Lionhearted

November had slipped through with an alarming swiftness, vanishing before Ron had even managed to claw his way through the ever-mounting stack of unfinished homework. The redhead had told himself—firmly, and with the sort of desperate conviction only a guilty procrastinator could muster—that he would get it all done before the holidays. That he would sit down, quill in hand, and rid himself of the unbearable burden of schoolwork so that Christmas might arrive untainted by stress. But, of course, reality had other plans, and his best intentions had unravelled faster than a badly knitted jumper.

Adding to the relentless pace of it all, Hagrid had finally made his long-awaited return to Hogwarts. But any relief they might have felt upon seeing him again had been swiftly overshadowed by the state of his face, battered and bruised in a manner that could not be ignored. And so—he, Harry, and Hermione had exchanged the briefest of glances before launching themselves, with the combined force of three professional busybodies, into a relentless interrogation—and before they knew it, they had badgered their way into a conversation about giants, and more importantly, the reason behind Hagrid’s sudden disappearance.

Not that they had been allowed to discuss it in peace, of course. That would have been too easy. Umbridge, in her usual, insufferably intrusive manner, had taken it herself to interfere again.

Ron and Harry gradually fell back into their usual pace, their relationship mending itself in the way only long-standing bonds could. Unfortunately, the raven-haired, for his part, remained steadfastly secretive about whatever he had been trying to figure out , and after several unsuccessful attempts to prise it out of him, Ron had finally relented. He told himself it wasn’t worth the frustration, though a small, persistent itch at the back of his mind suggested otherwise.

Of course, there were distractions—more than enough to keep them from outright dwelling on anything so sentimental. Their workloads were pressing, assignments stacked untidily upon their desks, demanding attention that neither of them particularly felt inclined to acknowledge. But the crisp, biting air outside, the shimmer of fresh snow stretching across the grounds, held an appeal that was impossible to resist. There had been some half-hearted muttering about responsibilities, some weak insistence that they really ought to be revising, but all it had taken was a single well-aimed snowball—hurled at Ron, striking with a soft but decisive thump against the shoulder—for any notion of academic duty to be completely abandoned.

Books were forgotten, quills left to dry in their ink pots, the cold seeping through woollen gloves as they launched themselves into the reckless, breathless thrill of the moment. Ron and Harry's laughter rang with the crunch of boots kicking through frost-laden grass, the sound of hurried footsteps skidding over ice-hidden patches. Their hands were red and half-numb from the cold, breath curling in misty plumes between them, but none of it mattered. The week apart had already been consigned to the past, buried beneath the flurry of white that now clung to their coats, their hair, their flushed, grinning faces.

The following day, as Ron and Harry made their way through the corridor, still shaking off the drowsiness of an early morning start, they found themselves abruptly cut off. Fred and George—the twins materialised with the sort of effortlessness that suggested they had been lying in wait, their movements too well-coordinated to be anything but premeditated.

George stood with his arms folded across his chest, a picture of feigned seriousness, while Fred, tilted his head in mock contemplation before finally speaking. "Mind if we borrow Harry for a sec?”

Ron narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. His grip on his  school bag tightened instinctively, as if half-expecting some sort of ambush. “Why?”

"Wouldn’t you like to know?” Fred added breezily, brushing aside the question as though it were hardly worth acknowledging. "You see, George and I have been putting our heads together these past few days—serious brotherly discussions, very important stuff. All deeply concerning our dear, cherished family connection."

Beside him, George gave a solemn nod, as though confirming some great, weighty decision. “An understanding, really,” he added, his expression unreadable. “Something that, regrettably, you are not a part of.”

Ron’s scowl deepened, his irritation flaring into something sharper. “What the hell are you talking about?”

"It'll be quick," George assured him before reaching out and flicking Ron’s forehead with a maddening casualness. He barely had time to swat George’s hand away before Fred was already steering Harry down the corridor, leaving the redhead standing there, fuming. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do than be left behind like some discarded pet while his best friend was whisked off for some ridiculous twin-related nonsense.

With no other choice, and absolutely no patience for whatever scheme they were cooking up, Ron turned on his heel and stomped back to the common room, muttering under his breath the entire way. He threw himself into the nearest armchair by the fire, his whole posture screaming irritation. Instead, he stared out the window, watching as thick sheets of snow tumbled heavily from the sky, blanketing the grounds in white.

By the time twenty agonising minutes had crawled by, Ron had worked himself into such a feverish state of irritation that the moment the portrait hole finally swung open and Harry stepped inside. And sure enough, Harry looked—well. Not exactly troubled, but there was a definite shift in his demeanour, something off-kilter that set Ron even further on edge. 

Ron felt his hackles rise at once. If he hadn’t already been suspicious, this would have done it. "What did they want?" he demanded, leaning forward so sharply he nearly lost his balance. His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, somewhere between dread and impatience, and he had to physically restrain himself from shaking the answer out of the raven-haired.

His boyfriend hesitated—rubbed the back of his neck—and Ron’s stomach twisted even harder. That. That was a bad sign. "Er," Harry began, shifting awkwardly, his expression betraying a flicker of embarrassment. "It's—uh. They kind of… knew?”

Ron's irritation wavered for half a second, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What d’you mean?" But even as he said it, a horrible realisation dawned, creeping up his spine like a chill draft in the castle corridors. "Harry, what did they exactly tell you?"

Harry expelled a slow, controlled breath through his nose, though it did little to ease the tension visibly tightening his shoulders. "Well," he began, and already there was a note of apology woven into the word, an admission that whatever followed would do little to improve the situation. "Fred was the first to notice," the raven-haired admitted, forcing the words out despite the discomfort pulling at his features, "and, er, they’ve been keeping an eye on things. They saw that we—erm—that we were, y’know, holding hands the day before. So, they sort of…well, gave me a few—er—rules, and—" 

Shame erupted in a tidal wave, so overwhelming Ron could feel it in the tips of his fingers, in the way his entire face burned with it. "What ridiculous, nonsensical—rules?” he spluttered, his mind reeled, unable to decide which emotion to prioritise—mortification, rage, or the desperate urge to deny, deny, deny. “They can’t—they wouldn’t—why—” His brothers. His brothers—meddling, prying, setting rules—as if he needed their permission for anything, as if they had the right to interfere in his life at all, let alone something as personal as this.

"Ron, they didn’t mean any harm, alright?” Harry reached out and caught him by the arm. “No need to get all worked up about it. We’ll be fine—”

"Fine?" Ron echoed, the word leaving his mouth with a sharp scoff, disbelieving and edged with something dangerously close to indignation. "What do you mean, fine? Ginny’s been dating Michael Corner for ages, and no one gave a damn about that!"

"Yeah, well, they knew who I was, didn’t they? Your brother was just looking out for us, that’s all."

"What kind of rules did they even come up with?" Ron  demanded, "What, am I supposed to check in with them before I breathe in your general direction? Submit a written request if I want to have a bloody conversation with you?"

“Err…” Harry hesitated for a moment before muttering, “that they’ll kick me if I do anything to upset you.”

"Do they seriously think I'm some delicate flower who needs bloody bodyguards now?” Ron said, “What about Corner? I didn’t see them threatening him—did you? No one said a word about that bloke!”

"Look,” The raven-haired finally ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth before exhaling exasperatedly. “I didn’t ask them to do it, alright? But they seem to think you deserve better than getting caught up in all the mess that comes with me."

"Well, they can piss off." His voice was flat, utterly unimpressed, but there was a stubborn weight to it, that suggested there wasn’t a force in the world that could shift his stance on the matter.

"Come on, just—just forget about the whole thing, yeah?" The raven-haired muttered hastily, seizing him by the sleeve and all but dragged Ron towards the dormitory. "Let’s just do something to take your mind off it."

Ron was already nodding before he'd properly considered the options, his brain too cluttered with the remnants of embarrassment and irritation to think of much else. "Chess?" he asked, somewhat hopefully, grasping at the familiar, at something safe, something that wouldn't involve any further mortification.

Harry immediately faltered, he attempted—rather unconvincingly—to brush off the pink creeping up his ears. "Er—more a kiss, really," he admitted, followed immediately by a cough as though he might somehow dislodge them from existence. 

Ron, for his part, could only stare, his brain flat-out refusing to catch up. "I—I want it," he murmured, a flush crept over his skin, creeping up his neck, pooling in his ears, the warmth of it spreading in waves he couldn’t control. 

“Alright.” 

And before the redhead had fully caught up with his own actions, they were moving—feet barely touching the floor, limbs awkward in their haste. The journey up to the dormitory passed in a blur of quickened steps and sharp-edged thoughts. The door shut behind them, and Harry moved without pause, reaching for the heavy curtains of the four-poster bed and drawing them closed in one swift motion. The fabric swayed slightly from the movement—enclosing them in the dim, close space that smelled of warm sheets and the faint trace of something distinctly the two of them. 

Ron perched on the edge of his bed, his fingers twitching against the rumpled sheets as the weight of anticipation pressed against his chest. Across from him, Harry flicked his wand, sealing the space with a silencing spell. The world beyond the four-poster ceased to exist, swallowed whole by the hush, leaving only the two of them in its wake. The raven-haired then moved, crawling forward the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

Ron reached out with both hands, his palms pressing firmly against Harry’s face, fingers splaying across his cheeks, thumbs grazing the warmth of his skin, until the cool wood of the headboard met his shoulders, trapping him in a moment so charged it threatened to steal whatever remained of his composure.

Their lips met in a series of tentative kisses, brief but charged with an undeniable intensity. Harry drew back for a moment, his fingers fumbling to remove his glasses and set them aside. Then, before the space between them could settle into anything distant, he leaned in once more, capturing Ron’s mouth in a kiss.

Ron's breath hitched, and then he responded, parting his lips just enough to meet Harry properly, their mouths sliding together in a way that sent a tremor through both of them. A slow, heated exploration began—no frantic rush, no clumsy collisions, only the careful, hungry meeting of lips that knew precisely what they wanted. Harry’s fingers then slid to the nape of Ron’s neck, brushing over the heated skin there, curling into the thick strands of hair that still smelled faintly of soap. 

The redhead shivered, the smallest, barely-there sound escaping him, swallowed instantly between them as Harry tilted his head just enough to shift the angle. The kiss deepened, his lips parting slightly, and Ron responded without thought, a hesitant press of tongue against his own, testing, teasing, until hesitation gave way to something far more certain.

His hands, uncertain at first, found their way to Harry’s waist, gripping at the fabric of his jumper, twisting it between his fingers as though holding himself steady. He groaned as Harry’s teeth caught his lower lip for the briefest moment before soothing it with another kiss. Then, the redhead felt a hand in his hair—fingers twisting through the strands at the nape of his neck, and a sharp tug that sent a shiver racing down his spine. 

“Oi—ow,” Ron winced, the pull stinging just enough to snap him out of the haze.

Harry froze instantly, his breath warm against Ron’s lips as he pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice slightly breathless. 

Ron’s gaze swept over Harry’s face, taking in every detail—the flushed skin, the way his dark hair clung to his forehead in unruly strands, the deepened colour of his lips, slightly swollen from the press of their kisses. “S’fine,” he murmured, he pulled Harry down once more, bringing their mouths within inches of each other.

The redhead tilted his head ever so slightly, an invitation for Harry to press his lips to his once more. And the raven-haired, unable to resist, obliged with fervour, his mouth slotting against his in a way that felt maddeningly perfect—as if they had been made to fit just so. A low, wanting noise escaped from Ron, utterly beyond his control, it left him breathless, teetering on the edge of something that set his nerves alight, made his fingers clench in the fabric of Harry’s robes.

They exchanged a few more soft, languid kisses, each one slower than the last—as if neither of them quite wanted to part just yet. Ron let out a shallow breath, palm pressing firmly against his stomach as though attempting to quell the sudden discomfort within. “My stomach hurts.” His voice was lower than before, tinged with something reluctant, as if admitting it might make it worse.

Harry pulled back slightly from the kiss, his green eyes scanning Ron’s face with concern. The heat that had been simmering between them moments ago dissipated. "Are you alright?" His thumb then traced absentmindedly over the hips where he’d been holding the redhead a second ago, unwilling to pull away completely but unsure if Harry should press forward.

Ron shook his head, a touch of irritation flickering across his freckled face. 

"Did you eat something dodgy earlier?" Harry asked, shifting away from where he’d been pressing his weight into Ron, he settled at Ron’s side instead, close enough that their knees still brushed, unwilling to put too much distance between them.

Ron let out a slow breath, his hand still resting against his stomach as if testing the ache beneath his fingertips. “Dunno,” 

Harry watched him for a moment, debating whether to push for more of an answer or just let the redhead sit with it. Instead, he let his fingers drift, brushing against Ron’s wrist in an absent, grounding sort of way. "Do you want to stop?" He asked gently. “We could just play chess, if you want," he suggested.

“Y-yeah...” 

The two of them opted to pass the time with a game of chess instead, the clatter of pieces against the wooden board filling the dormitory room. 

Ron, whose stomach had finally settled from its earlier upset, appeared to regain some of his usual composure, his fingers moving deftly as he directed his pieces across the board with the practiced ease of someone who had played the game for years. "If you’d moved your bishop here instead, you might’ve had a shot at trapping my queen," he pointed out, nudging a piece forward to demonstrate. "It’s all about predicting what your opponent's gonna do before they even think of it." But regardless of his losses, Harry found himself drawn into the game, listening intently as Ron continued to dispense strategies between victories.

The meetings of Dumbledore’s Army persisted as the weeks slipped away, carrying them ever closer to the Christmas holidays. Ron, for his part, found himself experiencing a rare and welcome sense of satisfaction—one that, if he were entirely honest—had been in short supply lately. 

He was rather pleased—no, if he were honest with himself, more than pleased—that Harry would be spending the Christmas holidays with him. It meant that, for once, they could simply exist in each other's company without the relentless pressure of Hogwarts over them, and without the weight of everything else that seemed to twist their time together into something hurried and strained. Unfortunately, there was a problem—one that sat uncomfortably at the back of Ron’s mind, pressing in at odd moments, refusing to be ignored no matter how much he wished otherwise.

It wasn’t the sort of problem that could be solved with a few well-placed words or a bit of careful avoidance; no, this was something that tangled itself into his thoughts and left him restless, uncertain. And that was the worst part—because if there was one thing Ron hated, it was feeling at odds with himself, caught between what he wanted to believe and the nagging sense that, sooner or later, he would have to face the truth of it.

The kissing.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand the concept. He knew, in the logical part of his mind, that this was an entirely ordinary progression of events between two people who were—well—together. Couples kissed . That was simply what they did, what was expected, what was supposed to come naturally. 

Each time their lips met, a peculiar discomfort twisted within Ron’s stomach. It was not the sort of warmth or exhilaration one was meant to feel in such moments—at least, he supposed it wasn’t. Instead, a restless, creeping sensation clawed at his insides, something he could neither name nor ignore. He then would jerk away, muttering some barely coherent excuse, his voice strained and hurried, his feet already carrying him in the direction of the nearest escape route. 

A strangled, uneasy sound escaped Ron’s throat the instant Harry’s lips brushed against the side of his neck—a noise he hadn’t meant to make, but one that betrayed every ounce of discomfort coiling through him. 

His pulse thudded unevenly in his ears, his skin prickling where Harry had pressed his lips. A cold, creeping shame pooled in his stomach, hot on its heels came the embarrassment—because he knew he was meant to feel something else, something entirely different. But all he could manage was that awful, squirming sensation that needed to recoil, to put space between them before he choked on the weight of his own discomfort.

They stood there, alone now, the last member of the DA vanishing through the door, leaving only the muffled sound of footsteps fading down the corridor. The vast, ever-changing room stretched around them, its enchanted walls shifting subtly. They had been left with far too much time—too much space. Harry had wasted no time, closing the distance between them, his hands firm, his breath warm against Ron’s throat before his lips made contact.

“Harry…” Ron began, his voice dragging out the name as though he were still debating whether to say anything at all. 

Harry barely lifted his gaze, too preoccupied with his current distraction, and instead of answering right away, he leaned in, pressing his lips against the curve of Ron’s ear in an absentminded, feather-light kiss. “Hm?”

“Bathroom,” Ron muttered, his other hand pressed against his stomach, fingers curling inward as though he could physically will the discomfort away. “My stomach…” .

But Harry, rather than letting him go, reached out and caught him by the hips, he tugged him back, not forcefully, but enough to halt his escape. “Ron,” the raven-haired said, tilting his head, eyes flickering over his face, and for a brief moment, he looked as though he were trying to decide whether to say what was on his mind or let it go. Then, after a pause, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I think you’re misunderstanding something here.”

Ron blinked, his expression shifting from mild distress to outright confusion, his brows knitting together. His stomach still churned unpleasantly, but now, so did his thoughts. “What d’you mean?” he asked, glancing down at where Harry’s hands still rested against his hips, warmth seeping through the fabric. 

Harry regarded Ron with an unreadable expression, his head tilting slightly as if weighing the best way to phrase his question. His fingers still rested loosely on Ron’s hips, his grip neither insistent nor hesitant, merely lingering as though he had no immediate plans to let go. 

“When was the last time you touched yourself?” he asked, voice low, almost conversational.

Ron blinked at him, his expression contorting in confusion. “Last time I touched myself?” he repeated, as though Harry had suddenly started speaking in riddles. “Mate, I always touch myself,” he admitted, completely deadpan, his hands gesturing vaguely as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, what sort of question is that? I’m touching myself right now—” he lifted a hand demonstratively, fingers splaying across his chest before gesturing wildly. 

"Sexually," Harry clarified, his voice quieter now, though there was no missing the way his cheeks had begun to flush a rather obvious shade of pink. His fingers twitched slightly where they still rested against Ron’s hips, as if belatedly realising they were still there but not quite willing to move just yet.

Ron’s face twisted in immediate horror, his whole body stiffening as if Harry had just suggested something truly unthinkable. His ears, already tinged pink, darkened to a deep crimson. "Sex—" He spluttered, recoiling slightly as if trying to physically distance himself from the conversation. "Eurgh, Harry. What are you on about?" His voice had pitched up slightly, that familiar Weasley shrillness slipping in, and he looked at Harry as though he'd suddenly sprouted an extra head.

Harry, rather than backing down, only frowned, his own embarrassment momentarily overshadowed by confusion. "What?" he said, "I thought it was in that book Hermione lent you?" His brows knit together as he searched Ron’s face for any sign of recognition, but all he found was sheer, unfiltered bewilderment.

Ron stared at him for a long moment, his mouth opening as if to argue before promptly shutting again. He shifted uncomfortably, as if the mention of Hermione in the same breath as this topic made the whole thing ten times worse. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

Harry hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “That one book. You know—the one about, er…adolescence? The one Hermione gave you last month?”

Ron frowned, searching his memory, before something seemed to click. "Oh.”

“Yeah,” The raven-haired nearly sighed in relief. “That one.”

“Not all of it. Hermione kept checking in on me like I was revising for a bloody test, so I had to skim the boring bits.”

"So you do know what I'm talking about, then?”

Ron opened his mouth, hesitated, then frowned. "Not really, no."

“Ron—” Harry groaned once again, looking as if he wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall. "how do you not get this?"

The redhead let out an incredulous huff, as he fixed his boyfriend with a look of utter disbelief. “Look, mate, I skimmed the book, alright? I got the important stuff—like the bit about getting taller, and why my feet suddenly feel two sizes bigger in the morning. And that whole section about mood swings, though I skipped most of that, ‘cause I don’t reckon I have those.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “You definitely have those.”

Ron ignored him. “And then there was that part about how you’re supposed to get more confident or something, but honestly, I think that’s a load of rubbish, because I don’t feel any more confident than I did last year, except maybe in chess—”

“Ron,” the raven-haired interrupted, “did you read the part about sexual development?”

“Er.”

“The part about—you know—hormones, urges, things you do when you’re alone?”

Ron stood frozen for a fleeting moment, his expression utterly vacant, as though his brain had momentarily failed to process what had just been said. Then—as if some delayed mechanism in his mind had suddenly snapped into place, his entire face contorted with unfiltered disgust. “Oh—bloody hell, that part?” 

The raven-haired peered at him through his fingers. “So you do know what I meant, then.”

Ron shot him a long, hard look, his eyes narrowing with deep-seated suspicion, as though he were attempting to peel back the surface and uncover whatever nonsense was undoubtedly lurking beneath. "Right. Well. I still need the bathroom, so if you're done traumatising me, I’d really like to go before I die of actual distress.”

"What do you even do in the bathroom at a time like this?" 

"Sit in the cubicle until I’ve calmed down." His voice was flat and utterly unembellished.

"Ron."