Chapter Text
The sound of the crowd in the stands was deafening, a roar of excitement that rippled through the crisp autumn air. Ron sat in the top tier of the packed Quidditch stadium, his fingers loosely gripping a butterbeer that had long since gone lukewarm. Around him, everyone screamed Harry’s name, waving enchanted banners that glittered with phrases like “ Potter the Prodigy! ”
He wasn’t sure if the twisting in his stomach was from the excitement of the game or something darker–something more suffocating. He wanted to be thrilled for Harry. Merlin knew he deserved the cheers, the adoration, the endless articles praising his record-breaking moves. But watching Harry streak across the sky, his green robes billowing behind him as he chased the Snitch with single-minded determination, Ron felt an ache he couldn’t quite name.
It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. He was extremely proud of him, and no part of him begrudged his best mate’s success. But as Harry dived to intercept the opposing Seeker, the crowd erupting in another wave of cheers, Ron couldn’t help but feel small. Invisible .
A sharp elbow to his side jolted him out of his thoughts. “Oi, you’re missing the match!” George said, grinning as he pointed toward the pitch. “Harry’s about to snatch that Snitch and send the Irish packing! Look alive, mate!”
Ron forced a smile and nodded, turning his attention back to the game. Sure enough, Harry was a blur of red and white, his movements impossibly precise as he leaned into the chase. The opposing Seeker was fast, but he was faster, his hand stretching forward–
And then it was over.
The whistle blew, the Snitch clutched firmly in Harry’s hand. The stadium erupted into chaos, fans leaping to their feet, fireworks exploding in the sky. The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium, singing his praises. “Once again, Harry Potter proves why he’s the best Seeker England’s ever seen! What a spectacular catch!”
George whooped and clapped Ron on the shoulder. “Bloody brilliant, wasn’t he? That’s our Harry for you.”
Ron nodded numbly, his eyes glued to the pitch. Harry was surrounded by his teammates, their faces alight with triumph as they hoisted him onto their shoulders. He waved to the crowd, his smile bright and genuine as he basked in their adoration and praise.
And then Ron saw her–a blonde reserve Chaser from Harry’s team, clapping him on the back and leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Whatever she said made him laugh, his head thrown back in that easy, carefree way that always made Ron’s chest tighten.
He looked away, his butterbeer suddenly too heavy in his hand. “Think I’m gonna head out,” he muttered, standing abruptly.
His brother frowned. “What? The celebrations are just starting! You can’t leave now–Harry’ll want to see you after–”
“I’ll catch up with him later,” he interrupted, his voice clipped. He didn’t wait for George’s reply before weaving his way through the crowd, the cheers and laughter fading away as he descended the stairs.
Outside the stadium, the crisp air bit at his cheeks as he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestone path. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t stay any longer.
The ache in his chest was growing now, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t just the blonde Chaser, or the crowd, or even the accolades that seemed to follow Harry everywhere. It was the feeling that he didn’t belong in Harry’s world any longer–if he ever had to begin with.
The Snitch gleamed like a golden comet, darting erratically through the sky and Harry was right on its tail. The wind whipped through his hair as he leaned lower on his Firebolt, narrowing his focus to nothing but the tiny, fluttering ball ahead of him. He barely registered the cheers of the crowd or the commentator’s booming voice. All that mattered was the Snitch.
He was close now–much closer than the Irish Seeker, who had fallen behind by half a broom-length. Harry’s fingers stretched outward, the muscles in his arm burning with the effort. One more push–just a little closer–
His hand closed around the Snitch, its wings flapping helplessly against his palm. The whistle blew, signaling the end of the match, and the stadium erupted.
He slowed his broom, descending to the pitch as his teammates swarmed him. He grinned, holding up the Snitch for all to see before he felt himself hoisted into the air. The weight of their hands on him, the deafening roar of the crowd, the sight of green-and-gold banners waving above–it should have been overwhelming, but Harry felt… hollow.
“Great catch, Potter!” one of his Chasers, Delia, said as she clapped him on the back before leaning in close. He could feel her blonde ponytail brushing against his shoulder. “You’re buying the first round tonight!”
He laughed reflexively, though it felt forced. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
Her laughter joined the rest of the team, and Harry waved to the crowd as they chanted his name. He scanned the stands, his smile faltering slightly as he searched desperately for a familiar face. It was silly–there were thousands of people here, and spotting one person in the sea of fans was next to impossible but he couldn’t help himself.
Where’s Ron?
It wasn’t until the post-game festivities that he realized he hadn’t seen Ron at all. He’d been so sure he would come–he always did, sitting in the stands with George or Ginny, cheering him on even when Harry didn’t play his best. But now, as his teammates began herding him toward the locker room, he couldn’t seem to shake the gnawing unease building in his chest.
The team’s voices bounced off the tiled walls of the locker room, loud and jubilant as they celebrated another victory. Harry sat on the bench near his locker, pulling his gloves and boots off while the others chatted animatedly about the match.
“You coming to the pub with us later, Harry?” Delia called from the locker room entryway, her voice echoing in a way that made his head hurt. It seemed as if she was already dressed in her party clothes and ready to go.
“Yeah, maybe,” he replied distractedly.
He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers, hoping the hot water would help clear his head. But, as the steam rose around him, his thoughts remained firmly fixed on Ron.
He probably had to work late, Harry reasoned with himself. Or maybe something came up at the Burrow or the shop. Yeah, that’s it.
Despite his reassurances to himself, the hollow feeling in his chest persisted and seemed to be growing bigger.
By the time he left the locker room, most of the fans had cleared out, though a few stragglers lingered to catch a glimpse of the players. Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his body and slipped past them unnoticed, his footsteps quick as he made his way toward the apparition point.
He didn’t know why he felt so restless. It wasn’t unusual for Ron to miss a game now and then, but something about tonight felt… off. He wanted to talk to Ron, to share the victory with him, to hear one of his dry, sarcastic comments about how Harry was already too famous for his own good. But as he finally reached the apparition point, he spotted a familiar figure up ahead, walking briskly along the cobblestone.
“Ron?”
The figure stopped, turning slightly to reveal the unmistakable red hair that he could identify even in this dim light.
“Harry?” Ron asked, his voice hesitant as if he hadn’t expected to get caught least of all by him.
He jogged to catch up, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked up at his friend. “What are you doing out here? You didn’t even stick around after the match.”
“I–” Ron swallowed hard, shoving his hands in his pockets as his gaze flickered away from Harry’s. “Didn’t want to deal with the crowd. You were busy.”
“Busy?” he repeated, his confusion growing further. “Ron, I wanted to see you. You’re–” He stopped himself, the words catching in his throat. Instead, he forced a grin on his face and teasing into his tone. “You’re my good luck charm, remember?”
Ron gave him a tight smile, his gaze still not lifting to look at him. “You don’t need me for that anymore, mate. You’ve got all the wizarding world of England cheering you on.”
Something about the way he said it made the hollow feeling in Harry’s chest deepen. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ron was already walking again, his strides long and deliberate.
“See you later, Harry,” he called over his shoulder.
Harry stood there, watching him disappear into the night. He’d never felt emptier in his entire life than he did right at this moment.
The pub was packed, alive with the hum of conversation and bursts of raucous laughter. A mix of Quidditch fans and casual drinkers crowded the space, their excitement palpable still after the match. Harry sat at a corner table with his teammates, a half-empty firewhiskey in his hand. He tried to tune into the chatter around him, but his mind kept circling back to Ron. Delia sat next to him, trying to engage him in conversation but his responses were short while his mind was miles away.
“You alright, Potter?” she asked, leaning closer to him so her voice could be heard over the roar of the pub.
“Yeah,” he replied, a forced, tight smile on his face. “Just tired.”
She didn’t look all that convinced. “You’ve been staring at your drink for ten minutes. If you don’t wanna be here, you don’t have to stay, you know.”
His jaw tightened at the thought of returning to his flat all alone. The thought of being by himself with his thoughts about what Ron meant when he’d said he didn’t need him anymore. Who the hell even said that? “I wanted to get out of the house,” he finally said. Wanted to stop thinking about him .
Her eyes narrowed at him, studying him in that way she did that made him uncomfortable, but she didn’t press and simply turned to the rest of the team. He took the moment to drain his glass and signaled for another, the alcohol burning his way down his throat and into his stomach.
He’d lost track of time after that. One drink turned into two, then three, and by the time the pub began emptying, Harry’s head felt pleasantly fuzzy. The sharp edges of his thoughts about Ron had dulled significantly, now replaced by the warm haze that made it easier to sit still and pretend he wasn’t aching and hollow.
“You’re pissed , Potter” Delia said, her tone teasing but firm as she leaned over to grab his wrist, stopping him from ordering another round.
He frowned and pulled his arm away from her petulantly. “I’m fine,” he slurred just slightly, trying his best to look as intimidating as he could when his brain and body were vibrating so much.
“Sure you are,” she sighed, rolling her eyes as she grabbed him again with a much gentler touch. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
He tried to protest but she was already pulling him to his feet. The world seemed to tilt in the opposite direction on its axis as he stood, one hand immediately grabbing at the table and the other clutching onto her arm as he looked at her with wide eyes.
“Alright, maybe not fine ,” he muttered, mostly to himself, which earned a chuckle from the Chaser holding onto him.
“Come on, big shot. We’ll get you home and in bed in no time.” She wrapped an arm around his waist then, guiding him toward the exit of the pub with a laugh as he tried to speak what could only be assumed to be words at her.
The air outside of the pub was cold, the chill of the night air sobering him up just enough to realize just how much he’d had to drink. He stumbled slightly as Delia led him to a nearby shop to use the Floo there to get to his flat. The rush of green flames made his head spin.
When they finally arrived, Delia grunted as she helped him to the sofa. “Sit,” she demanded, pointing to the cushions with a stern look.
He flopped down immediately, head falling back on the sofa with a groan. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
She crossed her arms over her chest with a smirk as she looked him up and down, sprawled out on the sofa like he was. “Uh-huh. And leave you to face-plant in a ditch or get kidnapped by some rogue fans? No thanks. I like my Seekers alive. Even if they are completely useless like this.”
He snorted, hands shooting up to rub his temples in an effort to make the room stop spinning so much. “You’re too nice.”
“Don’t get used to it, Potter. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming once I get you taken care of and you’re no longer sloshed” she teased, walking into the kitchen to hunt for a glass to give him some water. When she returned, she thrusted the glass in his face and gave him a look that said ‘drink.’
He didn’t even bother to argue, taking the glass from her hand, their fingers brushing briefly.
For a while, the room was quiet minus the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of him swallowing down the water. He felt like he hadn’t had anything to drink in days with how dry his throat was. Delia studied him quietly, having taken a seat in one of the armchairs, and her expression softened.
“You don’t usually drink like this,” she said quietly, the observation making him freeze and causing his fingers to tighten around the glass. “What’s going on?”
He stared down at the water, as if the glass could provide him with some explanation that wasn’t ‘ my best friend since childhood was acting weird tonight and said I don’t need him anymore and it made me feel extremely weird but I don’t know why it made me feel so weird, but it’s weird and maybe I’m weird. ’ Unfortunately, the water continued to provide him with nothing.
“It’s nothing,” he finally said, his voice much less convincing than he intended.
“Bollocks.” Her tone gave him no room for argument and the look on her face made that even more evident. “You’ve been off all week. And it’s not about Quidditch, so don’t even try to lie about that. What is it? Family? Friends? Lover ?”
His jaw clenched, especially at the last word. Ron wasn’t a lover by any means, but he was so much more than a friend too. How could he possibly explain the knot of feelings inside him? The way Ron’s absence left a gaping hole inside him that nothing and nobody else could fill? The way that he had begun to realize over the last week that the hollow, aching feeling in his chest wasn’t just about friendship–it was something more, something both terrifying and overwhelming?
She reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder, the soft squeeze of her hand making him relax just slightly. “Look, I’m not going to push. It’s not really my business anyway. But whatever it is, you’re going to have to face it eventually” she said, her voice much gentler than before.
Harry nodded, unable to trust himself to speak because what if he just let it all fall out. If he spoke it aloud, that would make it real and he wasn’t sure if he could fully face that reality yet.
Delia sighed and stood up, releasing his shoulder before speaking, “Alright, you’re clearly not in a state to talk about it tonight. Get some sleep, Potter. I’ll see you at practice on Wednesday. Owl me in the morning so I know you’re still alive.”
She headed for the fireplace, pausing for a moment to glance back at him over her shoulder. “And for what it’s worth, whoever it is you’re beating yourself up over and getting absolutely plastered over… they’re lucky to have you and they’re lucky you think so much of them.”
His head shot up at her words, eyes falling on her in surprise at the sincerity in her voice. “Thanks, Delia,” he managed with a faint smile.
“Like I said, don’t get used to it. Owl in the morning or I’ll come back myself and make you wish a Bludger got you first.” Before he could say anything else, the familiar green flames exploded from the fireplace and he was finally alone.
He leaned back against the sofa, his mind clearer now but no less heavy. Delia’s words echoed in his mind.
You’re going to have to face it eventually.
For the first time, he felt as if he were finally ready to admit what he’d been trying so hard to ignore.
He was in love with Ron. He was desperately in love with him and he didn’t know what to do about it.
George’s flat felt strangely quieter than usual even with the occasional laughter from George and Hermione’s steady hum of activity coming from the kitchen. Harry sat on the worn sofa in the sitting room, staring blankly at the crackling fire in the hearth. His fingers drummed against the armrest, his thoughts circling around so fast it could make him dizzy.
For what felt like the millionth time that day, he checked his pocket for his wand and thought about summoning another owl to send a message to Ron.
No . He clenched his jaw and shoved the thought aside. He’d already sent so many by now. If Ron had wanted to talk to him, he would’ve replied by now.
But that was the problem–Ron didn’t seem to want to talk to him and Harry couldn’t begin to fathom why .
He sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. The past few days had been… confusing, to say the least. Ron had vanished from his life like a ghost, avoiding him at every turn. The last time he’d seen his best friend properly was outside the stadium after the match. And the words Ron had said then– “You don’t need me anymore” –had stuck with Harry like a thorn in his side. That strange hollow feeling spread through his chest again, making him swallow hard as he exhaled a shaky breath.
“Harry?”
Hermione’s voice jolted him from his thoughts and he looked up to find her standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and a look of concern etched across her face. Behind her, George leaned casually against the frame, but his usual smirk was replaced with something softer, more observant.
She walked over and sat down beside him, brows furrowed as she leaned her head on his shoulder as she always did to comfort him. “What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” he asked as casually as he could muster, but the tightness in his throat betrayed him.
“You’ve been quiet. More than usual and don’t think I haven’t noticed you checking your pocket like you think your wand is going to grow wings and fly away on its own” she replied. Although he couldn’t see her face, he knew exactly what she must look like right now and he couldn’t have the very small twitch at the corner of his mouth. She could always read him so well.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
George snorted then, making his way into the room and flopping down into the armchair before he leaned forward to give Harry a look . “Please mate, spare us the act. You’re about as subtle as a Hippogriff in a china shop. Ron’s been dodging you, and you’re sitting here like a lovesick–”
“ George !” Hermione hissed, sitting up and shooting him a glare that made him playfully put his hands up in feigned defense.
“What?” he asked with a shrug. “It’s true. He’s miserable. Ron’s miserable. I’m miserable just watching it. The whole thing’s miserable, love. It’s like I’m stuck living in one of those awful Muggle soap operas you love so much.”
Harry groaned, burying his face into his hands as his cheeks began burning. “Can we please not do this right now?”
“Harry,” she said softly, wrapping her arm around him and pulling him closer. “We’re just worried about you. If something’s happened between you and Ron, you can tell us.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he mumbled. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He didn’t know what had happened. Ron had just suddenly decided he hated him. Maybe it was like back during the Triwizard Tournament and he thought the fame Harry was experiencing was getting to his head. But he’d thought that they’d moved past those childish feelings long ago. In fact, Ron had been the one to encourage him to keep playing Quidditch because he saw how happy it made him.
Hermione and George exchanged a glance, clearly unconvinced by his words.
“You’re not exactly selling it,” George finally said. “Come on, out with it. Did you and Ronniekins have a fight? Did you nick his last chocolate frog or something? We all know how seriously he takes his snacks.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself, lowering his hands to glare half-heartedly at him. “No, we didn’t have a fight.”
“Then what?” Hermione pressed.
He hesitated, his throat suddenly feeling dry again as the hollow feeling in his chest overtook him. He didn’t even know where to begin. How was he supposed to explain what was happening when he didn’t even understand it himself? How could he explain that Ron had said something that cut much deeper than he’d expected? How could he reconcile with the potentiality that Ron didn’t need him anymore and was pushing him away in an effort to make that a point? That he was in love with his best friend and he felt like he was losing him which was something he couldn’t bear to lose?
“It’s… nothing,” he said quietly, settling on allowing the storm inside to consume him because he still didn’t want to say it aloud. Saying it aloud would make it real and Harry couldn’t handle that right now.
Hermione frowned. “Harry–”
“Just leave it, Hermione,” he interrupted, his tone sharper than he intended.
She flinched slightly, but nodded, standing up and crossing her arms. “Fine. But whatever it is, you better sort it out before it gets worse.”
“She’s right, you know,” George said as he stood up as well, stretching. “The longer you two avoid each other. The messier it’ll get. And for Merlin’s sake, stop sulking . It’s bloody depressing.” He shot Harry a look that was equal parts teasing and serious.
He rolled his eyes at George, but the knot growing in his chest seemed to tighten even more as they left him alone in the room again with his thoughts. Throughout his life, he’d grown used to being alone and dealing with his thoughts on his own, but something about not having even the option to reach out to Ron to seek his help made him feel extremely isolated.
The fire burned low by the time Harry moved from the sofa. The rest of the flat was quiet now, the faint creak of the floor the only sound. He stared at the spot where he and Ron usually sat on the floor where they would play chess together late into the night long after George and Hermione had gone to bed.
He wanted to be angry–angry at Ron for shutting him out, angry at himself for not knowing why. But all he felt was hollow instead.
Why won’t he talk to me?
The question had been haunting him for days , eating away at his focus and leaving him restless. He’d thought about showing up at Ron’s door and demanding an explanation but, every time he considered it, doubt crept in. What if Ron really didn’t want to see him? What if Ron had meant what he’d said outside the stadium? What if the thoughts that followed after his best friend’s words meant what he was absolutely terrified of them meaning: that Ron meant that he didn’t need Harry anymore?
You don’t need me anymore.
The words echoed in Harry’s mind like a record, distorted and painful. He clenched his fists at his sides as he continued to play in his head.
“That’s not true…” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling embers.
Regardless of if he truly needed Ron or not, Harry wanted him.
The kitchen in the Burrow was unusually quiet, save for the rhythmic chopping of Hermione’s knife as she diced vegetables for dinner. George sat at the table, lazily stirring his tea with his wand, the spoon inside the cup clinking softly. Ron sat slouched in his chair, poking at a plate of biscuits with very little interest.
It had been days now since the match, and Ron had successfully avoided Harry since their brief encounter outside the stadium. He’d dodged his Floo calls, ignored the handful of owls he’d sent, and pretended to be away when Harry stopped by late one evening. It wasn’t that Ron didn’t want to see him–quite the opposite, in fact, but every time he thought about facing Harry, the knot in his chest tightened, and the words “ You don’t need me anymore ” echoed louder in his mind. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly down, the voice in his head morphed into his best friend’s and the words changed slightly, “ I don’t need you anymore .”
The clatter of Hermione’s knife against the cutting board startled him out of his thoughts, but what frightened him even more was the sound of her voice. “Alright, I’ve had enough.”
“What?” he asked, flinching as she whipped around and pointed her finger right at him.
“ You ,” she said sharply, stomping closer to him for emphasis as her finger continued to point in his direction. “Whatever it is you’re doing, it needs to stop . Harry is miserable .”
He frowned, his stomach twisting as guilt bubbled up. “What are you on about?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Ronald Weasley,” she snapped, crossing her arms as she glared at him. “You’ve been avoiding him for days , and it’s obvious something’s wrong. Every time I see him, he looks like he hasn’t slept. He keeps asking if you’re alright, but he won’t tell me what happened.”
Finally, George chimed in, looking up from his tea at his little brother. “She’s not exaggerating, Ron. Poor bloke came into the shop yesterday looking like he’d lost a Quidditch final. It was tragic .”
“I’m fine. Harry’s fine. Just drop it, alright?” His fingers tightened around the edge of the table as he tried to keep his emotions even.
Her eyes narrowed and she stepped toward him a few more times, leaning over him in that way she always did that reminded him so much of his own mother. “No, I will not drop it. Harry’s been your best friend for over a decade, and now you’re treating him like he’s some man you met on the street. Like he’s a stranger ! If you won’t tell me what’s going on, then at least have the decency to speak to him about it.”
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I don’t need to talk to him, alright? There’s nothing to talk about. It’s not a big deal!”
“Not a big deal, eh?” George asked with a raised brow. “So, it’s normal for you to bolt out of a match, avoid your best mate, and sulk around like you did when we hid your Chudley Cannons poster?”
He couldn't help the glare that he shot his brother. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try us” Hermione said softly, her tone changing from sharp to true concern. “We’re your family, Ron.”
He hesitated, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he thought about it. He could feel the weight of their stress, their unspoken demand for an explanation. His thoughts felt like they were moving a thousand miles a minute which made it difficult for him to process any of it. All he knew was that seeing Harry so happy, so in his element, should have made him happy as well, but instead it made him feel empty and alone. Some part of him was happy and proud of his best friend’s success, but another part felt so saddened by the fact that he would have to share him for the rest of his life. Harry would never be his fully. He was the Wizarding World’s, he was The Boy Who Lived , he was The Chosen One , he was… always going to be outside of Ron’s reach. He had no specialties to speak of. He was just Ronald Billius Weasley and he worked at his older brother’s joke shop and he didn’t really have any future plans beyond that. How could he possibly compete with the options Harry probably had at his feet right now? He couldn’t. Ron knew his limitations better than anyone else. He wasn’t stupid despite people believing he was.
“It’s just…” He struggled to find the words, his throat growing tight and dry. “Harry doesn't need me anymore. Not really. He’s got the whole family cheering him on, hasn’t he? Fans, teammates, reporters–everyone loves him. I’m just… extra. A leftover from before .”
Hermione’s expression softened and George looked unusually serious as he spoke. It made him feel awkward under their gazes. He almost wished he hadn’t said anything.
“Ron,” she began gently, making him flinch just slightly at how soft her voice was now. “That’s not true. You know it’s not.”
“It feels true,” he muttered, eyes drilling holes into the table. “Every time I see him with those people, laughing and smiling like he belongs there… I feel like I don’t. Like I don’t fit into his life anymore.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Harry doesn’t feel like he fits into that life either?” George asked as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he raised a brow. “That maybe you’re the only one keeping him sane in all of this?”
Ron blinked at him, startled by the suggestion.
“Look,” he continued, his tone still uncharacteristically serious as he did. “I don’t know what’s going on in that thick skull of yours, but Harry’s not some untouchable Quidditch star to you. He’s Harry . Just Harry. The same bloke who’d follow you to the ends of the earth all because you asked him to. And right now, he looks like he’s drowning without you.”
Hermione nodded, her gaze steady. “You need to talk to him, Ron. Whatever you’re feeling, he deserves to know. Keeping it to yourself is only hurting both of you.”
Ron’s throat tightened and, for a moment, he couldn’t speak as he thought about what his brother and friend said. The idea of opening up to Harry, of admitting his true feelings to him, was horrifying. But the thought of Harry hurting because of him was even worse. He hated that he was potentially causing his best friend so much pain.
“I’ll… think about it,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’d better.” Hermione’s tone was firm, but kind as she turned around to go back to chopping.
“And if you don’t, I’ll be locking you two in a broom cupboard until you sort yourselves out,” George added, leaning back into his chair and grabbing his cup to take a sip.
He managed a weak laugh, but the knot in his chest didn’t seem to loosen even a little bit. He stared down at the plate of biscuits again, his stomach churning as he imagined how a conversation with Harry would go.
I’ll think about it, he’d said. But deep down, he knew there wasn’t much time left to think. Harry deserved an answer and soon. Ron just needed to find the courage to give him one.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the Quidditch pitch. Harry stood midfield with Delia, both of them leaning over a clipboard balanced on her broomstick. The play diagrams scribbled on it were a chaotic mess of arrows and lines, but he was focused, nodding along as she gestured animatedly.
“We need to be faster on this formation,” she explained, tapping the clipboard with her finger. “The Falcons’ Beaters are relentless. If we give them even a second to close in, you’ll be swarmed before you can even spot the Snitch.”
He furrowed his brow in thought, absently twirling his broomstick in one hand. “What if I loop higher? Force their Chasers to keep an eye on me and then I dive back down into the fray?”
Delia grinned, flipping to a clean page as she stepped closer to him to sketch out the new strategy. “That could work–make ‘em waste their stamina while we focus on scoring.”
Harry leaned in while she sketched, their shoulders brushing lightly as he pointed to something she’d drawn.
“Here,” he said, his voice becoming more animated. “If we time this right, I can use their Keeper as a decoy to block the Beaters’ line of sight.”
She laughed, tilting her head up to look at him. “Brilliant, Potter. No wonder you’ve got the best save record in the league.”
“It’s not all me,” he chuckled, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “You’re the one holding our defense together.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere , Potter” she teased, nudging him playfully with her elbow.
He grinned, but before he could reply, the sound of crunching footsteps on the gravel path caught his attention. Both of them turned to see a familiar red-headed figure standing just outside the pitch, his hands shoved into his pockets and his expression unreadable.
Ron had meant to stay at the Burrow. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t show up uninvited, wouldn’t chase after Harry like some desperate fool. But when George mentioned Harry was training at the pitch, he’d felt his resolve crumble.
He told himself he was just going to check in, make sure his friend was alright, but as he approached the pitch, he froze at the sight before him.
Harry was standing close– too close –to a woman Ron recognized as Delia, the star Chaser on the team. They were laughing together, their heads bent over a clipboard, their conversation animated and easy. She nudged him with her elbow, and he smiled at her in a way that made Ron’s stomach twist.
So, that’s where he wants to spend all of his time.
His chest tightened, the jealousy hitting him hard like a rogue Bludger. Delia was gorgeous , confident, and clearly comfortable enough around Harry to touch him so casually in a way that Ron suddenly felt he wasn’t.
Of course Harry would go for someone like her, Ron thought bitterly. Someone who understands his world now. Someone who’s the opposite of me.
He clenched his fists inside his pockets, torn between the urge to march onto the pitch and the impulse to apparate before anyone noticed his presence. But he couldn’t move, he felt rooted to the spot as he continued to watch them interact. Delia said something that made Harry laugh again, the sound cutting through Ron like a knife.
That used to be us , he thought. He used to look at me like that.
The ache in his chest felt unbearable now, and he couldn’t stand to watch them another moment. As soon as the pair seemed alerted to his presence, he felt himself freeze in place. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps crunching beneath him.
Harry frowned as he squinted his eyes in the direction of the familiar figure retreating from the edge of the pitch. “Is that… Ron?” he muttered, more to himself than to Delia.
“Who?” she asked, glancing up again and following his gaze.
“Ron,” he said, his feet already moving before he can register that he’s walking away from her.
“Looks like he’s leaving in a hurry. Everything alright with you two?” she questioned, tilting her head toward him as she watched him go.
Harry didn’t answer, his chest felt tight with a mix of confusion and guilt as he watched Ron disappear down the path.
“We’ll talk about this later then, Potter. Go get your man.” The last sentence is said much quieter than the first, but she can’t help the slight smirk she has as she watches him follow after the redhead.
He sprinted down the gravel path, his broomstick long forgotten on the pitch behind him with Delia. His heart pounded in his ears, not just from exertion but from the sinking feeling that if Ron got away from him now, he might not ever see him again.
“Ron!” he shouted, his voice echoing out into the cool air. “Wait, Ron!”
Up ahead, Ron paused but didn’t turn around. He stood stiffly, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets. For a moment, Harry thought he might apparate away, but then he heard him sigh and watched as he glanced over his shoulder.
“What do you want, Harry?” he asked, his voice so low and weary that it reminded Harry of being back in the woods and hunting for Horcruxes.
He slowed to a stop a few feet away, his breathing heavy but the feeling of the hollowness in his chest felt much heavier. “I saw you at the pitch. Why’d you leave without saying anything?”
“Didn’t want to interrupt.” He turned fully now, his expression carefully blank as he spoke, “Looked like you were busy.”
“With Delia?” He frowned, clearly confused. “We were just going over plays for the next match. You could’ve come over. We weren’t–”
Ron snorted, interrupting Harry as he shook his head. “Yeah, right. Like that wouldn’t have been bloody awkward.”
He stared at him, completely thrown off by the bitterness in his voice. “What are you talking about? Why would it have been awkward?”
“Never mind. Just…” His jaw tightened, his eyes darting away as if he couldn’t even stand to look at Harry anymore. “Just forget it.”
“No,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “I’m not forgetting it. You’ve been avoiding me for days , and now you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong. If something’s bothering you, just tell me.”
He let out a humorless laugh, the sound sharp and cutting. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what ?” Harry asked, exasperation evident in his voice.
“That things have changed , Harry!” Ron snapped back, his voice rising to echo around them. “Look at you–big Quidditch star, strategizing with your pretty teammate, surrounded by loads of people who actually belong in your world. You don’t need me hanging around like some tag-along sidekick anymore.”
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face and tone measured despite the shock he was feeling inside. “Is that what you really think? That I don’t need you?”
“Don’t you?” he said, his voice quieter now but no less strained as the emotions bubbled up. “You’ve got everything now, mate. Fame, fans, a bloody gorgeous girl on your arm. I’m just… me .”
Harry felt like the ground had been pulled out from underneath him. He stared at Ron, trying desperately to process his words, trying to make sense out of the pain in his voice and on his face. “Ron, that’s not true. None of that is true. Delia–”
Ron interrupted him again with a scoff, his gaze fixed on the gravel beneath his feet. “You don’t have to keep pretending for my benefit, alright? I get it. Things aren’t the same anymore. I’ll get over it.”
“Pretending?” he repeated, his voice rising with disbelief. “I’m not pretending anything ! You’re my–” He paused, his mind running through the nearly thousand things Ron was to him. His best friend, his home, his peace. His everything . “You’re my best mate. Nothing’s changed between us.”
Ron finally looked up, his blue eyes filled with a mix of anger and hurt. “ Everything’s changed, Harry. You just don’t see it.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words never came. He didn’t understand. He didn’t know how he could possibly begin to fix this.
He shook his head, stepping back with a sigh. “Just… go back to Delia. Go back where you belong and who you belong to, mate.”
He stood frozen as he watched him go for the second time that night. He felt truly, utterly helpless. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was really going on with Ron, but he knew it was much more than Quidditch or Delia. It was something deeper that Harry couldn’t seem to understand from their confusing conversations.
Ron stood in his small kitchen, idly stirring the pot of stew bubbling on the stove. It was quiet except for the occasional hiss of the flames and the rhythmic clatter of the spoon against the pot. For the fifth time this past hour, he glanced up at the clock on the wall.
Hermione was late.
She’d sent an owl that morning, saying–i.e. demanding –that she be allowed over to catch up over tea. He’d hesitated, still raw from his conversation with Harry days ago, but he couldn’t exactly say no to her. Not when she had that way of prying answers out of him even when he wasn’t really ready to give them.
The flames of his Floo flared to life with a familiar, soft whoosh , signaling an arrival. He wiped his hands on a dish towel before walking into the room, expecting to see Hermione standing there all frazzled as she usually was when she ran late to something.
But it wasn’t Hermione standing in his flat.
“Ron–” Harry breathed, his voice a desperate plea that made Ron’s heart clench.
“Harry,” Ron replied, his voice tight as he tried not to give away his surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped out of the Floo, brushing some sort off his robes as those familiar emerald green eyes continued to stare through him.
“Hermione’s not coming, Ron. She set this up” he explained, crossing his arms with a determined gaze.
He clenched his fists, muttering under his breath, “Bloody hell, Hermione…”
“Yeah, bloody hell, Hermione ,” Harry echoed, taking a step closer and furrowing his brows as Ron backed away just slightly. “Ron, I’m done with this. I’m done with you avoiding me, done with you shutting me out, done with you saying things that make no sense and then running off before I can even respond!”
He turned away, heart thumping loudly in his ears as he tried to keep his tone even. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t do that!” he said sharply, moving closer again as he tried to get back into Ron’s line of sight. “Don’t act like you don’t know. Something’s been wrong for weeks between us, and every time I try to talk to you about it, you push me away! I deserve to know what’s going on with you!”
Ron spun back around, his face red and his eyes wide. “You deserve to know? Fine then! I’ll tell you all about it!”
He took a step back, startled by the sudden outburst, but it was too late now that the flood gates had been opened for Ron.
“I’m in love with you, alright?” he yelled, voice cracking under the emotions rising in his chest. “I’ve been in love with you for years , and it’s killing me. Watching you go off and live this amazing life without me, watching you with her –” He gestured as if Delia was standing right next to Harry, a soft sob breaking through as he paused. “–and thinking about how you’ll never look at me the way I look at you. You’re never going to want me the way I want you. You don’t need me the way I need you. It’s bloody torture!”
The words hung in the air, the room suddenly too quiet beyond the soft sounds of Ron’s shuddering breaths. His face felt like it was on fire with shame and anger while a bit of guilt swam its way in as well. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he’d never been before.
Harry stared at him for a long time, his expression indecipherable.
He laughed bitterly, reaching up to wipe his face before shaking his head. “There. You happy now? That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. So… just leave.”
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes softening as he looked at him.
“Ron…” he began, his voice quiet but steady. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, blinking as anger flared up again inside him.
“You’re. An. Idiot,” he repeated, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips. “How could you possibly think after all this time that I don’t need you? How could you think I don’t–” He cut himself off, stopping his advance as he continued to look into Ron’s eyes.
Ron frowned, confused. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t feel the exact same way” he said after a deep breath, his voice trembling just slightly.
He felt like the air had left his lungs as he stared back in disbelief. “ What ?”
His cheeks flushed, but he continued to stare up at him. “I love you too, Ron. I didn’t realize it for a long time, but… I do. And I thought maybe you already knew like… Maybe you felt it too. But then you started pulling away from me and I thought I’d done something wrong. Thought maybe I’d misread it or something…”
Ron’s heart was pounding so hard in his chest he thought it might burst. “You really mean that?”
“Of course I do,” he replied with a smile, his expression shy but completely and undeniably sincere.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, as if drawn by some invisible force, Ron closed the distance between them in one long stride. He grabbed Harry by the collar, pulling him close, and kissed him.
It was messy and desperate, full of every single emotion he’d been holding back for years. Harry kissed him back just as fiercely, his hands grasping Ron’s shirt as if he was afraid to let go.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless and Harry’s glasses askew, their foreheads resting together.
“I’m sorry,” Ron whispered, his voice hoarse as he wrapped his arms tightly around his body and pulled him close. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
Harry shook his head, which Ron could feel against him along with soft kisses to his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. We got here.”
And for the first time in weeks–months, even–Ron felt like he could breathe again.