Golden Glove

Ron wiped the sweat from his brow, grimacing at the dampness clinging to his skin. He’d been labouring away at the Burrow’s farm the whole day, shovelling dirt around the vegetable patches. The sun had been an absolute scorcher, and his shirt was plastered to his back. His arms were throbbing from the work, so he took a moment, feeling the weariness settling into his bones.

For two days on end, he’d been sprinting around the Burrow and the farm—really, the only places he could manage since getting back to the shop. Mum had insisted she needed assistance, which left him bogged down with all the burdens while the rest of the family went off about their business. 

Every day was the same old routine for him, up at the crack of dawn, barely able to open his eyes. He’d drag himself out of bed, grumbling under his breath, and set to work. First, it was the laundry—clothes everywhere, tangled and soggy, as if they had a mind of their own, refusing to get sorted. Then, the chickens needed feeding, pecking about impatiently, like they couldn’t wait a second longer.

After that, he’d be off to tend the vegetables, crouching over the dirt, pulling weeds and watering plants, feeling like his back was about to snap in two. And if that wasn’t enough, there were a million other chores waiting to be done. From sunup to sundown, it was an endless list of tasks, one after another, and the worst part? He wasn’t even getting paid for any of it. Not a single penny.

At least he still had food to fall back on, though it was hardly a comfort. The rats, which seemed to have taken up permanent residence alongside him, were always eager to share his meagre scraps. No matter where he went, the cheeky little blighters were never far behind, scurrying about in search of their own morsels. It was rather amusing, in a way. He’d named them Squibber, Squeaker, Squitters, and Squippy—quite the crew, eh?

At times, Ron often pondered what life might have been like had he secured a beautiful life. He realised, of course, that this line of thought might come across as rather selfish. Still, if only he’d been granted the same opportunities as his siblings, perhaps he might have had something of his own to take pride in.

Oh, and a broomstick of his own—what would that be like? To mount one and take off into the sky, wind whipping through his hair, soaring above the treetops? The thought sent a thrill down his spine. He’d seen plenty of brooms, of course, and those who had completed their magical education always received one, much like the ones handed to students when they graduated.

Ginny had a broom too, but unfortunately—It was locked up, and nobody seemed too thrilled at the idea of him borrowing it. So, when he needed to get into town, there he was, stuck on foot, trudging through the woods like with no better option.

Each time his boots sank into the muddy ground, he couldn’t help but think how much simpler it’d be to just hop on a broom and zoom straight there—no hassle, no aching legs. But no, that wasn’t happening. Ron was left to slog through the woods, dodging low-hanging branches that seemed to come out of nowhere, and, naturally, getting twigs and leaves tangled in his hair. It was like the universe had it out for him, making sure he had the most miserable trip possible.

He’d been plodding along for what felt like ages—two hours, at least—only stopping now and then to swig some water before pushing on. His legs were starting to feel like lead, but there was no getting around it; someone had to fetch the supplies. Bill, the oldest of the lot, was coming home with his wife, and their brood of kids in tow. And, of course, with more mouths to feed, that meant he had to carry even more on his back.

Ron was just about ready to curse his luck when he heard it—a sharp snap of a twig somewhere off to the side. He froze, heart hammering in his chest, and his first thought was bears. Of course, it had to be bears. Just his rotten luck. He immediately fumbled for his wand, pulling it out of his pocket. The thing was practically ancient, looking more like a twig itself these days, but it’d have to do.

His grip tightened on it, his mind racing through the few spells he knew. They were mostly cleaning charms—nothing impressive—but he reckoned he could whip up enough of a distraction if it came down to it. Better than standing there like a sitting duck, waiting for something to leap out at him.

He crept forward, his wand clutched tightly in one hand, eyes darting around like mad, taking in every rustle of leaves, every creak of the forest. His nerves were shot, on edge with every tiny sound. It felt like the trees themselves were out to get him, and his heartbeat drummed loud in his ears. He paused, barely breathing, waiting for something—anything—to jump out at him.

Then, without warning, there was a sharp noise from behind him. His body reacted instantly, whipping around so fast it made his heart leap into his throat.

“Oh,” Ron breathed, his tense shoulders dropping. There, standing quietly in front of him, was a horse. But not just any horse—this one was pristine, its coat gleaming white, so brilliant it practically glowed against the surroundings. A saddle rested on its back, neatly secured, though it was clear someone had been careless enough to let it wander off.

But something was off. The horse was frozen stiff, its eyes wide, almost wild with fear. It looked like it was about to bolt any second, completely petrified, as if it sensed danger lurking just beyond the trees. Ron mentally kicked himself—what was he playing at, pointing his wand at the poor thing? It wasn’t a blasted bear!

He lowered his wand at once, switching it out for his hand, palm open and steady as he reached toward the trembling horse. “Hey,” he said softly, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The truth was, he wasn’t sure who was more rattled—him or the horse. His voice was calm, though, as he kept talking, hoping the words would settle the animal’s nerves. “No one’s gonna hurt you, not while I’m about, alright?”

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, like they were sharing some unspoken understanding. The horse’s eyes were still wide, pupils blown with fear, but it didn’t budge when Ron dared to take a step forward, slow and deliberate. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure the creature could hear it, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again, inching even closer, his hand stretched out toward the horse’s brilliant coat, which was trembling like leaves in the wind. Just as his fingers were about to brush against its soft fur, a sudden noise rang out from behind—a sharp rustling that sliced through the quiet.

The horse jolted in an instant, its panic reignited by the sudden noise—and to his utter shock, the creature reared back, nearly knocking him over. Ron's arms flailed around as he stumbled backward, barely managing to avoid the sharp hooves that kicked out in his direction.

“Watch it!” Ron yelped, his heart leaping into his throat. But before he could even catch his breath, the horse bolted, galloping off into the distance with a wild snort. 

The sound came again, even sharper this time, snapping Ron out of his moment with the horse. His instincts kicked in as he spun around, wand at the ready, pointing straight in the direction of the noise. His whole body tensed, standing tall and alert, preparing himself for whatever—or whoever—was out there.

Then a figure stepped out from between the trees, their own wand drawn, aimed directly at him. Ron’s heart leapt into his throat, skipping a beat as he tightened his grip on his wand, fingers trembling slightly. He took a cautious step back, his mind racing. “Oi, who are you?” he demanded, voice a bit shakier than he’d like, but he forced it to sound strong. He tried to swallow the panic rising in his chest, keeping his wand trained on the stranger.

But the figure didn’t budge. He stood there, wand raised, staring Ron down with a calm, unnerving presence. A cloak covered most of his face, hiding his features, but Ron’s eyes caught something important—the quality of his clothes. Rich, fine fabric, the kind you’d never see on just any ordinary wizard. No, this was different. The robes practically screamed wealth and power—maybe even royalty.

Ron’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just some random bloke wandering through the woods. This was someone dangerous!

The stranger slumped against the tree, his gloved hand clutching his side, with unmistakable crimson, thick and wet, smeared all over on it. Blood. Properly soaked. The man had clearly been trying to hide it, but now it was everywhere, dripping through his fingers like some nightmare Ron had hoped to leave behind.

So he immediately scrambled forward, his feet tripping over themselves as he rushed towards the man. Ron had no idea what to do, absolutely no clue, but he couldn’t just stand there like a helpless monkey. There was a stranger dying right in front of him! 

But the man shook his head, his legs buckling beneath him as he coughed, a harsh, ragged sound. “Don't!” he gasped, straining. “I need the horse...now.” The words came out like an order, sharp and commanding, as though the stranger was used to giving instructions and having them followed. But right now, it wasn’t quite working for him—not when he was pale, barely holding himself up, and obviously on the brink of collapsing. He might’ve had some authority once, but in his current state, it was slipping away fast.

Ron, who was notoriously rubbish at taking orders even on a good day, certainly wasn’t going to let some half-dead stranger boss him about now. His hands flew up in pure frustration as he spluttered, “You’re dying, mate! And you’re worried about a horse?!”

The stranger, clearly in agony, managed to shove him aside, wheezing as his breath came in short, ragged bursts. “You don’t...understand,” he gasped, face contorted in pain. “That horse...it was important—”

Ron stared down at the injured man lying there, looking half-dead but still managing to sound a bit stubborn. “And not your life? You’re barking mad!” he shot back, completely gobsmacked—as if the absurdity of the situation couldn’t get any worse. “Look, just let me clean your wound, alright? I don’t need anyone going around saying I let some bloke die out here in the woods. I’ve got enough on my plate without people thinking I’m a murderer!”

The bloke didn't respond right away, maybe thinking about it or just trying to summon the energy to speak through the pain. After what felt like an eternity, the man groaned, “Fine,” though it sounded more like a grudging surrender than actual agreement. “But I'll hunt you down if you’ve killed me,” he added, still managing to throw in a threat.

“I’m not like that!” Ron exclaimed, though the man was in no state to argue further. The stranger slowly removed his hand, and that’s when the bile rose up in Ron’s throat. He almost lost it right then and there. The wound was massive—gaping open like someone had taken a right nasty swipe with a blade, not a wand. The thought of it made his stomach churn, but he fought to keep it together.

Ron steadied his breathing while fumbling for his wand. "Right...cleaning spell first," he muttered to himself, trying to recall the proper incantations. This was one of those moments where he was grateful for all the spells he'd picked up at work, even if most of them were to patch up himself. Pointing his wand carefully, he muttered a quick incantation, watching the dirt and blood clear away.

“Rip my cloak,” the man croaked.

Ron glanced at the cloak, posh and expensive-looking. “No way!” he protested, “You’ve got a fancy cloak right there, mate, I’m not about to ruin it—"

“Just do it!” The man was getting impatient now, his voice strained with pain.

Honestly, dealing with a dying man shouldn’t be this bloody difficult. He reluctantly tore into the cloak, ripping off a large piece to press against the wound, doing his best to stem the bleeding. His hands were a bit shaky, but he managed to wrap the makeshift bandage securely enough, muttering something about how this was the last time he played healer.

As he worked, Ron threw a glance at the man, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you know any healing spells?”

The man, pale and grimacing, just shook his head. “I’m still struggling...with that,” he rasped, clearly drained. 

Ron fussed over the patchwork job he’d done on the wound, looking it over with a bit too much concern for someone who wasn’t a professional. "I’m no healer, so you’d better get it checked up when you’re back in town." He paused, casting a glance around the woods, where every rustle of leaves or snap of twigs made his nerves prickle. "That’s if a bear or a wolf doesn’t catch a whiff of your blood and come sniffing around first."

The stranger let out a faint chuckle, a sound that seemed oddly out of place given the situation, and when he did—the hood he’d been wearing slid further back over his shoulder, revealing his face. Ron, who had been more focused on his dodgy patchwork job than anything else, almost missed it. But when he glanced up, his heart nearly stopped.

The man's features were unexpectedly young—probably around Ron's age, which threw him off even more. His face was pale, sure, but Ron could still make out the remnants of a tan beneath all that pallor, like he’d spent plenty of time outdoors before ending up in this sorry state. His hair, though, was a right mess—completely dishevelled, like he hadn’t bothered combing it in a month. It stuck up at odd angles, bits of dirt and leaves tangled in the strands.

Ron's face was heating up so fast he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears. Of all the people to stumble across, it just had to be a handsome one, didn’t it? Ron felt like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. The contrast couldn’t have been more painful.

"Cheers," the stranger muttered, eyes still half-closed as he finally blinked them open, turning to face him—and holy shite—Ron had never seen eyes like that before. They were this intense, almost unnatural shade of green, like the grass at the Burrow after a fresh mow in the middle of summer, and there was a certain warmth to it too, a bit of brown mixed in, like autumn leaves just about to fall. It made the whole thing seem like some kind of seasonal painting, right in front of him.

Ron, who was blatantly staring, immediately looked away. "Er, do you...still feel any pain?" he mumbled, awkwardly clearing his throat, as if he hadn’t just been gawking.

The stranger chuckled softly, offering a small, crooked grin. "Just a bit," he replied, "Hope I didn't stop you from getting on with whatever you were up to."

Ron waved him off, trying to seem casual, but it came out more flustered than anything. "Nah, no worries, mate…”

"Then, would you mind if we stay like this for a bit longer?"

"I couldn’t exactly leave you here on your own, now, could I? That wouldn’t be very decent of me.” Ron began, still half-convinced he should be on his way. But the words didn't come out as firmly as he'd meant. "I can stick around...just till you're back on your feet, yeah?" He’d decided. Sod the errand.

Ron eased himself back down, trying to convince himself he wasn’t making a colossal mistake. Surely, he wouldn’t be that late. No, he thought, I’ve got a perfectly good reason for sticking around, haven’t I? But as much as he tried to settle his nerves, he could feel a lump of discomfort rise in his throat.

The thing was, sitting this close to someone he barely knew—shoulders nearly brushing—it felt odd. Really odd, actually. His skin tingles at the nearness, not in a pleasant way. He wasn’t sure why it felt so exposing, this whole business of sitting too close, but it did. The space between them was almost non-existent, like it was begging to be filled with a conversation.

He, who wasn’t exactly one for overthinking when the situation got a bit sticky, decided to just go with what came naturally to him—talking. It wasn’t like Ron had many other options at the moment, was it? Action was always better than stewing in awkwardness. 

"So, uh, do you...have a...err...family?" he blurted out, as if the question had slipped out before he could really get a hold of it. He wasn’t sure if that was the best way to break the ice, but it was something, at least. But hey, it was better than sitting there in silence, wasn’t it?

The stranger sighed wearily, as if Ron had just plucked the very question he didn’t want to face. "Yeah, and they were expecting me to bring the horse this afternoon."

“Oh,” Ron stared at his shoes, suddenly far more fascinating than the situation at hand. "Sorry…If I’d known it was important, I wouldn’t’ve let it run off..." Merlin, why did he always have to muck things up?

"It was a present for my baby sister." The man let out a small, almost self-conscious chuckle. "Well, I was going to buy her a broom," he admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed by the idea. "But, I mean, she was only a baby then, wasn’t she? What use would she have for both?”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the branches overhead as if agreeing with the absurdity of gifting a broom and a horse to a newborn.

Ron nodded a little at that. A present, huh? He let the idea roll around in his head for a moment. He couldn’t quite remember ever getting anything when he was a baby—certainly not something like a broomstick. The only thing he could remember from being that young was standing on a stool at the Burrow, sleeves rolled up, doing the washing-up when he was six. Hardly a gift, but it’s what you did in a family like his.

Life had been different back then, hadn’t it? Growing up in a house full of siblings, hand-me-downs and chores were more common than presents, especially for the youngest boys. That didn’t bother him now, though. In fact, it almost seemed funny—the way the past shaped you in ways you didn’t notice until later.

"You should probably buy a foal," Ron leaned back against the tree, crossing his arms and letting the idea sink in. After all, he’d always enjoyed being around animals—far better than scrubbing dishes, that was for certain. “That way, you could let your sister take care of it. ” He continued, imagining a little girl with wild hair, giggling as she chased after the creatures around the garden.  

"That’s a great idea, yeah," the stranger smiled, and he seemed to warm to the suggestion. "There’s a bit more to it than just feeding and brushing, right?"

“Of course, I worked with them a lot back then!” Ron said, his enthusiasm bubbling over, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You’ve got to know how to handle them right, you see. It’s not just about feeding them and giving them a pat now and then—you’ve still got to watch their temperaments, too. Some are a bit skittish, others are as gentle as can be—and grooming? It’s essential—keeps their coat healthy and shiny. And don’t get me started on the mucking out! It’s a bit of a chore, but it’s all part of the deal, innit?” He then caught himself mid-sentence, realising he was rambling on. “Sorry, err. I suppose I’m just a bit passionate about it. You know how it is with horses. They can be right stubborn if you don’t know what you’re doing…”

The stranger looked at him, amused. “No, it’s alright,” he chuckled, clearly intrigued. “I’ll have to take your advice, then. You seem to know a thing or two about it.”

Ron felt a flush creep up his cheeks, half-embarrassed but also a bit pleased. “Oh, well, I’m not really, not like the proper ones, anyway,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Just grew up around them, you know? Plenty of time spent mucking about with whatever animals we had at the time.”

He recalled the days spent wrangling animals at the Burrow, alongside chickens and geese waddling about. He had a right motley crew of them, you see, and it fell to him to make sure they were all well-fed. Mornings were often a bit of a rush, darting about with buckets of feed in hand, calling out to the creatures, their clucks filling the air. 

The stranger leaned closely, as if they'd just stumbled upon something unexpectedly fascinating. "You're quite an interesting one," he said, "I must say, I’m rather surprised you haven’t tried to take any advantage yet,”

Ron blinked, brow furrowing in that familiar way whenever something went right over his head. "Er—pardon?" he muttered, trying to sound polite but completely thrown by the comment. 

"Most would leap at the opportunity," 

Ron wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel flattered or insulted. "Right..." he mumbled, still none the wiser

The stranger glanced at him, then came the laugh—light and airy. “You really have no idea, do you?" The stranger shook his head ever so slightly, as if Ron had done something both baffling and endearing. “Well, I haven't introduced myself properly, have I now?"

“It’s no bother if we don’t know each other at all," Ron muttered, puffing out a breath, clearly trying to brush off the conversation. He didn’t fancy handing out his name to just anyone, especially not to some stranger he was unlikely to cross paths with again. It wasn’t like there was any point, really. He was just another face in the crowd, easily overlooked—and frankly, he preferred it that way. The last thing he wanted was to impress someone who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

"You've caught my attention," The man leaned in, that grin plastered on his face now bordering on ridiculous. "And when someone does, I make sure they stay in my sights."

"Right, well, glad I could be the day's entertainment,”

"Oh, I reckon you’re more than just a bit of entertainment, don't you think?”

That did it. Ron felt the heat rush to his freckled cheeks, before letting out a strangled laugh. He wasn’t used to someone talking to him like this—at all. Most barely gave him a second glance. They were usually distracted by their own thoughts to notice the scruffy bloke who’d just come in from working, dust and grease smudged across his shirt.

Ron had grown used to blending in, really. He was more of a background figure—there to help, not to be noticed. But now? Now he was sitting here, face burning up like a furnace, feeling like he was the centre of some mad attention he wasn’t quite ready for.

It was flustering, to say the least, but there was something oddly magnetic about it, too.

"So, are you not going to introduce yourself, then?" Ron tilted his head slightly, trying to seem relaxed. But he wasn’t. Not one bit. 

The man leaned in just a fraction of more, eyes glinting. "Harry," he answered, like he was attempting to make his name sound more interesting than it had any right to be. “That’s my name. Or, at least, it’s what my father gave me,”

Ron laughed heartily, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It was nice to meet you, Harry,” 

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them saying a word, but it didn’t feel awkward anymore—not at all. There was something warm in the air between them, something that made him feel oddly comfortable. 

“What about you, then?” Harry asked, those brilliant green eyes, bright as ever, were locked onto his, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had shrunk down to just the two of them. 

“It’s…” Ron began, his voice wobbling just slightly, not quite as steady as he’d like. It felt like the words were getting stuck halfway up his throat. He was just about to blurt out his name when—

Bang! A sudden noise behind them shattered the moment, making them both flinch.