“Love is a brick,” Bill finally said to the tiny blubbering mess beside him, throwing an arm around Ron’s skinny shoulders. He tried to hold back the sad smile threatening to spill across his face. Bill hated it when his brothers or sister cried. But mostly, he hated when Ron cried, because he rarely did.
The tree house creaked softly under their combined weight, its weathered wooden planks worn smooth by the years. It was early spring, and a light breeze carried the scent of damp earth and budding leaves. The sky above was streaked with remnants of rain clouds, mirroring the sordid haze Bill’s little brother was going through. Suddenly, Ron’s red-rimmed eyes lit up with curiosity at the words, reflecting the blue after a thunderstorm - clear and bright, with a hint of rain lingering in the corners of the sky.
He sniffled once, a small sound swallowed by the vastness of the day, and Bill pulled his threadbare sleeve over his palm, gently wiping his little brother’s face free of tears and snot. The sleeve was worn thin, the fabric frayed at the edges, but it was soft against Ron’s flushed skin. Ron didn’t protest, not this time, his tiny head still pondering his big brother’s words.
“Y-you mean,” Ron hiccuped, “like when it’s hidden in the tall grass behind Dad’s shed and I run and I trip over it and fall on my face?”
Bill laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the open air as he pulled his brother into a tight sideway hug. Ron was an odd seven-year-old. But then again, the world must feel odd at seven. Bill couldn’t quite remember. It only got weirder with age, Bill thought, but Ron didn't need to know just yet.
“Maybe,” Bill shrugged after a moment of contemplative silence, the word drifting between them.
“That makes no sense,” Ron sighed, looking down from the tree house, his legs dangling from the edge. Below, the garden was coming back to life after winter, patches of green breaking through the soil. The little girl with a long black braid skipped next to her mother as they waved goodbye to Mrs. Weasley, her cheerful voice carrying faintly up to the tree house.
Ron scrunched up his nose, the tip of his ears turning red. “Think she’ll tell her mum?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.
Bill pressed his hand down on Ron’s scratched knees, feeling the slight tremor as his brother's legs bobbed anxiously. The knees were raw from a recent tumble, the skin scraped and pink, a stark contrast against the freckles still forming there. “I don’t think so,” Bill reassured him.
“Will you?” Ron asked, eyes wide and searching, still unsure.
“No. I would never.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
*
Summer was burning the soil with such cruel force it felt as if the earth itself was cracking open, fissures of steaming heat rising from the dry, parched ground. Ron could feel the heat seeping into every pore of his skin, tugging at his nerves, yet somehow he welcomed it. Sweatdrops mingled with his flaming red hair, which clung stubbornly to his forehead and cheeks with every arm swing - a drowning, angry fire mirroring the sun's blaze.
A flat pebble hit the pond with a soft plop, sending ripples across the glassy surface. It was a stupid way to unwind, but the only one he could think of in the vast loudness of the Burrow. Here, by the pond, he could hear his breath, let his mind scream into the quiet with every thrown pebble, each one a small rebellion against the chaos inside him.
“Oh, here you are.”
Ron’s shoulders slumped with a sigh as he turned to his father’s soft voice. “Yeah, Dad. I’ll be right back and set the table, just… Just a minute, alright?”
His dad hummed in reply, the sound low and understanding and Ron could see him select two flat skipping stones from the corner of his eye. Arthur turned the stones in his hand, weighing and observing their anatomy. “Care to talk about it?”
“No,” Ron replied, then flinched at the harshness of the two simple syllables that dropped from his mouth. “I mean… I don’t really know.”
“I see,” Arthur replied with a pensive look before throwing the smaller stone against the surface of the pond. It skipped several times before disappearing into the murky water, the ripples fading into the heat-hazed distance.
“Love is a brick,” his dad added a moment later, the words so unexpected that Ron stopped mid-swing, almost losing his footing on the dusty, sunbaked ground. The words weren’t new. Sometime, somewhere he’d heard them—a memory of a confession and scraped knees and prickling tears surfacing like lilies around the Burrow’s ponds.
The sun burned bright behind Ron’s closed eyes, orange rage accumulating from the roots of his being and the pebbles came down like a hail storm, stirring the dragonflies that were gliding across the dark water.
“It makes no bloody sense,” Ron grunted, brushing his dusty hands against the worn denim of his jeans, avoiding his father’s eyes. “And it can bloody well drop to the bottom of the lake! Just sink and stay there! I don’t care! Don’t care at all !” He turned abruptly, eager to stomp back to the Burrow, then stopped and looked at his dad, “I meant to say pond.”
“Of course, son,” Arthur replied, eyes drifting across the once more still surface of the pond. A silver heron flew overhead, its long wings cutting through the blazing brightness of the day, and Ron pushed his sweat-soaked hair back, watching the bird until it disappeared beyond the treeline.
“And I’m not - ,” Ron bit his tongue, frustration and confusion tangling in his thoughts, “I don’t care for it.” He finished the incoherent thought with a sigh before adding, “I’m going back.”
“I’ll be right behind you, son,” Arthur said, his voice calm as he observed the stone in his hand, feeling the smoothness of its surface. He listened to his youngest son’s receding footfalls, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remembered just how agonizing it was to be fourteen and caught in the eye of a storm that you couldn’t quite name yet. It tugged at his heart to see his son struggling through it. However, the pain of it - the raw and maddening confusion - it was something too profound, too beautiful not to feel.
*
The Gryffindor boys' dormitory was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came in the late hours when everyone else had gone to bed, leaving the world outside undisturbed. The heavy curtains around the other beds were drawn tight, creating small pockets of solitude within the room. But Ron and Harry remained awake, sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed, both lost in their own thoughts as they stared out the window.
Outside, snow was falling in gentle, swirling patterns, blanketing the grounds of Hogwarts in a soft, white hush. The flakes drifted down slowly, catching the dim light from the distant torches, and settling quietly on the window ledge, where they melted into small, clear droplets.
Ron was hunched over slightly, his eyes unfocused as he traced the angry scars on his forearm—the marks left by the flock of enchanted birds Hermione had sent after him. The thin red lines still prickled with each touch, but he couldn’t stop his fingers from following their jagged paths. Beside him, Harry was equally quiet, gaze fixed on the falling snow, his thoughts a tangled mess. Harry felt like he should say something, the silence between them carrying more weight than either could bear. But it was hard to form words when they were needed to express the places inside neither dared to venture.
So silence continued to reign, the only sound that filled the room being the soft rhythmic breathing of their sleeping roommates and the occasional rustle of bedclothes as someone shifted in their sleep.
Finally, Ron sighed, the sound barely more than a whisper. His hand stilled on his arm, fingers resting on the raw, angry scars. “Love is a brick,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wha—what now?” he whispered, turning his head to face Ron.
“Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I?” Ron winced and ran a hand over his face. Harry nodded slowly and turned to the window again. It was less awkward that way. At least he hoped. Harry had felt things shifting this year - an undercurrent of tension in the air that had little to nothing to do with classes, or Quidditch, or even the looming threat of Voldemort. It felt like they were teetering on the edge of a conversation neither of them knew how to have.
“Yeah, erm, sorry,” Ron said hurriedly, the words tumbling out as if he could erase what had been said. “It’s just something my dad says…”
“It makes no sense,” Harry replied quietly, finally offering his thoughts now that the moment had passed. The phrase was out there now, lingering in the air, and it felt wrong to just leave it alone.
“That’s what I said!” Ron turned to his friend, letting out a small, relieved laugh. “Right?!”
“Right,” Harry agreed, nodding as he turned back to the window. The snow continued to fall in soft, relentless waves, and for a moment, it felt like they could just leave it there, buried under the weight of the night.
“But,” Harry began cautiously, his voice barely more than a murmur as he turned his head slightly, glancing at Ron without fully meeting his eyes, “what if it kind of is?”
“A brick?” Ron repeated, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Harry just shrugged. Ron let out a frustrated chuckle, more of a bark than anything else. “Then its sole purpose is to be thrown at a window - break it all to pieces, then throw it again, just out of spite.”
Harry watched Ron’s reflection in the window, saw the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes. It was a side of Ron he didn’t often see - anger and hurt coiled so tightly together that they could only be expressed in sharp, bitter words.
“Yeah, makes sense,” Harry offered, his voice low, almost lost in the quiet of the room.
They fell into silence again, the snow continuing to fall outside.
Better leave it at this, they both thought, whatever this was.
*
The Weasley garden was alive with the hustle and bustle of last-minute preparations, the air humming with anticipation. Rows of white chairs, their backs tied with delicate ribbons, were neatly arranged in front of a small, makeshift altar covered in wildflowers. Tables draped in crisp linens were being set up around the edges of the garden, each adorned with blooming centerpieces that flickered gently like fairies, even in the daylight. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the sweet fragrance of the blooms carried on the warm summer breeze that rustled through the trees and sent small flurries of petals drifting through the air.
“Alright, boys, concentrate! On my count - one, two, and three!” Arthur’s voice rang out, commanding attention as the flapping of fabric and the low murmuring of the collective spell intertwined to raise the tent.
August weather was never kind to gingers, especially not in the sticky heat of the summer. Ron could feel the back of his neck already damp with sweat, and with a resigned sigh, he pushed his shirt sleeves up, fully aware they’d be creased beyond repair—a fact that would earn him a disapproving look from his mother. But at that moment, it was the least of his worries.
His brows furrowed in concentration, the grip on his wand firm as he focused on keeping the tent steady. Just as the structure began to rise, he caught sight of Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was walking toward them levitating a tray full of heart-shaped candles, her lilac dress lightly brushing against her legs, and for a split second, the world seemed to slow down in the most excruciating manner possible. The way the sunlight filtered through her hair, making it shimmer with a dark golden hue, had his heart racing and his mouth going dry.
Ron’s pulse quickened, and his concentration faltered. His wand dipped as his thoughts scattered, completely lost to the way she absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He could feel his face growing hotter, his stomach twisting into a knot that made him feel almost queasy.
“Shit, Ron! Mind your end!” Fred barked, flicking his wand rapidly to keep their side of the tent from collapsing entirely.
“Yeah, sorry,” Ron mumbled, fumbling with his wand as he hastily tried to regain control. His ears were burning, and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck, knowing full well that his cheeks were probably the same shade of red as his hair. His hand shot up instinctively, raking through the tangled mess, as if that could somehow make him look less of an idiot.
Fred, never one to miss a thing, grinned widely, “Damn, Ronnie, that much, huh?” He teased, eyes full of mischief as they darted between his brother and Hermione, who was now delicately placing the candles onto the dinner tables. “What’s the matter? Afraid you might melt if she looks your way?”
Ron’s eyes flickered nervously back to Hermione just as they finally set the tent in place. He swallowed hard and turned his attention to Fred, trying to put on an annoyed face. “Shut up, Fred,” he muttered, tucking his wand into his back pocket, then fumbling to straighten down his sleeves. “There is nothing there,” Ron added, and the tinge of disappointment in his voice was unmistakable.
“Nothing, where?” Fred shot back, raising his hand to his forehead in mock seriousness, akin to a sailor searching the horizon for land.
Ron rolled his eyes and sighed, “Come off it, Fred, honestly. I’ve got more important things to think about.” He turned his head and looked at Harry, a mixture of worry and dread settling over his features.
“Hey,” Fred’s voice turned uncharacteristically serious, the most serious Ron had ever heard, as he firmly grabbed his elbow, “Love is a brick.”
“Oh, fuck, not that again,” Ron groaned, pulling his arm free, frustration rising to his cheeks.
“I mean it,” Fred didn’t relent, his expression dead-set as he moved closer, his face inches from Ron’s, leaving his baby brother with no choice but to meet his gaze.
“It’s not funny!”
“I wasn’t being funny,” Fred said, his tone unwavering as he locked eyes with Ron, “And it will be too late when this shitstorm is over, when we defeat that evil fuck, because you already know. You know now. ”
“So you are either funny or cryptic as fuck - is that it? What does that even mean, Fred?” Ron grumbled, trying to look away, but Fred’s hand on his shoulder kept him in place.
“Maybe start with a dance and ease into it, yeah?” Fred grinned again, the mischief returning as he patted Ron’s shoulder before releasing him and turning on his heel to leave.
“Just going to leave me with that then?” Ron raised and dropped his arms in resignation. “Some cryptic line you lot keep tossing at me with no bloody explanation WHATSOEVER?”
Fred turned and slowly walked backward, chuckling softly as he caught his brother’s eyes again, “I don’t need to explain it to you. I only need to explain it to one person. My person. You’ll get there, Ronnie, don’t worry.”
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting elongated shadows that stretched like fingers across the garden, the golden light softening into a deep amber glow. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath, a hushed pause before the inevitable. Ron stood rooted in place as an unspoken dread mingled with the beauty of the moment.
It wasn’t going to last, Ron thought, nothing was meant to last. But a dance? Maybe, just maybe he could manage that. He glanced at Fred, a smile still lingering on his face, a look in his eyes that held far too much, and far too little, all at once.
And then, the moment slipped away.
Fred never got the chance to explain.
But George did… in his stead.
*
“It’s alright, little one, it’s alright. Let it all out,” Ron whispered, his voice tender as it was muffled by his son’s soft curls. Hugo’s small body shuddered with sadness, slowly curling into his father as if seeking shelter from a world that had been too harsh, too unfair. He clung to Ron’s strong arm, stretched protectively over his waist, pulling his father’s broad palm onto his tear-streaked cheek. Ron could feel his heart lodged in his throat, each tremor of Hugo’s sobs reverberating through him like a dull ache that wouldn’t fade. At ten years old, Hugo had begun to shy away from his dad’s relentless hugs and displays of affection - after all, he had a reputation to uphold, or so James had told him. But here in the quiet of his bedroom, with the world outside fading into the background, Hugo didn’t need to pretend. He could be what he always was, what his dad would always remind him he was - a little heron tucked safely under his father’s wing.
The rain fell gently outside, a soft, rhythmic patter against the windowpane as if the sky itself felt Hugo’s grief. The droplets were small, almost delicate, and they slid down the glass in slow, meandering paths, tracing patterns that disappeared as quickly as they formed. In the distance, the steady drip of water from the roof created a soothing rhythm, a gentle cadence that mingled with the occasional sigh of the wind through the trees. In a way, it was a natural lullaby that wrapped around the house, softening the edges of everything.
Years ago, water dripped in much the same fashion from Hugo’s soaking hair as he stood knee-deep in a pond close to Grandpa and Grandma’s house. His big sister had been tucked safely in the shadows of a weathered willow tree, lost in the pages of a book, while his dad weighed several skipping stones in his hand. The sun was hot against his skin and the world was a wonderful haze of all that late spring had to offer.
“Daddy, daddy, look!” Hugo had shouted, wading his way through the murky pond, his small arm pointing skyward. “What’s that one called, huh? What’s that one called?” He screamed, voice filled with awe, as a large bird glided effortlessly across the sky.
Ron followed his outstretched arm with a soft smile, shading his eyes with one hand, “Oh, that’s a heron.”
“A what?”
“Heron,” Ron repeated, hunching over slightly to angle his arm before he tossed the stone.
“He’s a Ron, too?” Hugo asked, eyes suddenly wide as saucers.
Ron chuckled, meeting his son’s bright eyes, carefree giggles bubbling up between them, warming him more than any sun ever could. At that moment, the world narrowed to this place - a pond, a book, and a heron.
“I want to be a ron when I grow up,” Hugo had said, spreading his arms and tilting to one side like the bird in flight.
“I think I’d prefer you be a Hugo when you grow up,” Ron replied, spreading his arms too, mimicking his son.
“No! A ron! I want to fly high and away!” Hugo had protested, lips pursed in a determined pout.
“Alright,” Ron had relented, moving closer and scooping Hugo up, lifting him high over his head. Hugo squealed in delight at the sudden rush. “Alright, little heron, you can fly high and away, but come back to me, please.” Ron had pulled him down into a tight hug, his voice softening. “So I can tuck you under my wing.”
Now, Hugo’s sobs had quieted, the sadness draining from his small body, leaving only deep breaths and soft snores. Ron planted a gentle kiss into the tangle of copper curls.
“Love is a brick, little heron,” Ron whispered into his son’s ear, though the boy was already fast asleep. Hugo would likely protest those words another day—he was full of questions and a fierce determination to understand the world. But for now, there was time. Time for the sadness, the pain, the most beautiful torment of all.
The door squeaked open, and Ron looked up to see Hermione standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with concern. “Is he alright?” she whispered, her voice soft with worry.
“Yeah, he’ll be alright,” Ron murmured, slowly retrieving his arm from around Hugo and climbing out of bed. “I can’t tell you who she is, though,” he added with a small, teasing smile.
Hermione covered her mouth, repressing a laugh that almost escaped. “Come tell me something else, then,” she said, her voice playful as she reached for his hand.
“Tell you what?” Ron asked several minutes later, as he pulled the duvet over his shoulders, drawing his wife close as she turned off the night lamp.
“The last thing you said to Hugo. What does it mean?” Hermione asked, hugging his arm, and pressing her cheek into his open palm.
“You heard that?” Ron smiled, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, leaving a soft kiss there before resting his cheek against her hair.
“Love is a brick,” Hermione repeated his words back to him. “What does it mean?”
“It depends, I guess,” Ron said, pulling her closer, and feeling the warmth of her body against his. “I never got an explanation myself.”
“Well, what do you think it means?”
Ron paused, gathering his thoughts before speaking. “I think,” he began, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder and then resting his cheek against it, “Love is a brick. It’s a weight you carry in your ribcage, a hard sort of weight you always feel grinding against your insides until one day you don't.” His thumb softly stroked her cheek as Ron took a deep breath before he continued.
“One day, you just don’t because one day it just drops to somebody’s feet and you stand there and know,” He sighed, his voice dropping to a whisper as he cupped her cheek, his mouth close to her ear, “ You just know , that somebody, that one person will never step on it.”
He lifted his head slightly, turning her face gently to press a kiss under her chin, his lips lingering for a moment, “So you leave it there lying at their feet and say: ‘Here, build on this. Make a house, make a home, make whatever you like of it’.”
His thumb brushed away a stray tear that had begun to slip down her cheek, and Hermione leaned into his touch, “The shape, the size, it doesn't concern me - my brick will carry the weight of it.” Ron gently turned her head so she was fully facing him now, their noses touching, breaths mingling in the small space between them, “Here,” He whispered, “built on this, make it the foundation for a mess, for mistakes, for things falling apart, only so we can build it up again. I dropped this here, and I can't pick it up again. I can't because now it's yours.”
She closed her eyes, and leaned into his palm, letting the tears fall freely.
“Or at least, that’s what I think.”