

Moving as quietly as they could, they slipped through the common room and up the winding staircase leading to their dormitory, pausing every so often to listen for any sign of movement. And when they finally pushed open the door to their room, relief settled over Ron like a heavy cloak. The others were still fast asleep, sprawled across their beds in the usual tangle of limbs and blankets, utterly oblivious to the fact that he and Harry had only just dragged themselves back in.

Not bothering to be particularly gentle about it, Ron gave Harry a light shove towards his bed. The raven-haired barely resisted, dropping onto the mattress with an exhausted sigh, his head sinking into the pillows as though he might disappear into them entirely. Harry cracked one eye open, peering up at him through the tangle of his own unruly hair. His voice was thick with sleep when he mumbled, "You're not going to catch up on a few hours?"

Ron let out a weary sigh, already pulling at the damp collar of his robes. "No," he muttered, grimacing as he caught another whiff of himself. "Merlin, we smell like dirt and rain. I’m not crawling into bed like this." He tugged at the fabric again, as if that alone would rid him of the uncomfortable sensation of damp cotton sticking to his skin. The redhead then cast a glance towards the bathroom, already resigning himself to the effort of cleaning up before he even considered getting any rest.

The weather remained as bleak and uninspiring as ever, a dreary grey expanse stretching across the sky, pressing down upon the castle with an air of stubborn reluctance. Ron, however, had no time to dwell on the miserable state of the outdoors—nor, in truth, did he have the luxury of idly wandering about.

No, today was not a day for such leisure. He was preoccupied—occupied, rather, with a task that required far more effort and concentration than he would have liked at this hour. He, Hermione, and Harry had been carefully making their way through the corridors, their heads bent over the worn and crinkled surface of the Marauder’s Map, searching for any sign of their dreaded opponent—Dolores Umbridge, and Filch with Mrs. Norris.

They needed to find the Room of Requirement, that elusive and ever-changing space hidden somewhere within the castle’s many twisting passageways, the place where Harry had decided they would practise Defence Against the Dark Arts in secret. After what felt like an eternity of wandering through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle—doubling back, muttering to themselves—they finally stumbled on the entrance.

Still, he knew he had a long way to go. The first time he’d attempted a particular spell that day, he’d very nearly set his own hair ablaze, the singed ends a humiliating reminder of his own shortcomings. The second he flicked his wand and attempted the incantation, the word tangled itself on his tongue, stumbling out in a garbled mess. The spell, as if rebelling against his sheer incompetence, veered wildly off-course, missing its intended target entirely and striking Hermione squarely on the shoulder. 

Ron’s face lit up with unrestrained delight, his freckled cheeks flushed from the exhilaration of success. "I did it!" he declared, his voice brimming with excitement, as if he had just conquered some great magical feat that would go down in Hogwarts history.

But before he could fully revel in his moment of glory, Hermione’s firm hand landed on her shoulder. "Ron," she said in that exasperated, know-it-all tone she so often used with him, her brow furrowing as she peered at him with the unmistakable air of a professor correcting a particularly hopeless student. "You didn’t pronounce the incantation properly."

Ron’s triumphant grin faltered. His raised arms lowered just a fraction as realisation dawned upon him. "Oh," he muttered, his excitement deflating like a punctured Quaffle. His gaze darted to the wand in his hand, as if hoping it might argue in his favour, but it merely rested there, wholly unimpressed by his efforts.

Typical. Just when he thought he’d done something right, Hermione had to come along with her blasted precision and ruin it. He had the chance to wallow in his mild disappointment, Harry appeared beside him, his glasses slightly askew as if he had just rushed over from something far more important. He gave Ron a look—one of quiet amusement, the kind that suggested he had, in fact, seen the whole thing.

“Hermione, switch with me,” 

Hermione glanced between the two of them, "Sure," she said, before promptly turning on her heel to join Neville, who looked both surprised and slightly apprehensive at his sudden change in partner.

Ron exhaled, his mind still half-stuck on his previous attempt. He turned back to Harry, “Well, at least I hit her, right?” he asked.

Harry smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching as he considered this. "Yeah," he admitted, tilting his head slightly, "but I don’t think it actually stung her." 

“Whatever,” Ron huffed but lifted his wand again, determination creeping back into his stance. Fine. If he was going to master this spell, he might as well do it properly—preferably before Hermione could smugly correct him again.

The raven-haired had stepped in to guide him, his hands adjusting Ron’s grip with ease, and he could feel the warmth of Harry’s presence behind him, the careful way he repositioned his arms. But then, just as he began to register the warmth of Harry’s closeness, the memory crashed over him, unbidden and merciless.

That kiss.

It surfaced in his mind with startling clarity—the press of lips, the sudden breathlessness. His chest tightened at the recollection, breath faltering as if he’d just been winded, as if all the air had been stolen from the room. A prickling heat crawled its way down his throat, seeping into his stomach in a slow, unbearable wave.

“Hey, are you listening?” 

Harry’s voice reached him through the thick fog of his own thoughts, utterly oblivious to the way Ron's entire world had been thrown into disorder. How was it possible that this absolute prat wasn’t the least bit rattled? That he could stand there, as though their kiss hadn’t been the single most bewildering, nerve-wracking, mind-consuming thing to ever happen? 

“Ron?”

Ron flinched, realising too late that he’d been standing there, motionless, useless, his grip slackening around his wand. A burning heat crept up the back of his neck, and in a sudden, graceless movement, he turned away, more retreat than response. “Yes, I am, so just get on with it,” Ron huffed, tightening his grip on his wand before attempting the spell again, this time with a sort of determined forcefulness that suggested he believed stubbornness might compensate for whatever technique he was lacking. The result, however, was much the same as before—barely a flicker, a weak imitation of what the spell was supposed to be. His jaw tensed as he scowled at his wand, as though it were personally responsible for his failure.

Harry tilted his head ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just ask me if anything doesn’t make sense.” he offered, his voice even and encouraging, as though he were speaking to a particularly stubborn first-year rather than his own boyfriend.

The redhead expelled a sharp breath, “Got it, Professor Potter,” he muttered, the words rolling off his tongue with just enough bite to make his point, though not quite enough to tip over into outright insolence. 

Harry turned a rather alarming shade of pink, as he hastily cleared his throat, an obvious attempt to steady himself before speaking. “You should stop calling me that…” he said, the words rushed but weighted with discomfort.

Ron blinked at him, utterly bemused. “What?” His brows furrowed, his head tilting just slightly as if trying to gauge whether he’d misheard. “Professor Potter?” He repeated the words with deliberate emphasis.

Harry’s expression twisted into something painful, “Ron, stop,” he muttered, as though the weight of that particular title was too much to bear.

Ron’s eyes widened in sudden realisation, a slow dawning horror mixed with unmistakable amusement washing over him all at once. “Oh my god,” he blurted out, his voice pitching higher than intended. “Harry, what are you—” he broke off, staring at the raven-haired as if he’d just uncovered some great and terrible secret, his mind racing ahead with the implications. 

He never quite managed to get the words out—whether because his throat had closed up or because the sheer absurdity of the moment had robbed him of speech, he couldn’t be sure. And before the redhead had the chance to gather himself—Zacharias Smith was suddenly lifted off his feet and sent soaring through the air, his arms flailing in a rather undignified fashion. Harry had already taken advantage of the distraction, slipping away without so much as a backward glance. 

"I'm telling you, Hermione—he's doing it on purpose! He’s actually trying to ignore me!" Ron exploded, that barely managed to stay within the acceptable limits of library decorum. He flung himself into the chair opposite her, the wooden legs scraping noisily against the floor in a manner that earned them both a sharp glance from Madam Pince. His arms folded across his chest in a manner most aggrieved, his brows furrowed deeply, and his ears flushed a shade of red that betrayed the indignation simmering just beneath the surface.

Hermione was fiddling with the Galleon in her hand, her fingers turning it over, her brow furrowed in concentration as though she were attempting to decipher some hidden message etched into its surface. At his outburst, she finally lifted her head, "What did you do now?" The bushy-haired asked, as though she already knew, without a doubt, that whatever the problem was, Ron had somehow brought it upon himself.

"I didn’t do anything," Ron groaned miserably, letting himself collapse forward until his forehead met the table with a dull thud. He stayed there for a moment, as if pressing his face against the wood might somehow shield him from the sheer injustice of it all. "He didn’t sleep on my bed today, and he hasn’t said a single word to me all day." It was, in Ron’s opinion, a deeply concerning development—one that, frankly, deserved far more attention than Hermione was likely to give it.

"Are you absolutely sure you haven’t done anything to annoy him?” 

"I don’t know, okay? I’ve been trying to think—going over everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done these past few days—but I can’t come up with a single thing! Nothing! It’s not like I go out of my way to keep track of every single thing I say in case it suddenly turns out to be the wrong thing!”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "You should, given your track record."

Ron gave her a look of deep offence, sitting up straighter. "That’s rich, coming from you," he shot back. "You’ve spent years telling people things they don’t want to hear, and I don’t see you getting ignored for it!”

"Because I usually have a point when I say them," Hermione retorted, clearly refusing to be dragged into that particular debate. "Anyway, that’s not the issue here. You said he didn’t talk to you at all today?"

"Not a word," Ron confirmed, slumping forward again, arms crossed on the table as he rested his chin on them. "Didn’t even look at me. He just walked past. Like I—like I was invisible."

“And when was the last time he actually did talk to you?"

"Er…" The redhead frowned, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the table. "Yesterday morning, I think? Or maybe the night before?" He straightened suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. "Hang on—he was the one who asked me something last time! It wasn’t even me who started the conversation! So if anyone’s got a reason to be annoyed, it’s me, isn’t it?"

The bushy-haired pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ron—"

"—No, seriously!" He threw his hands up. "If I’d done something, wouldn’t he have already been ignoring me before this?"

“Alright," she said simply. "Then what are you going to do about it?"

"Can I even do anything about it?"

"You could just ask him."

Ron scoffed. "Oh, yeah, brilliant plan. ‘Oi, mate, why are you ignoring me?’ That won’t sound desperate at all."

"You are desperate," Hermione pointed out.

Ron scowled. "That’s not the point.” He didn’t want to acknowledge the creeping, restless desperation that had begun to take root in his chest. The raven-haired had his hands full, didn’t he? Quidditch training, the match coming up—plenty of excuses to be preoccupied. Not that Ron needed to know the details. He wasn’t about to sit there dissecting every conversation, every glance, every moment they’d spent together, trying to work out where things had gone wrong. That would be pathetic. So, he did the only sensible thing left to do—shoved the whole miserable business to the back of his mind and pretended it wasn’t there at all.

The Quidditch match was drawing closer by the day, an inevitability he couldn’t escape, no matter how much he wished he could. He had thrown himself into practice, determined to prove that he could stand in front of the goalposts and actually do something useful. But no matter how hard he threw himself into practice, desperately flinging himself at the Quaffle in the hopes of making at least a half-decent save, the confidence he’d managed to build up before was slipping through his fingers. Every failed save, every miscalculated dive only reinforced the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach, because the more he thought about standing there on the pitch with all eyes on him, the worse it became. 

The worst thing—the absolute, most gut-wrenchingly awful part—was that the Slytherins had gone and made up a song about him. A song. And not just any old song, either—one specifically designed to humiliate him in front of the entire Hogwarts. And with every verse, the redhead could feel his face burning hotter, the deep red of mortification creeping up his neck until he was certain he was glowing like a cursed lantern. 

He scarcely spared a moment to consider the fact that they had technically won the match, because his feet had already carried him at a near-sprint off the pitch, his mind had long since abandoned any pretense of logic, instead hurling cruel accusations at him with relentless force. He was the worst player on the team—no, not just on the team, in the entire history of Hogwarts Quidditch. A disgrace. A liability. A joke. He had no business being there, no right to stand beside Harry, who deserved someone capable, someone worthy, someone who wouldn’t fumble away victory through sheer incompetence.

But then, piercing through the storm of self-loathing that roared inside his head, came a sudden, sharp cry—loud, furious, and Ron skidded to a halt, as he whipped around. There, just beyond the knot of gathered players, was Harry and George, their entire body was taut with rage, every muscle wound tight as if he were a split second away from launching himself forward. And there—just a few feet in front of him, stood Malfoy, his smirking, insufferable face tilted at just the right angle to make it perfectly clear he’d said something vile.

Ron didn’t think—he just moved, shoving past the other students with a force that sent them stumbling, “Fuck, Harry!” he shouted, just as Harry’s fist connected with Malfoy’s stomach. The dull, sickening thud of the impact echoed through the air, followed almost immediately by Malfoy doubling over, his smirk wiped clean off his face as he staggered back.

Ron’s stomach lurched. “Stop!” he yelled, reaching for Harry, his fingers just grazing the sleeve of his robes. But Harry wasn’t done—his chest was heaving, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. “You’ll get detention again—worse than detention! You know what Umbridge is like—Harry, please!” 

Ron had no idea how long he had been desperately attempting to get Harry to stop, his voice growing increasingly strained, his hands reaching out in a futile effort to restrain him. Then, without warning, the raven-haired was wrenched from the ground, his entire body lifted clean off his feet, Madam Hooch stood a few paces away, her wand outstretched, her expression set in a firm, no-nonsense glare, the Impediment Jinx had done its work in an instant—halting Harry’s reckless charge before he could cause any real damage. 

Hermione had grabbed hold of his arm with surprising force, pulling him backwards before he had the chance to protest. Ron staggered slightly but allowed himself to be dragged away, barely registering where she was taking him. His head was swimming, his throat felt tight, and there was a horrible, stinging heat behind his eyes that he absolutely refused to acknowledge. 

When Ron trudged back into the common room his entire being bristled with barely contained emotions. He stormed past the squashy armchairs and up the winding staircase leading to the boys’ dormitory. Crossing the room in just a few hurried strides, he reached his four-poster bed and yanked the curtains closed with such force that the rings rattled against the rail. He threw himself onto the mattress, limbs sprawled out as he stared blankly up at the canopy above. But then he felt it. 

A presence. Ron stiffened. He didn’t need to guess who it was. The silhouette alone, the familiar messy hair, was enough. 

“Ron…”

“Leave me alone, Harry.” he muttered, he wasn’t in the mood for whatever half-baked attempt at an apology was about to follow.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, and his voice was rough, strained, as though the words had clawed their way up from somewhere deep and painful. "I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have done that—”

“That was your best solution, was it?" His voice shook, barely kept in check, the effort of holding back a full-blown shout making his breath come short and fast. "You know exactly what Umbridge is like, Harry—that foul, miserable toad is just waiting for a chance to make your life a complete nightmare. And what do you do? You hand it to her on a silver bloody platter!”

"I know." Harry sucked in a sharp breath, "I know, Ron. And it’s my fault. I just—damn it, I didn’t want to make this any harder for you—"

Ron felt his breath catch, his anger stumbling slightly at the weight of those words. "Right, because that worked out so well, didn’t it?" he said incredulously. "Harry, do you even hear yourself?”

“I tried, alright?” the raven-haired snapped, his voice raw with exhaustion and anger. "But he wouldn’t shut up—kept saying those things about you, mocking the song, and then—then he brought up my mother." His fists clenched at his sides. "I couldn’t just stand there and take it. I lost my temper. I had to do something."

“Harry…” 

"Please—" Harry's voice came again, quieter this time, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether pushing further would make things better or worse. "Just—just listen to me, okay?”

Ron hesitated, as he sat there, rigid beneath the covers, torn between the urge to remain still and the nagging certainty that he couldn’t ignore whatever was happening just beyond the hangings of his four-poster. His breath hitched slightly as he reached for the hangings of his four-poster bed, fingers brushing against the thick fabric before he finally mustered the nerve to push them aside, just enough to peer through the narrow gap.

There the raven-haired stood, he looked smaller somehow, shoulders slightly hunched, face pale and drawn in the shadows. Harry’s expression was that same raw openness he had seen years ago, back on their very first day at Hogwarts. The memory came rushing back: a scrawny boy with too-big glasses, standing on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, staring at everything with wide-eyed wonder. That same boy who had stepped into their compartment on the train, hopeful, uncertain, sitting there with a nervous sort of curiosity, as though he had been waiting his whole life for something to begin.

And now, four years later—that same boy stood before him, but the hopefulness had been worn down, chipped away by things Ron could barely begin to understand. His throat felt tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled themselves up before they even had the chance to form.

Harry jerked his head away abruptly, as though hoping to conceal the emotion threatening to spill over, but Ron had already caught sight of it—tears, glistening in those bright green eyes. It was a rare thing to see Harry Potter in such a state, and something about it made Ron feel both awkward and deeply uneasy, as if he were intruding on a moment not meant to be witnessed.

Ron cast a wary glance around the dormitory, before reaching out and seized the heavy, velvet curtains surrounding his four-poster bed, yanking them apart with that made the rings clatter against the rod. "Come here," he muttered, his voice quieter than he intended, but firm enough to leave no room for argument.

Harry, looking as though he were weighing up the invitation, hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward. Still, he obliged, settling himself on the edge of the mattress with a creak of the wooden frame. They sat in silence for a beat, then, slowly, almost absentmindedly, their hands found each other, fingers lacing together in a quiet, familiar sort of ease.

Ron exhaled through his nose, giving Harry's hand a small, exasperated squeeze. "You do realise," he began, "that you are, without question, the single most insufferable, thick-headed idiot I have ever had the misfortune of knowing, don’t you?"

Harry, to his credit, did not look remotely surprised. He merely offered a slight tilt of his head, his expression hovering somewhere between bemusement and resignation. "I'm aware," he said simply, though there was the faintest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ron swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he shifted where he sat, his fingers tightening briefly around Harry’s. "And you do understand, Harry Potter, what the consequence is when you go off and lose your temper like that again?"

Harry barely hesitated. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice certain.

Ron nodded, inhaling as though bracing himself for whatever came next. "Alright," he said, his grip firming slightly. He swallowed again, then pressed on, voice ever so slightly hoarse. "So are we done with the whole ignoring thing, or am I gonna have to drag you back from whatever ridiculous self-punishment spiral you’ve thrown yourself into this time?"

"I'm sorry about that," the raven-haired muttered, his thumb absently running over the back of Ron’s hand. His voice was subdued, the usual sharpness dulled by something heavier, something hesitant. "I wanted to talk to you—I really did—but I couldn't..."

Ron narrowed his eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Why?" 

Harry inhaled, his fingers flexing slightly against Ron’s. "It’s complicated," he admitted after a beat, "Something I’m still trying to figure out."

Ron frowned, studying him with that familiar, searching gaze—the one that made Harry feel both seen and unnervingly exposed all at once. He wet his lips, shifting on the mattress, and let out a slow breath through his nose. "Harry," he said carefully, "if we’re actually going to do the whole 'trusting each other’ thing—you know, the bit that’s sort of essential in a relationship—shouldn’t we at least be honest about what’s going on?"

There was a faint, uneasy colour crept up Harry's neck, blooming across his cheeks. "It’s…err, embarrassing," he admitted, his gaze flickered away, avoiding Ron’s eyes entirely. "Just—just give me a bit of time, yeah?"

Ron inhaled sharply, then let the breath out in a long, slow sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly in reluctant concession. "Fine…" he muttered, he shifted his grip on Harry’s hand, meaning only to offer some semblance of reassurance, when his thumb accidentally brushed against the rough, split skin across Harry’s knuckles.

“Ow,”

Ron’s head snapped up instantly—his brows knitting together in suspicion as his gaze dropped to the injury. It was fresh, the raw edges of the cut were still lined with the faintest trace of dried blood. "Please tell me you didn’t punch Malfoy in the face…”

Harry hesitated for the briefest of moments, as if weighing up his response, before shrugging one shoulder with the air of someone who had already made peace with his actions. "Once in the stomach," he admitted, utterly devoid of remorse, "quite a few times in the face. But your brother—George handled the rest."

"Bloody hell, Harry…”