Lionhearted

Ron would never openly confess, not even under the influence of Veritaserum, that he might admit—to himself, if no one else—that a bitter sort of longing twisted in his chest whenever he watched Fred and George, those twin harbingers of mischief, possessed a talent that defied reason, a sort of effortless brilliance that made everything seem an art form. They could concoct wickedly ingenious pranks and ingenious inventions in the blink of an eye, all while lounging about as if life were nothing more than a lark.

And Ron, he was left clutching at his chessboard, where the wooden knights and bishops stood obediently awaiting his command—clever enough in their own right, but hardly the stuff of legend. Besting a board of enchanted pieces, however satisfying, simply did not carry the same weight as trick sweets that made people sprout feathers or fireworks that could outlast a teacher's glare. 

The twins had a knack for making the world a brighter, more unpredictable place, and Ron couldn’t help but wonder, with a bitter twist in his gut, why he hadn’t inherited even a sliver of that knack. Sure, he was good at chess, clever enough to give Harry a run for his money, but who cared about chess when Fred and George could turn a dull afternoon into a riot of laughter and chaos?

But now, staring wide-eyed at the dazzling display of fireworks and firecrackers painting the sky in riotous colours, Ron was, frankly, completely gobsmacked. The twins had gone and enchanted fireworks snaking its way through the very bones of the castle, through corridors and bursting gloriously into the open air. It was brilliant—absolutely, unquestionably brilliant—and Ron felt a surge of excitement and a fierce sort of admiration all tangled up together.

The way the fiery serpent spiralled and roared, splitting into stars and sparks and screeching Catherine wheels, was enough to make his jaw hang slack. And the fact that it had left old toad-faced Umbridge standing there, her mouth opening and closing uselessly as if she were a fish dumped out of water, only made it sweeter. Oh, the sight of her, livid and sputtering, clutching at her ugly lace collar while the students around her hooted and cheered, it was worth a thousand detentions, worth scrubbing the castle from top to bottom with Filch breathing down your neck. Worth every howler and reprimand and scolding.

Ron’s grin stretched wide enough to hurt. For once, he didn’t feel overshadowed or outshone. He felt... proud. Proud to be a Weasley. Proud to call those mad, reckless, genius brothers his own. Maybe he couldn’t invent joke products or set the school ablaze with spectacle, but standing there, awash in the flickering glow of magical mayhem, he reckoned it didn’t much matter. This—this was glorious. And Umbridge’s frog-faced scowl was just the cherry on top.

Harry had only just slipped away from one of Umbridge’s infernal lectures, and before the raven-haired could so much as breathe a word of protest, Ron had seized him firmly by the wrist, and was steering him away, weaving through the winding, portrait-lined corridors with all the urgency of a man pursued.

It was hardly the most graceful dash back to the common room. Ron’s legs had a knack for feeling too long, arms swinging a bit too wildly, but the press of Harry’s hand, fingers brushing against his own, set a thrumming pulse beneath his skin. The redhead dared a glance at Harry, heart hammering away, but Harry’s gaze was fixed ahead, determined and unflinching, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Ron felt his own mouth twitch in response, and it was all he could do not to let out a daft laugh.

The common room was a whirl of noise and colour when they finally tumbled through the portrait hole, a victory of sorts had erupted, spontaneous and raucous, thanks to Fred and George’s magnificent act of rebellion. 

Ron let out a breathless huff, as he and Harry found themselves swallowed up by the crowd. He nudged Harry’s shoulder, more gently than he might have with anyone else. The way their hands hovered, brushing close but not quite clasping, was enough to make Ron’s fingers twitch again—hungry for the simple comfort of touch. He wondered if Harry felt it too, that strange, restless need.

“They’re brilliant, aren’t they?” Ron burst out, the words tumbling over each other in his enthusiasm. “I mean it—absolutely mental, but brilliant! I don’t reckon I’ll ever understand how their brains come up with half the stuff they do. You think Mum would pitch a fit if I started buying their things someday? Not the food, obviously—wouldn’t trust a single bite of it—but the rest of it, clever, isn’t it?” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware he was rambling, but unable to stop himself. “Imagine it—having all that stuff on hand. The mischief you could cause! Er—good mischief, I mean. You know.”

He caught Harry’s eye and grinned, wide and crooked, hoping he’d managed to sound impressed rather than hopelessly daft. The atmosphere was still thrumming with laughter and excitement, but Ron’s own pulse pounded loudest of all, and the gap between his hand and Harry’s felt unbearably vast despite the scarce inches of space. He flexed his fingers, willing himself not to do anything foolish, but the itch to reach out was maddening. 

He could practically feel the warmth radiating from Harry’s knuckles, the thought enough to send a flustered heat creeping up the back of his neck. But then Harry’s mouth quirked just so, and the crooked grin spread a bit wider, and Ron thought perhaps the gap wasn’t quite so vast after all.

“I would’ve thought you’d already learned your lesson about trusting those two with anything more dangerous than a Chocolate Frog,” Harry quipped.

“Oi, that’s not fair,” Ron shot back, indignant but grinning all the same. “I’ve only got their auto-correct and writing quills—brilliant things, honestly, save you hours on essays—at least until Hermione caught me using them. Said it was cheating and confiscated them. Never saw where she stashed them, either, and believe me, I’ve looked.” He huffed, but it was a half-hearted grumble at best, distracted by the warm, constant presence of Harry at his side.

The noise of the common room ebbed and flowed around them, a backdrop of jubilant chatter and the occasional crackle of leftover fireworks. “How’d it go, anyway?” Ron asked, trying for casual and missing the mark by a mile. “Your talk with Umbridge?”

“She’s still a right old cow,” Harry said flatly, though his mouth twisted into something caught between a grimace and a smirk. “Kept pressing about Sirius—where he was, what I knew, all that rot. I didn’t tell her a thing, obviously, but she’s not daft. We’ll have to keep sharp—she’s sniffing about, and it’s only going to get worse.”

Ron frowned. “You mean you’ll have to keep sharp,” he corrected, nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own—a light, teasing bump that belied the worry gnawing at him. “Umbridge has got her beady little eyes on you, mate. After what happened with Dumbledore…well, you’ve got a target the size of the Quidditch pitch on your back. You can’t go waltzing about, tempting fate.”

He meant it as a jab, but the edge of concern slipped through all the same. He could almost hear Hermione’s voice echoing his own, except hers would be sharper, crammed with lectures and good sense. Ron’s advice was rougher around the edges, but the sentiment was the same: keep your head down, don’t get caught, and whatever you do, don’t go playing the hero—because Harry would, stubborn as a mule, with that reckless Gryffindor courage that Ron admired and cursed in equal measure.

But Harry only smirked, undeterred, and Ron had to fight the urge to thump him on the back of the head. Bloody stubborn git. The redhead swallowed back another warning, letting the words die on his tongue. “So, are we celebrating, or what?” he asked, the grin broadening. 

Harry stifled a yawn, scrubbing a weary hand across his face as his eyelids drooped heavily. “Nah, I think I’m going to turn in,” he mumbled, “Still got Occlumency with Snape tomorrow.” The name alone seemed to sap what little energy he had left, and he gave a resigned sort of sigh, the corners of his mouth pulling downward.

“Oh. Right.” Ron shifted awkwardly, the jubilant noise of the common room fading into a distant hum. Occlumency lessons sounded bad enough, and with Severus Snape as the instructor, it was a wonder Harry’s brain hadn’t been turned inside out already. “I, er, hope he’s not torturing you,” the redhead ventured, a poor attempt at levity that fell rather embarrassingly flat.

“I hope so,” 

“Right,” Ron said again, lamely. “Try not to let him scramble your brains, yeah? One of us has to stay sharp, and Merlin knows it’s not going to be me.” He nudged Harry’s shoulder, lighter than before, but enough to coax a ghost of a smile from him.

Harry shook his head, a huff of breath passing for a laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” 

“Night, then,” Ron said, as Harry turned towards the boys’ staircase. He watched the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the weary tread of his steps, and that same feeling returned—something sour and uncomfortable that couldn’t be laughed away. But Harry was already disappearing up the stairs, and the noise of the common room surged back to fill the silence.

The next day dawned grey and sullen, and Harry had slipped away early, grim-faced and tight-lipped, off to another of Snape’s miserable Occlumency lessons. Ron, of course, as his boyfriend, had tried to muster some words of encouragement—something about keeping Harry's wits about him and not letting the greasy git worm his way into his head—but it had come out garbled and half-hearted, and Harry had only managed a thin smile before disappearing through the corridor.

Now, Ron found himself lounging in the common room beside Hermione, who was buried in her packed schedule—and Ron's headache just thinking about it. She was mumbling under her breath, eyes darting across the page, and Ron was fairly certain she hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the past five minutes.

He glanced about, checking the coast was clear before fishing out a small, slightly crumpled bag from the depths of his robes—Honeydukes Valentine’s chocolates, wrapped up in bright, gaudy fabric with a heart-shaped seal. He popped a sweet into his mouth and sighed contentedly, the taste melting on his tongue. 

Hermione’s gaze remained fixed upon him, her lips pursed in that familiar disapproving manner she often adopted when homework had gone amiss or when someone had the audacity to whisper during Professor Binns' droning lectures. Ron, meanwhile, seemed entirely unperturbed, busying himself with pinching off yet another piece of chocolate, slipping it into his mouth with the sort of furtive eagerness one might reserve for the last biscuit in a tin.

“What?” Ron mumbled around the mouthful, bits of chocolate stubbornly clinging to the corners of his lips. The question came out a touch more defensively than he’d intended, though, in his opinion, he had every right to enjoy a bit of chocolate without being stared at as though he’d grown an extra head.

“You’ve the look of someone smuggling dungbombs rather than chocolates, Ronald,” Hermione sniffed, the severity of her expression undercut only by the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—just enough to suggest she wasn’t entirely disapproving of his pilfering.

The redhead straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth with a casualness he did not feel. “Want some?” he asked, half in challenge, half in offering, shaking the dwindling bag at her.

Hermione’s eyebrows arched, her voice taking on a distinctly lecturing tone. “Harry gave those to you.”

“So what?” Ron shot back, shoulders squaring in that mulish way he often adopted when the conversation veered too close to an accusation. “Doesn’t mean I can’t share, does it?” He tossed another piece into his mouth, chewing with slowness, his expression daring her to argue the point.

“Well, you could at least try not to look so guilty about it.”

Ron scoffed, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, if it’s good enough to nick, it’s good enough to enjoy, right?” He popped another piece of chocolate into his mouth.

The bushy-haired finally relented. With a huff that was more for show than genuine exasperation, she plucked two chocolates from the bag and Ron raised his eyebrows but wisely said nothing, a triumphant grin spreading across his freckled face.

The both of them waited until the hour was creeping well past curfew—and there was still no sign of Harry. Ron had muttered for the third time in as many minutes that Harry was likely off gallivanting about the castle alone, and Hermione, with her characteristic sternness, had chided him for jumping to conclusions. But even she was beginning to look rather fretful.

It was then, just as Ron was weighing the merits of nicking a pumpkin pasty from the stash Fred and George had secreted away, that the portrait swung open with a creak. Harry then stumbled into the common room—looking as though he’d been dragged backwards through a hedge—twice. Dark circles smudged beneath his glasses, and his hair was even more chaotic than usual, standing on end as if it had given up all pretense of being manageable. He spotted Ron and Hermione by the fire, Ron still chewing his way through the last of the pilfered chocolates, and wasted no time crossing the room.

Hermione leapt to her feet, hand pressed to her chest. "Harry! What on earth happened to you?" she exclaimed, her brow creased with concern as she swept a scrutinizing gaze over him. 

"Nothing," Harry said hastily, voice pitched just a tad too high.

Ron’s eyes narrowed. It was the sort of feeble excuse that only ever meant trouble. He’d known his best friend long enough to recognize that flicker of guilt in his mate’s expression—the shifty way he avoided meeting their eyes, it was precisely the sort of look Harry wore when he’d either broken a school rule or narrowly escaped certain doom. Probably both.

"Right," Ron said, with a skeptical huff. "Nothing, is it? Because you definitely don’t look like you’ve been wrestling a mountain troll or outrunning a pack of Blast-Ended Skrewts. Oh no, just a quiet evening stroll, was it?"

“I’m tired, alright?” the raven-haired said, voice flat and weary as he latched onto Ron's arm and gave it a decisive tug.

“Oi, I’m still eating—!” Ron protested, clutching the crumpled bag protectively. But Harry’s grip was firm, and before the redhead could do more than swallow hastily, he was half-dragged from his chair.

“I need you in my bed now,” Harry declared, eyes bloodshot and jaw set, a man on a mission.

Ron’s eyes widened, cheeks flaring as red as his hair, “Wha—”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, fighting to keep her voice level and thoroughly failing. “Could you at least rephrase that to something a bit less—” the bushy-haired floundered for the right word, glancing helplessly at Ron—who looked rather shell-shocked at the suddenness. “Well, a bit less...suggestive?”

The raven-haired frowned, clearly oblivious to the innuendo hanging thick in the air. “Oh—oh!” A flush then bloomed across his own face. “I mean—I need to talk to you, Ron. About...er, something important. Upstairs. In the dormitory. Alone.’

Ron relaxed, though his ears were still alarmingly red. “Right, yeah. Sure.” He shot a glare at Hermione, who had the decency to hide a smirk behind her parchment. “We’ll just go…talk.” 

The two of them scrambled up the winding staircase to their dormitory, and Harry waved his wand about the four-poster bed with a series of jittery,  confirming the Silencing Charm had settled comfortably in place.

Ron, meanwhile, stood there by the bedpost, eyebrows knitting together in that familiar look of consternation—the sort he wore whenever Hermione said something clever that sailed clean over his head. “Harry,” he ventured at last, “Did something happen in your Occlumency lesson with Snape?” He shifted uncomfortably, ears tinged pink, but his eyes were fixed resolutely on Harry’s, determined to be the good mate, the supportive boyfriend—however useless he might feel in such matters.

Harry opened his mouth to reply but stumbled over his words, the half-formed denial crumbling before he could get it out. “N-no,” he stammered, a poor attempt at nonchalance. “I mean—yeah, but...I can’t just—just forget about it.” the raven-haired scowled at the floor, as though the scuffed wooden planks were somehow responsible for dredging up the memory. 

“Harry,” Ron pressed, “You can talk to me about it. If you want, that is.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Harry muttered, clutching the bedpost so tightly his knuckles went white. 

“I daresay you ought to start with a question,” The redhead said, the words tumbling out in that sort of half-confident, half-unsure manner he often adopted when uncertain whether he was onto something or wildly off the mark.

“R-Right,” Harry hesitated, before he took a breath and ploughed on, a touch too quickly. “Do you ever think about—err, your parents? I mean—wonder about things you never knew, but then get this awful feeling that finding out might be worse than not knowing at all?”

Ron frowned, chewing the inside of his cheek as he did when grappling with something a bit too complex for comfort. “Go on,” he began slowly, as if navigating a chessboard in his head.

“Mad-Eye showed me a photograph of them once—ages ago now.” Harry admitted, a weary resignation draped over the word. “I was glad—really glad—to see it. It felt...good, I suppose. But then there’s this other part of me—this voice, whispering in the back of my mind—saying there’s something more I don’t know, something I might never know. And that scares me, Ron. It scares me more than You-Know-Who or Dementors or any of that. It’s like there’s this empty space, and no matter how much I learn, it never quite fills.”

Ron jerked his head vaguely towards Harry’s untidy hair. “But, I mean, knowing can’t be worse than not knowing, can it? At least you’d have the truth, and then you could stop going barmy over it.”

Harry huffed a laugh, a mirthless thing, “Yeah. I suppose. But what if it makes me something I can't—don’t want to be?”

The redhead stared at him, blue eyes earnest. “You’re not your dad, Harry. Or your mum. You’re you. And whatever you find out, well—you’ll still be you. Just...more of you.” he hated it—hated seeing Harry look so…defeated. And Ron, well, he had never been any good at dealing with emotions that couldn’t be fixed with a joke or a bit of mindless distraction. But this—this was different. This wasn’t the sort of thing that could be laughed off over a game of chess or forgotten after a hearty meal in the Great Hall. 

No matter how much Ron wished he could make it all go away, he was left feeling utterly useless as he watched the person he cared about most in the world hurting. “And if you found out something you didn’t like, well… that’s on them, isn’t it, Harry?” 

Ron's ears were already turning pink, the familiar heat crawling up the sides of his face. “You’re here because of them, and…and you’re here to change that now, aren’t you? And…and I’m glad you’re here. I mean—I’d still be your friend, wouldn’t I? Of course I would. And—well—we’re…we’re more than that now, aren’t we?” His voice cracked ever so slightly, which only made the flush spread to his neck. “And if you weren’t here…I mean, we wouldn’t be here… together, would we?”

Harry’s gaze stayed on him for a long moment, then, almost imperceptibly at first, the corner of his mouth twitched—and before Ron had the chance to decipher it, the twitch blossomed into a helpless, uncontrollable giggle. His shoulders gave the tiniest shake, and then it was as though some dam within him had broken entirely, allowing the laughter to spill forth unchecked.

Ron’s ears flared a vivid shade of red, his brows knitting together with a mixture of wounded pride and irritation. “Oh, don’t go laughing at me now, Harry,” he grumbled, his voice coloured with a note of indignation. 

“No—no, Ron,” Harry managed to stammer between the dying echoes of his laughter, his voice suddenly catching as he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. A single tear, glistening faintly, and it clung stubbornly to the corner of his eye before he blinked it away. “Sorry,” the raven-haired murmured, his tone now subdued, almost as though he were chastising himself. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I didn’t realise how much I matter—”

“Of course you matter!” Ron blurted out before he could think better of it, his voice ringing out with such fervour that it startled even himself. His face flushed even deeper, and he dragged in a breath, his next words came softer, but no less sincere. “You’re special to me, Harry, you're…you’re everything!”

“Oh,” Harry said, his eyes, wide and owlish behind his spectacles, blinked once, twice, as though his brain were labouring to catch up with whatever revelation had just struck him. 

Ron’s throat went dry, “Y-yeah,” he mumbled, his words tumbling out with an awkwardness that betrayed the heat rising in his cheeks. His face, already tinged pink, deepened into a scarlet hue that crept up to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Harry’s gaze for more than a moment.

“I see,” 

“You see?” Ron blurted—his voice ringing louder in the sudden hush that had settled between them. His face contorted into an expression that was half disbelief and half frustration, eyebrows shooting up so high they nearly disappeared beneath his unruly fringe. “You see? Blimey, Harry, what’s that supposed to mean—Merlin’s beard, mate—d’you fucking honestly think I’d be here, after everything, if—if—” his heart was pounding a bit harder now, and he hated that familiar prickle of anxiety creeping up his neck, the one that always hit whenever Harry started doubting himself again.

“Ron—”

“No, you listen to me!” Ron shouted, his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles going white, as though gripping onto the last shred of composure he was rapidly losing. “I should be the one with doubts here! I should be the one wondering if I matter! I should be the one thinking—thinking maybe it’s me who doesn’t measure up!” His voice cracked, but he pressed on, the words spilling out faster, the dam broken entirely. “Because, Harry—you deserve everything! After—after everything that’s happened to you, after all that—” He stopped abruptly, his throat tight, swallowing against the rising lump that threatened to choke him.

“Ron, please—” Harry’s voice was strained, and there was a pleading look in his eyes now.

“And I—I love you so much,” he continued, and there was an unfamiliar sting behind Ron's eyes that he tried desperately to blink away. “I don’t want—Merlin, I can’t—” His voice caught, and he sucked in a shaky breath, but it was too late. He felt it—the hot prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes, burning, threatening to spill over. “I don’t want anything happening to you..."

Harry stepped forward then, without hesitation, closing the small, aching distance between them. His hand found Ron’s arm, his fingers curling gently but firmly around it, grounding him before he could spiral further. 

“Ron,” 

Ron was a mess, and he knew it. His mind was spinning, his heart pounding erratically in his chest, and his face was hot, probably blotchy now, with the evidence of emotions he couldn’t quite keep in check. His brain was a whirlwind of regret, embarrassment, and the overwhelming fear that he’d said too much, laid himself bare in a way that couldn’t be taken back. Panic clawed its way up his throat, making it hard to breathe, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out—clumsy, rushed, desperate. “I—I’m sorry,” Ron said, his voice cracking as he tried to pull away. “I'm sorry—”

“No.” Harry’s grip on his arm didn’t tighten, but it didn’t let go either, anchoring him there—keeping him from retreating into himself. “I don’t deserve anything, Ron. You do.”

Ron blinked, his heart thudding in his ears, but before he could protest, Harry pressed on “I might not have everything you have, Ron,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving Ron’s, his thumb brushing ever so lightly against the fabric of Ron’s sleeve—a small, grounding touch His voice was softer now, but no less certain. “But I met you. And that…that was enough for me.”

“Harry…” Ron shook his head. “Don't say that—”

“I mean it,” Harry went on, his green eyes searching Ron’s face with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. His expression was so open—so painfully honest. “I don’t think I’d have made it this far without you, and I know—I know I don’t always say it, or show it the way I should, but…you mean more to me than I can even put into words. You matter to me, Ron. So much more than you realise.”

And in that moment, all the doubts, the insecurities, the feeling that Ron wasn’t enough…they all crumbled. Because Harry had just laid his soul bare, and for the first time, Ron realised—really realised—that he wasn’t alone in this.

He never had been. 

“Please,” Harry moved—just the slightest step forward—but in that moment, Ron’s mind seemed to slow to a crawl, each second stretching out, making the space between them feel insufferably vast despite how little distance remained. “I want to stay with you,” he added.

Ron’s ears were roaring now, his cheeks now a rather violent shade of crimson. 

Harry’s fingers brushed softly against Ron’s hand—and Ron’s fingers uncurled, his palm opening naturally, instinctively, as if his hand had been waiting for Harry’s touch all along. Those fingers slipped gently into the gaps between Ron’s, the fit feeling so easy, so natural, that the redhead wondered fleetingly how it had taken them this long to arrive here.

“A-Alright,” Ron stammered, it was soft and just a touch sheepish, as though he was only just beginning to process how deeply, irreversibly entangled they had become. Harry’s thumb brushed lightly against the back of Ron’s hand, a small, absent-minded gesture, and Ron’s heart gave a peculiar little flip in response. He glanced down at their joined hands, the sight sending a fresh wave of heat to his face, but for once, he didn’t feel the need to pull away or crack some awkward joke to break the tension.

No, this was…good. Better than good. This was Harry’s hand in his, and for the first time, Ron felt as though he was standing on ground that wouldn’t give way beneath him. He didn’t know what came next, and truth be told, that uncertainty should have made him feel queasy. But with Harry’s fingers entwined with his own, the unknown didn’t seem quite so terrifying.

And if Harry’s smile was anything to go by, Ron reckoned they’d figure it out together.