Lionhearted

Ron had never quite grasped what was supposed to be so endlessly fascinating about girls. The redhead understood the general idea, of course—people talked about them all the time, and blokes in his dormitory seemed to regard them as some great, mysterious force that dictated the rise and fall of their moods. 

What he couldn’t wrap his head around, however, was why blokes seemed to lose all sense of coordination the moment a girl so much as glanced in their direction. It was baffling, really. Perfectly capable, sturdy lads who could charge through a Quidditch match with ruthless precision would, upon seeing a girl they fancied, suddenly find themselves incapable of basic motor functions. They’d go stumbling over their own feet, knocking into desks, sending ink bottles crashing to the floor—all in some desperate attempt to be noticed. As if making an utter fool of oneself was the secret ingredient to winning a girl’s attention.

Ron supposed he was no better. He still shuddered at the memory of his own humiliations—though, in his defence, he hadn’t meant to make a fool of himself. It just happened naturally.

The first time had been with Fleur, though to this day, he still hadn’t the faintest clue what had actually happened. It was an odd sort of memory, hazy around the edges, as though his own mind had deemed it unfit for further inspection and shoved it into the furthest recesses of his thoughts, where only the most bewildering and thoroughly inconvenient recollections resided. 

Perhaps it had been something to do with the fact that Fleur was part Veela, and everyone knew Veela had that peculiar ability to turn the heads of any poor sod within a five-mile radius. That had to be it—surely. There could be no other explanation, because Ron had never entertained so much as a passing fancy for her. Not once. Never. The very idea was laughable, if not outright absurd. 

Of course, she was pretty—anyone with a pair of eyes could see that. It was impossible not to notice, really. The sort of beauty that turned heads effortlessly, that made blokes suddenly forget whatever they’d been doing and stare, slack-jawed, as though they’d just been walloped over the head with a Bludger. It was the Veela in her, no doubt about that. Anyone who so much as glanced her way would, inevitably, find themselves caught in that strange pull, that involuntary sort of admiration that came with being in her presence.

But Ron? 

Ron had never really felt anything. Not properly. He knew, in theory, what attraction was meant to be—what it was supposed to feel like—but he’d never quite understood it the way other people seemed to. He could acknowledge that someone was good-looking, sure, but it was always in a detached sort of way, like observing a particularly well-done painting or a Quidditch move performed with irritating ease. It was never personal. 

Dean and Seamus was always going on about how marvellous it must be to experience the thrill of kissing a girl, how there was something inexplicably exciting about the sensation of touching them—the kind of touch that, according to Dean, both parties were supposed to enjoy, as if it were some universal truth. And every time the topic came up—because it always did, somehow, in the endless stream of chatter about who fancied who, who had gone off snogging behind the greenhouses, which girls were fit and which ones were just alright.

He had never truly envisioned himself with a girl—not in the way other boys seemed to, not with the kind of certainty that made it feel real. Whenever his mind drifted towards the idea, it was never someone familiar, never a girl whose face he actually knew. Instead, it was always a vague, faceless figure, standing just a little taller than him. They were always dressed in something elaborate, something finer than anything he’d ever owned—robes that hung just right, fabric that shimmered subtly, the kind of clothing that belonged to someone important. 

He could picture the moment—the slow movement towards him, the faint pressure against his lips—but there was no warmth to it, no real sense of familiarity or belonging. Just an idea, a fleeting notion of something he wasn’t sure he even understood. And the more he thought about it, the more distant it all felt, as if it were something meant for other people, something that, no matter how much he tried, never quite fit into his own world.

Ron could recall the way his eyes had always drifted towards Krum whenever the Bulgarian moved, with an effortless sort of confidence that the redhead found himself begrudgingly fixated on. It wasn’t something he ever meant to do—at least, that’s what he told himself—but his gaze had a habit of lingering just a fraction too long, longer even than it had on Cedric, which was a thought he didn’t particularly enjoy dwelling on. 

And when Ron caught himself doing it, a hot, prickling embarrassment would rise up his neck, especially if Hermione happened to be nearby. The mere idea of her noticing—of her registering even a flicker of amusement in those all-knowing eyes of hers—was enough to make him scowl at nothing and dig his nails into his palms, furious at himself for being so bloody obvious.

So, Ron had been lying through his teeth when he claimed he had only skimmed the books Hermione had lent him. In truth, he had pored over every single word, absorbing them with a level of concentration he wouldn’t have admitted to even under threat of Veritaserum. He had forced himself into a performance of indifference, making flippant remarks about how tedious and long-winded the books were, feigning exasperation at their content. 

The problem wasn’t that the books were difficult to read; the problem was that they forced him to confront things he wasn’t entirely ready to face. Feelings the redhead had convinced himself were unimportant, fleeting, or, at the very least, manageable. But the more he read, the harder it became to lie to himself.

Now, he was alone, shut away in the cramped bathroom of their dormitory. He had folded himself into the corner, crouched low with his back pressed to the wooden panelling, Harry had not followed him. He had let him go without argument, though Ron knew all too well that his absence would not go unnoticed. The raven-haired would be waiting, perched in one of the worn armchairs by the fire, perhaps feigning interest in some book or else staring blankly at the flames, his mind preoccupied. 

What if Harry, in all his understanding, had begun to find Ron’s sheer obliviousness to these new and unfamiliar feelings utterly exasperating? What if his lack of awareness was not endearing, not something to be patiently waited out, but instead a tedious flaw—a discouraging, off-putting trait that only served to highlight the gap between them? The raven-haired had undoubtedly learned, experienced, and come to terms with things Ron still stumbled over, his own ignorance so painfully obvious in comparison. 

Perhaps he had already decided that Ron’s hesitance, his clumsy attempts to navigate all of this, were nothing but an exhausting burden.

Ron eventually made his way back to Harry once the worst of it had passed. He wasn’t quite himself, not entirely, but he managed to appear passably fine—at least, fine enough that Harry didn’t seem overly concerned. Perhaps the raven-haired had assumed it wasn’t worth mentioning, or perhaps he had simply decided that whatever had been troubling Ron was something best left unspoken. In any case, there was little opportunity to dwell on it, for by the following evening, a far more pressing matter had presented itself.

Ron had been slumped at the very edge of his bed, his body folded into itself in a manner that would all but guarantee a stiff, aching neck come morning. He hovered in that peculiar space between waking and dreaming, where the mind wandered freely and time lost all sense of structure, where reality softened at the edges and thought melted into something warm and indistinct.

Somewhere in the depths of his drifting consciousness, he found himself seated at the long, well-worn kitchen table of the Burrow, its surface cluttered with steaming dishes that sent rich, familiar scents curling through the air. There was the aroma of shepherd’s pie, thick with gravy and crisp at the edges, mingling with the sweet, buttery scent of freshly baked bread. Jugs of pumpkin juice stood between heaping bowls of mashed potatoes, their surfaces swirled with melting butter, and there, right in front of him, was a plate piled high with roast chicken.

His stomach gave an eager lurch, his hand already reaching forward, fingers closing around the handle of a serving spoon—only for the scene to flicker at the edges, the warmth of the Burrow beginning to recede, dissolving into something distant, unreachable. Then, suddenly, a sharp, gut-wrenching sound shattered his dreams. 

A scream. 

Harry’s scream.

Ron jerked upright, the rush of panic tearing him from sleep before his mind had the chance to catch up. His heart was already hammering, his breath short, as though he had been yanked from the depths of a nightmare himself. The redhead scrambled across the bed, his hands reaching before his thoughts could form, shaking Harry by the shoulders, his fingers tightening instinctively against the fabric of his pyjamas. "Oi, wake up—Harry, wake up—!" 

Harry was twisting and thrashing against the grip of some unseen terror, his body rigid with tension, breath coming in short, ragged gasps that barely scraped the surface of his lungs. His fists had curled tight around the bedsheets, knuckles stark white against the dim glow of the room, as though he were clawing at something just beyond reach, wrestling with whatever nightmare had its claws sunk deep into him. 

“Harry! It's me! You're alright!” But Harry wasn’t waking. He kept screaming, the sound raw and strangled, torn from somewhere deep within him, and Ron’s panic surged, tightening in his chest with every desperate shake of his boyfriend’s shoulders. “Harry!” His voice had cracked when he called Harry’s name, his own breathing growing shallow, because this wasn’t normal—this wasn’t just a bad dream, wasn’t something he could shrug off in the morning with a joke and a half-hearted slap on the back.

And then, just as the panic threatened to spill over completely, Harry's eyes snapped open. He gasped, choking on his own breath, his entire body jolting upright as though wrenched from the depths of something suffocating. The redhead didn’t think—didn’t hesitate, didn’t care how ridiculous it might look—he just threw his arms around him, gripping tight, holding on as though he could steady him, anchor him, make it all go away by sheer force of will.

"Ron…Ron…" 

"I’m here," Ron said quickly, his own voice hoarse, the words tumbling out before he could even think. "It’s alright, Harry…you’re safe." He tightened his grip, his hands still shaking slightly from the rush of panic, the remnants of that awful helplessness still lingering at the edges of his mind.

But Harry wasn’t calming down. His eyes were wide, wild, darting about the room as though still seeing something Ron couldn’t. His chest heaved with every laboured breath, sweat glistening at his hairline. Then, with sudden, dreadful urgency, he rasped out—"Your dad."

“Harry—”

"Ron, your dad!" Harry gasped, his grip tightening, his voice rising in panic, and in that single, shattering moment, he suddenly lurched forward, his entire body convulsing with a violent shudder, and before Ron could do much more than brace himself, the raven-haired shoved him aside with surprising force. 

Ron barely caught himself as Harry rolled over, his entire frame heaving with the force of his sickness. The sound of it hit the redhead first—the awful, choking retching, followed by the wet splatter on the wooden floor—and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his own stomach twisting in response. 

It was only then, as Ron blinked past the dazed fog in his head, that he realised the dormitory was no longer quiet. The bedsheets rustled, footsteps thudded against the floorboards, voices—groggy and confused at first—rose in alarm. Someone swore under their breath, another muttered something about nightmares, but all of it was background noise, muffled beneath the ringing in Ron’s ears. He didn’t even know who had moved first, but he caught a glimpse of Seamu’s pale face in the dim torchlight, Neville and Dean already scrambling towards the door, calling out for McGonagall.

It all unfolded in the blink of an eye, so swiftly that Ron scarcely had time to register anything beyond the grip of Harry’s hand on his own. No force on earth could have prised them apart in that moment, and Ron, for all his usual inclination to notice the sidelong glances of those people around him, found himself utterly indifferent to the silent scrutiny directed at their interlocked fingers. He brushed it aside, shoving any stray thoughts into the recesses of his mind where they could wait their turn. There were far graver matters at hand.

Harry relayed the news to them—that Ron's dad had been attacked, struck by the fangs of a snake. And before he had fully processed them, before he could even utter a proper response, he found himself swept away with his siblings, bundled back to Grimmauld Place in a haze of worry and disbelief.

The house, oppressive even at the best of times, felt suffocating now. The redhead sat stiffly on the edge of the battered old chair, his stomach clenched tight. And the moment he forced his eyelids shut, his mind betrayed him, conjuring images too vivid, too dreadful to ignore. Then, through the haze of exhaustion and dread, there was Sirius Black, appearing with a tray of Butterbeers, his expression uncharacteristically gentle as he handed them out. 

The fire crackled softly, and before he could stop it, sleep began to creep in at the edges of his consciousness. His head lolled slightly, the familiar scent of old wood and dust settling around him. He barely registered the weight beside him, the way Harry had slumped against him, just as exhausted, just as drained. 

The following morning, they set off for St. Mungo’s. They finally stepped through the hospital’s entrance, the sharp scent of potions filling his lungs, and the redhead hardly spared a glance at the healers bustling past or the patients murmuring in hushed voices. 

Ron's father was, to his immense relief, in perfectly sound condition—remarkably so, in fact, considering the ordeal he had so narrowly escaped. Though a thick bandage had been wound tightly around the precise spot where the serpent’s fangs had struck, the wound itself hidden from view, his dad appeared astonishingly cheerful, as though he had merely suffered a minor inconvenience rather than a venomous attack that could have ended in catastrophe. It was bewildering, really, the way he carried himself—as if he had simply tripped over the family ghoul in the attic rather than been struck down by a creature of nightmare.

But there was another matter at hand, he was exhausted—bone-weary, in fact—after the long, rattling journey back to Grimmauld Place, his limbs heavy with fatigue, his thoughts sluggish and muddled from the restless hours spent on the train. 

Beside him, Harry had gone strangely pale—his complexion had taken on a sickly pallor, the colour drained from his face as though he had just received some terrible news. Ron felt his exhaustion take a step back, making room for a concern that sent a prickling sensation down his spine. "You alright?" he whispered, his fingers twitched at his side, resisting the impulse to reach out, to touch, to make sure he was still warm beneath his fingertips.

Harry gave a feeble nod, though it was barely perceptible, the kind of movement one might make when they weren’t entirely sure if they meant it. Ron could take any real reassurance from it, the raven-haired turned his head away, the gesture was strangely lifeless. 

And then, he felt it—the way Harry’s fingers untangled themselves from his own. The warmth that had been there only moments ago disappeared, leaving behind a space that felt oddly cold. He hadn’t realised how much that simple touch had meant until it was gone. Disappointment then crashed over the redhead, leaving him staring at the back of Harry’s head, his fingers still half-curled as though they could somehow capture the warmth that had already slipped away.

The moment they stepped back into the confines of Twelve Grimmauld Place, his mother had immediately set about bustling in the kitchen, the familiar clatter of pots and pans ringing through the halls, a sound that ought to have been comforting but only served to remind him how little had changed.

Ron ascended the staircase, the familiar creaks of the old wooden steps did nothing to comfort him. Reaching the landing, he hesitated for a moment before pushing open the door to the room he shared with Harry. The raven-haired was already there, sprawled across his bed, gaze fixed on something distant. His expression withdrawn, shuttered off from the world. 

He scratched at the side of his nose, then cleared his throat as if that might somehow make the silence less suffocating. "D’you want to eat dinner?" Ron asked at last, his voice rougher than he intended, though he forced it into something gentler at the last second.

But Harry gave no indication that he had even heard him. He remained perfectly still, as though Ron had spoken into a void that swallowed words before they ever had the chance to reach him. The redhead shifted his weight and let himself collapse onto the mattress beside his boyfriend, his limbs sprawling haphazardly as the mattress gave an indignant creak beneath them. He wasn’t sure whether Harry needed space or comfort—wasn’t sure what, exactly, would pull him out of whatever depths he had sunk into—but for now, Ron supposed he would just have to settle for being here, even if that meant sharing in the silence that stretched endlessly between them.

Ron’s ears pricked up at the sound of his mother’s voice calling both his and Harry’s names from downstairs, summoning them for dinner. He glanced over at Harry, who remained stubbornly curled up, his face turned away, lost in whatever dreary thoughts had held him. "You sure you don’t want to come down?" 

But Harry didn’t so much as stir, offering no response, not even the usual half-hearted grunt he gave when he couldn’t be bothered to argue. 

Ron sighed, he leant over and pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to Harry’s cheek—warm, bristled ever so slightly, and undoubtedly flushed with surprise now, judging by the way Harry’s head snapped up. "I’ll go bring you some food," the redhead muttered, already rising to his feet, avoiding Harry’s gaze as he made for the door, stuffing his hands into his pockets as if that would steady the peculiar flutter in his stomach.

Ron clattered down the stairs, his socked feet muffling the sound against the worn wooden steps. As he entered the kitchen, his mother was already bustling about, her apron dusted with flour, her red hair frizzing slightly from the steam rising off a pot. "Where’s Harry, then?" she asked, glancing up from where she was ladling gravy over a generous helping of mashed potatoes.

"He wasn’t feeling too well," Ron replied, as he hovered near the table. "Mum, have we got any soup?"

His mother gave a small tut of concern, setting down the ladle. "I made some cauliflower soup earlier," 

"I’ll take some up to him later," Ron said, stepping forward as she handed him the plates, his fingers warming instantly against the ceramic.

They had their dinner together downstairs, though Harry had refused to come down and join them. His mother, ever the considerate sort when it came to ensuring everyone was properly fed, had put together a tray laden with a stream of food, making sure there was enough to tempt even the most stubborn of sulkers. A deep bowl of thick, homemade cauliflower soup sat in the centre. Alongside it, there was a generous portion of roasted meat, still glistening with its own juices, a dollop of creamy mashed potatoes with a proper knob of butter melting into it, and a side of vegetables—carrots and peas, bright and soft. There was even a thick slice of crusty bread, the kind Ron knew would be perfect for soaking up the last of the soup, along with a slab of treacle tart, because apparently, his mum thought Harry needed a bit of sweetness to lift his spirits.

Ron wasn’t about to let him starve himself, no matter how miserable he was feeling. It was one thing to sulk and lock himself away upstairs, but skipping meals entirely? That was pushing it. So, with the tray balanced precariously in his hands, the soup threatening to slosh over the rim if he wasn’t careful, Ron made his way up the stairs, fully prepared to shove at least a few mouthfuls into the raven-haired if he had to.

The redhead struggled with the door at first—awkwardly shifting the weight of the tray in his hands as he tried to shove it open with his shoulder. The knob was stiff, the hinges creaking slightly as he finally managed to push it ajar, slipping inside with a huff. He strode across the lit room, setting the tray down with a dull thud on the nearest battered bedside table, the legs of which wobbled slightly under the weight of the meal.

Just as he straightened up, ready to turn towards Harry and tell him to get on with eating before the soup went cold, something yanked at his arm with surprising force. Ron had scarcely registered what was happening before he found himself pushed back against the mattress, the full weight of Harry pressing down upon him with a force that sent every rational thought scattering from his mind—but all of it faded into irrelevance beneath the dizzying sensation of Harry’s mouth covering his. The kiss landed with clash of warmth and breath that sent a startled sound tearing from Ron’s throat.

His hands shot up instinctively, palms flattening against the solid planes of Harry’s chest, pushing against him—not forcefully, but with enough to break them apart. “Harry, what—” 

But the words had no time to settle, no time to form into something meaningful before Harry’s fingers were threading through his hair, grasping tight at the unruly strands and tugging with a certainty that sent a pulse of heat straight down Ron’s spine, before Harry's lips found his again, claiming them with a fervour that made his stomach twist with something unnameable.

His fingers curled uselessly into Harry’s jumper, caught between the instinct to shove him away and the maddening, unbearable pull to keep him exactly where he was. 

Ron tilted his head just so, the soft parting of his lips an invitation, a surrender to what was coming. Harry was then pressed forward with a force that left no room for hesitation, their mouths met in a feverish clash, lips crushed together, as though this was the only way the raven-haired knew to rid himself of the frustration coursing through him, pouring it into every desperate movement of his lips, every firm press of his mouth, every slow, searching drag of his tongue. 

The kiss was rough, demanding, spilling into something messier, wetter, lips parting, tongues tangling, a quiet moan lost between them. It was heat and want and something almost reckless, something neither of them dared put into words, but here—here, in this moment—it was all that mattered.

"Harry," Ron murmured, the warmth spreading down his neck as Harry’s kisses wandered lower, slower now, tracing a path against his skin that sent a shiver racing through him. His fingers curled into the fabric of Harry’s shirt, gripping as though he needed something to hold onto. And still, the kisses continued, pressing lower, melting him from the inside out.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, and then he pulled back, retreating as though he had overstepped, as though he had done something irrevocable. “Oh, god…” The raven-haired dragged a hand over his face, fingers splayed across his heated skin, his cheeks burning impossibly red—as though he were the one who had been kissed senseless.

Ron's hands, acting on instinct rather than thought, found Harry’s and grasped them gently, prising them away from where they had been clamped over his face, shielding his expression as though he could somehow hide himself away entirely. "Don’t apologise, please," he said, he wasn’t even sure why it mattered so much, only that it did—that the very idea of Harry apologising for this, whatever this was, sat wrongly with him, settling in his stomach in a way he didn’t like.

“No—”

"Harry, it’s all right," Ron reassured, "I don’t—I don’t mind," he went on, though the words stumbled slightly, tumbling out rough-edged. He sank back into the soft mattress, his limbs splayed in a manner both indolent and inviting. He reached for Harry, guiding him forward until their bodies met in a tantalising press of warmth.

"Ron, you’ve never—" Harry paused hesitantly, "Not even once?”

Ron’s ears burned crimson, “Back in third year.” He said, then let out an unbidden gasp when Harry shifted, their hips brushing, friction sparking between them like a live wire. The sensation was dizzying. "O-only once," he stammered, the words catching in his throat, "because—I thought it was…wrong.”

Harry leaned in, the warmth of his breath ghosting against Ron’s cheek. “And what exactly did you do after that?” he murmured, he settled himself astride Ron, his thighs bracketing him as he pressed a series of lingering kisses to the sharp edge of his jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of his neck.

The redhead swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat, fingers gripping uselessly at the sheets as his mind spun. “Nothing,” he admitted in a near whisper, his voice scarcely more than a breath. “After that, we—well, we talked about the book and I—” He hesitated, biting down on his lip, the admission trembling on his tongue. “I read about it,” he confessed at last, voice turning sheepish. 

"Then, rather than laying a hand on yourself," Harry's hand slipped beneath Ron’s shirt, warm against the bare skin of his stomach. "You’d just go and hide yourself away in the bathroom," the raven-haired continued, his thumb tracing idle circles against the dip of Ron’s waist. "Let it pass. Was it painful?"

"Y-yeah," Ron swallowed thickly, his chest rising and falling unevenly, and his body betraying him as he arched into the warmth of Harry’s touch, unable to help himself. "How—" he started, then faltered, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "How’d you even easily pick up stuff like this, Harry?"

There was a beat of silence, thick and charged, before Harry's fingers brushing higher beneath Ron’s shirt, knuckles grazing over sensitive skin. "You're not the only one hitting the books, Ron."

“O-Oh…”