Lionhearted

Ron had now reached such a state of complete and utter humiliation. Tenth times now, the Quaffle had soared past him, each failure carving another deep wound into his already crumbling confidence. His fingers, slick with sweat, barely managed to maintain their grip upon his broomstick, and for a brief, stomach-lurching moment, he very nearly lost his balance altogether. 

Angelina, ever the patient captain, had, on more than one occasion, attempted to reassure him, insisting with unwavering certainty that he was perfectly capable so long as he didn’t allow himself to overthink—and didn't allow his own insecurities to smother whatever skill he possessed. But Ron, stubborn and simmering with frustration, had refused to listen. He had rejected every word, had bristled at the suggestion that his failures were a mere matter of nerves, as if she simply could not understand the sheer weight of mortification that settled upon his shoulders every time an audience was present. 

By the time their first training session had been granted a brief pause, he had reached a level of self-loathing so heavy hat he could do nothing but fix his vacant gaze upon the grass beneath him. He did not speak. He did not move. He merely stared, shoulders slumped, as though he were trying to disappear into the very ground itself. Around him, his teammates were catching their breath, wiping the sweat from their brows, chatting in hushed tones about tactics and improvements. 

He had pored over every last page of those wretched Quidditch manuals, studying each technique with the sort of desperate diligence he had never quite managed with his schoolwork. He would be tracing diagrams with his finger, committing each instruction to memory as if sheer knowledge alone could transform him into the Keeper he so badly wanted to be. In theory, Ron understood it all perfectly—the angles, the positioning, the quick reflexes needed to track the Quaffle’s movement. But in practice—Merlin help him—in practice, it all unraveled the moment he felt a dozen eyes fixed upon him.

There was something about an audience, no matter how small, that seemed to drain every ounce of ability from his limbs, leaving him stiff, clumsy, utterly useless. He had managed—miraculously—to save a goal once, a perfect, clean stop that had filled him with the briefest flicker of hope. But that had been when it was only the team present, when the stadium had been empty save for the familiar voices of his teammates. 

The moment a handful of students wandered by, lingering at the edge of the pitch to watch and before he could fully process what was happening, the Quaffle had come hurtling towards him at breakneck speed. For one humiliating, stomach-churning second, he had been too caught up in the weight of their gazes, too consumed by the thought of how foolish he must have looked, and he had failed to react at all. He had very nearly taken a Quaffle straight to the face, dodging it only at the last possible moment in a graceless flail that did nothing to salvage his pride. 

By the time Ron and Ginny trudged into the Great Hall, training had left them both worn and aching. The grand chamber was already bustling with students, the long tables overflowing with food, the golden plates gleaming under the flickering candlelight of the enchanted ceiling. The rich, familiar scent of roast meats, buttery potatoes, and warm bread filled the air, making Ron’s stomach clench with renewed hunger. 

He had been too preoccupied with his own miseries during practice to realise just how famished he was, but now, faced with the endless spread before him, all other concerns faded into the background.

Ron dropped onto the bench beside Hermione and Harry, barely managing a grunt of greeting before reaching for the nearest serving dish. He piled his plate high, heaping generous portions of whatever his hands could grab—thick slices of roast beef, steaming Yorkshire puddings drowning in gravy, golden roast potatoes crisp at the edges, and an entire bread roll slathered with butter. It was a feast, and he intended to devour every last bite. He wasted no time before shovelling forkfuls into his mouth, chewing rapidly, barely pausing for breath.

It was in the midst of this enthusiastic consumption that he felt a firm tap on his shoulder. The redhead made a vague, irritated noise in response, his mouth still full, and turned his head only to be met with the sight of the raven-haired. Ron scarcely had time to register the look before something soft and weighty was dropped onto his already overburdened plate, landing with a muffled thump against the heap of roast potatoes. 

He glanced down, startled, to find a large bag of chocolate truffles, with the distinctive Honeydukes wrapping.

“Happy Valentine’s,” Harry said simply, his voice light—amused, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Ron felt an inexplicable heat crept up the back of his neck, settling uncomfortably in his ears. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly too dry despite the gravy-drenched meal he had been consuming moments before. “Harry,” he began, his voice caught somewhere between flustered and protesting, “you don’t have to—”

Ginny, seated across from him, had already half-buried her face in her goblet of pumpkin juice. Hermione, ever the observer, merely raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable but her eyes betraying the slightest trace of amusement.

Ron cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, his fingers hovering awkwardly near the bag before pushing it aside. “I mean—cheers, mate. But you could’ve just—y’know—given them to me in the dormitory. Where there aren’t…quite so many people.” He was painfully aware of how his ears must be burning.

“And miss seeing you go all red?” Harry grinned, completely unfazed, “Not a chance.”

“But I haven’t got anything for you,” Ron muttered, a twinge of guilt creeping into his voice. Now, with the weight of the Honeydukes bag sitting between them, he suddenly felt a bit useless.

Harry, however, seemed entirely unbothered. He simply shrugged, spearing a piece of meat onto his fork and popping it into his mouth with the same infuriating ease “Oh, I know. I’ll be having it later,” he said breezily, as though it were already a certainty.

The redhead narrowed his eyes at him, his expression shifting into an exasperation. “I’m going straight to bed.” he announced.

Ron had been lying through his teeth when he claimed he was going straight to sleep. The moment he stepped out of the shower, steam still clinging to his skin in slow, ghosting tendrils, his damp hair curling slightly at the edges, he had already made his decision. He was moving, hands pressing into the mattress as he climbed onto Harry’s lap, his knees bracketing either side of him. 

Harry’s breath was warm against Ron’s skin between kisses, each word slipping through the brief, heated spaces where their lips parted. “I heard from your brothers that you weren’t doing too well in training.” 

Ron, however, reacted as though he had been physically jolted from some blissful trance, his body tensing the moment the words registered. A deep, beleaguered groan rumbled from his chest, not entirely unlike the sound he made after a particularly gruelling practice session, though this time it had nothing to do with sore muscles or exhaustion and everything to do with sheer, unfiltered frustration.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry,” he pulled back just enough to fix him with a glare, his lips still tingling from the interruption. “Can you stop bringing up bloody Quidditch when we’re—” He gestured vaguely between them, as if words alone were insufficient to capture the particular circumstances in which they currently found themselves. “—when we’re doing this?” 

Of course, this was exactly the sort of thing the raven-haired would do. He would ruin a perfectly good moment with talk of missed goals and botched manoeuvres, his mind still half on the pitch even when it very much shouldn’t be. It was maddening, really. Maddening and stupidly endearing all at once.

“Well," Harry began, "I can’t say I’m particularly fussed one way or the other—but we are talking about Quidditch here.” His tone, though not entirely devoid of interest, suggested a weary acceptance of the conversation rather than any genuine enthusiasm for it.

Ron's mouth set in a firm line as though he were bracing himself for an argument. “I’m trying my best,” he muttered, “I even went and talked to Angelina about stepping down, but she wouldn’t let me!” 

“Ron,” Harry said, his voice softer now, though no less insistent, “you do realise you’re actually good at this, don’t you?” 

"Oh, I s'pose you're only saying that so we win the next match against Hufflepuff, aren't you? Just so I don’t end up looking like a complete idiot in front of everyone?" Ron shifted, attempting to push himself off Harry’s lap, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, more of an impulsive escape than a well-thought-out retreat. 

But Harry, sensing the storm brewing within him, tightened his grip around his forearm, keeping him firmly in place. “For fuck’s sake. Do you honestly think I’d go to all this trouble just for that?" His fingers dug into Ron’s arm—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him stay, to ground him before he spiralled further into whatever self-deprecating nonsense was swirling in his head. "I’m not humouring you, and I’m not saying it just to boost your confidence before a bloody Quidditch match."

Ron yanked himself free from Harry’s grasp with a rough jerk of his arm, his expression set in that familiar, mulish determination that meant there was no use arguing with him. The warmth of Harry’s hold lingered for only a second before Ron was already pulling away, distancing himself both physically and emotionally in that infuriating way he always did when things got too personal. "I’m going to sleep now," he muttered, stubbornly as if shutting the conversation down entirely. 

“Fine.” Harry grumbled.

The much-anticipated Quidditch match against Hufflepuff dawned clear, but Ron Weasley found himself unable to summon even the faintest enthusiasm for the game. While his teammates gathered on the pitch, running last-minute drills and exchanging words of encouragement, he chose instead to sequester himself in the solitude of the boys' bathroom, a refuge from both expectation and humiliation. There, hunched against the cold stone wall, he stewed in his own despondency, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as though by physically bracing himself, he might ward off the crushing weight of his own failure.

Every shot at goal had sailed past him, every attempt at blocking a Hufflepuff chaser had ended in disaster. And so, rather than endure the prospect of facing his teammates' nervous energy and the pressure of the match ahead, he hid within the damp, chamber of the bathroom, listening to the distant sounds of students hurrying towards the stands.

By some stroke of fortune—or perhaps merely the superior skill of the rest of the Gryffindor team—the match was won in the end. But Ron, though relieved, could take no personal pride in the victory. Not a single goal had been saved by his hands, and the knowledge of it gnawed at him even as his teammates cheered and congratulated one another. He had stood in front of those goalposts, stiff and useless, a spectator in his own position. A keeper in name only.

The next day, Ron sat hunched over at the Gryffindor table, a copy of The Quibbler spread out in front of him, the pages slightly crinkled where he’d been gripping them too tightly. He hadn't even touched his breakfast, which was unusual enough to be worth noting—his plate remained untouched, his goblet of milk barely disturbed. Instead, his eyes flickered across the words printed before him, scanning each line with growing intensity.

Harry’s interview. 

Ron had expected the usual—a vague recounting, something brief and to the point, because the raven-haired had never been one for long-winded explanations. And the moment the news of Harry’s interview spread through the castle, it was as if a fire had been lit beneath Dolores Umbridge, and she wasted no time in making her fury known. Her already unpleasantly tight-lipped expression had twisted into something even more sour, her usual forced sweetness all but stripped away as she confronted Harry with an air of dangerous finality.

"This is an absolute disgrace, Potter," she had declared, her voice laced with barely contained venom. "Spreading such outrageous falsehoods—as if we would tolerate this sort of undisciplined behaviour in a respectable institution!" Her tone dripped with condescension, each word deliberately enunciated as though she were addressing a particularly slow-witted child.

In what she clearly believed to be a decisive act of authority, she had declared an immediate ban on The Quibbler, announcing that any student caught with a copy would face swift and severe punishment. "There will be no more of this absurdity," she had sneered, her stubby fingers tightening around her clipboard as if the very act of clutching it gave her a sense of power.

But, in her desperation to suppress the truth, Umbridge had only succeeded in ensuring that it spread faster than ever. By midday, the interview had become the single most discussed topic within the castle walls. Students huddled together in corridors, speaking in hushed, excited voices, passing around contraband copies of the magazine as though it contained some forbidden secret. Even members of the staff exchanged furtive glances over the tops of their lesson plans, some with barely concealed smirks, others with the sort of quiet contemplation that suggested they had long suspected something of this nature but had never before seen it put into words so plainly.

For Ron, the whole affair was nothing short of brilliant. Watching Umbridge fume was a rare delight, and though he wasn’t about to say it aloud, there was something deeply satisfying about seeing Harry’s words being treated with the kind of weight and importance they deserved. At the same time, however, there was a nagging sense of unease creeping into the back of his mind—a growing awareness that Harry had just painted a target on his own back, and Umbridge was only just getting started.

The next time Harry awoke with a start, it was Ron who suffered the immediate consequences. In his half-conscious panic, Harry clutched at him without thought, his hands scrabbling around. The abrupt movement sent them both toppling off the bed in a graceless tangle of limbs, and Ron’s head met the wooden frame with a sharp crack that left him momentarily dazed.

"Bloody hell, Harry—" he groaned, rubbing the sore spot at the back of his skull, but any further complaints were muffled by the weight of Harry pressed against him, still muttering frantic apologies into his shoulder. His fingers clung tightly to the fabric of Ron’s pyjama top, as though letting go would send him spiralling back into whatever nightmare had gripped him moments before.

"You idiot," Ron muttered, pushed himself up with a grunt, raking a hand through his already-mussed hair before reaching for his wand to summon a glass of water. "I s'pose it was him again, was it?" His voice was rough with sleep, but there was no need to clarify who him meant. The answer was always the same.

The raven-haired, still catching his breath, nodded faintly. "Yeah," he murmured, "But this time...I was him." Harry had wasted no time in recounting his troubling dream, the details of which had unsettled him so deeply that he felt compelled to share them at the earliest opportunity. The following morning, during their break, they sought out Hermione to relay the events.

Whatever dark and terrible weapon You-Know-Who was seeking within the deepest, most secretive corridors of the Department of Mysteries, Ron found that he no longer had any desire to know. It was bad enough knowing that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, lurking in the shadows, gathering his forces, whispering his wicked commands to those who lived only to serve him. 

Death Eaters. They were the ones being sent to do his bidding, creeping through the Ministry’s corridors in the dead of night, twisting and manipulating, seizing control from within. They were the ones searching, prying, reaching out with unseen hands to claim whatever it was You-Know-Who so desperately sought. The redhead didn’t know what exactly was hidden in the Department of Mysteries, and if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. But one thing was clear—whatever it was, it wasn’t meant to fall into the wrong hands. And now, more than ever, it seemed as though those wrong hands were getting dangerously close.

In the end, despite all that had transpired, Harry was still bound to continue his Occlumency lessons, a duty he scarcely relished but could not, in good conscience, abandon. Ron lay awake in his four-poster bed, staring at the darkened canopy above him with bleary, sleep-deprived eyes. 

No matter how many times he told himself that worrying would do no good, that there was little he could do to prevent what might come. 

The meetings of Dumbledore’s Army finally resumed, the hidden chamber once again filled with the whispered incantations and the flickering glow of wandlight. Ron, for once, found himself uncharacteristically silent, offering no word of complaint when Harry turned his attention to him, determined to guide him through another attempt at conjuring a Patronus. But no matter how fiercely he concentrated, no matter how desperately he tried to summon a memory bright enough to ignite the spell, his wand produced nothing more than a few feeble wisps of silver mist. Still, he pressed on, swallowing any inclination to grumble or protest. If Harry had faith in him, then he supposed he owed it to himself to keep trying.

Ron closed his eyes, gripping his wand tightly as he searched his mind for memories bright enough to conjure the magic he needed. He sifted through the years, reaching for those golden moments—those rare, shining instances of pure happiness that might breathe life into the spell.

He thought of Charlie, grinning as he handed him a tiny toy broom when he was just a child, a thing barely big enough to hover a few inches above the ground but the most precious gift in the world to him at the time. He thought of the first time he had ever held a broom of his own, the rush of excitement as his fingers wrapped around the polished handle, the thrill of kicking off the ground and feeling, for the first time, the intoxicating freedom of flightHe remembered helping her bake a cake for Ginny’s birthday, the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of sugar and cinnamon thick in the air, his mother laughing as he made a complete mess of the icing. 

And then, above all else, he thought of Harry. The moment that had changed everything—he remembered the way his heart had pounded when Harry had returned his feelings, the dizzying, impossible reality of it sinking in just before their lips met for the first time.

It was, without question, the happiest he had ever been.

He held onto that memory, clung to it with every fiber of his being, and with a deep breath, he raised his wand once more. Ron’s breath caught as the shimmering light swirled and stretched, taking on a shape, small and indistinct but growing more defined with every second. His heart pounded in his chest, a surge of triumph flooding through him as he realized—he was finally doing it.

For a brief, unguarded moment, excitement overtook him, and he very nearly turned to Harry, ready to give him a kiss. But at the last second, he caught himself, clamping his mouth shut and forcing his arms to remain at his sides. Instead. His ears burned, as he stubbornly avoided looking at Harry, knowing full well that if he did, the battle to keep his composure would be lost entirely.

But before he could take it all in, a loud crack echoed through the place. The sudden noise made several people jump. Dobby stood in the center of the room, his large eyes wider than usual, his bat-like ears twitching with urgency. His words spilling out in a hurried torrent—that Dolores Umbridge was coming.

There was a moment of dreadful stillness in which the weight of that warning sank in, and then—chaos. The redhead reached out, fingers grasping blindly in the crush of bodies, attempting to latch onto Harry, but the press of students surging towards the exits made it impossible—too many shoulders colliding, too many frantic limbs tangling in the scramble. Hermione then caught his wrist, tugging him forward. He barely had time to register the motion before they were running, feet pounding against the floor, their escape driven by nothing but instinct and the deafening roar of survival hammering in his chest.

By the time the raven-haired entered their dormitory, Ron was already on his feet in an instant. His eyes raked over Harry’s form, searching—desperately, frantically—for any sign of injury. His mind had already conjured the worst—visions of cruel, jagged cuts hidden beneath fabric, of lingering traces of whatever vile magic Umbridge might have used on him this time.

"I'm sorry,” Harry apologising was about the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. 

Ron grabbed his boyfriend by the sleeve and dragged him towards the nearest four-poster bed, giving him a firm shove towards the mattress. ”Get in," he ordered, trying for stern rather than concerned. "You look like you’ve been dragged through the Forbidden Forest backwards. No point making yourself sick over it all."

Harry hesitated, as if he might argue, but Ron shot him a look—the same one his mum used when she was two seconds from walloping Fred and George with a wooden spoon. "It's all my ruddy fault," he lowered himself onto the mattress, and stared blankly at the floorboards, his jaw clenched tight. "I thought—well, I thought everything was falling into place. I thought we had it sorted." 

"Oh, come off it, mate." Ron dropped down beside him with a thud, the force of it making the mattress bounce slightly, though neither of them paid it any mind. "Just ‘cause they managed to sniff us out doesn’t mean you’ve got to go blaming yourself for the whole thing.”

"I should’ve seen it coming…”

"No sense in letting your brain twist itself into knots at this hour, Harry. We’ll talk about it in the morning, yeah?" Ron wasn’t about to let Harry sit up all night stewing in whatever fresh misery had sunk its claws into him, after a moment of resistance, the raven-haired gave in with a weary sigh and allowed himself to be pulled onto the mattress. The old four-poster groaned under the weight of them both as Ron shifted to make room, yanking the covers up against the creeping chill. 

Ron had just begun to drift into that comfortable space between waking and sleep when Harry called him, tugging him begrudgingly back to awareness. One eye cracked open, unfocused at first, then narrowing slightly as he shifted against the pillow. "Hm?" he mumbled, the warmth of sleep still clinging to his voice. "What is it?"

For a moment, there was nothing but the low creak of bed springs as Harry shifted beside him. Then, in a voice entirely too serious for the absurdity of the question, he asked, "Can we snog?" 

The redhead let out a noise of pure incredulity before responding in the most fitting manner he could think of. His foot shot out under the tangled covers, colliding sharply with Harry’s shin. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry," he muttered, as the raven-haired let out a muffled yelp, jerking back against the mattress as Ron shook his head, utterly done with the entire conversation. "Go back to sleep before I start throwing punches instead." He rolled over decisively, tugging the blankets up to his ears and shutting his eyes with the resolve of someone who refused to entertain another word of nonsense. 

Harry reached out, grasping Ron from behind in a desperate, almost clumsy hug. “Please?” He said. "I’ve completely and utterly bollocksed everything up. I mean it—monumental disaster. I need some comfort.”

Ron stiffened instantly, his ears turned scarlet, he made a disgruntled noise, somewhere between affront and resignation, and, after a long-suffering pause, patted Harry’s arm with all the enthusiasm of someone petting a particularly damp dog.

"Fine," he muttered, rolling over in the tangled mess of blankets, he turned, and found himself met with Harry’s face—grinning, impish, as though he had been waiting for precisely this moment. They'd shared a few kisses—the sort that started out all mouths and uncertain tongues. Hands shifted aimlessly, bumping against elbows or curling into fabric without much thought. Now and then, one of them would shuffle closer, shoulders pressing together as they slouched into each other, neither quite sure where they were supposed to put their limbs. 

They’d been at it for a fair bit now, stealing moments where they could, lips meeting in hurried, heated exchanges, and Ron had to admit—they were getting rather good at it—not that the redhead had any proper measure for comparison, mind, but he reckoned there had to be some natural talent involved. 

Harry let his fingers slip beneath the fabric of Ron's shirt, and Ron caught entirely off-guard by the sudden, feather-light intrusion, let loose a sound—an odd, choked sort of thing that barely had the chance to escape before Harry swallowed it whole—pressing their mouths together in a kiss that was far too consuming to allow for anything as fragile as embarrassment.

The raven-haired positioned himself above Ron. His fingers reached for the waistband of Ron’s trousers, “Can I touch you?”

Ron let out an affronted huff, his freckled face burning as he wriggled slightly, "I thought—we were just—just going to snog," 

Harry’s mouth curled at the edges, his fingers still resting against the bare skin just above Ron’s hipbone. “Changed my mind,” 

"Blimey, Harry, you ain't seriously thinking of doing that again, are you?" Ron spluttered scandalised, his dozen of freckles standing out all the more against the deep flush that crept up his neck. 

"You went on about it as if we’d had a perfect shag last Christmas," 

“You reckon touching yourself doesn't count?”

"Shagging’s when I put my cock right up against your arse, Ron. That’s what it means."

Ron's stomach plummeted straight through the bloody floorboards. His entire body went rigid, his face draining of colour so fast he thought he might actually keel over. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again, but nothing—absolutely nothing—came out. Harry, the absolute bastard, burst into laughter, proper full-bodied laughter, doubling over until his forehead knocked against Ron’s shoulder, his whole frame shaking with it. "Oh, that’s fucking brilliant—”

“What the bloody hell are you on about, Harry!?” Ron all but shrieked, betraying every ounce of sheer, unfiltered horror currently coursing through his body. His ears, which had gone deathly pale just a moment ago, were now burning an alarming shade of red, "Merlin’s saggy left bollock, you actually—oh my god—”

Harry, for his part, was in an absolutely disgraceful state, laughing so hard he was practically wheezing, shoulders shaking as he struggled to get a proper breath in. "Well," he grinned, that only made Ron’s blood pressure skyrocket, "reckon we could always test the theory, if you’re that bothered.”

Ron made a noise so strangled, so utterly undignified, that it barely qualified as human speech. He drove his foot into Harry’s side with a force that sent him toppling straight off the bed. There was a muffled thud as Harry landed in an undignified heap on the floorboards.

But the dormitory door suddenly burst open with all the subtlety of an Exploding Snap pack going off in someone’s hands. Dean, Seamus, and Neville came barrelling in, their expressions wild, all were breathless as though they’d just sprinted up several flights of stairs (which they did). For what felt like an eternity, the three of them remained utterly motionless, their eyes darting across the messy scene before them.

Dean shook his head, his shoulders sagging, "I don’t even want to know," he muttered, as if he was someone who had seen far too much nonsense for one day.