Chapter Text
Go Go Gryffindor!
Cheers erupted from the stands as Harry cut through the air on his broom, eyes fixed on the flash of gold darting just ahead of him. Gryffindor was playing Hufflepuff—though the details blurred together in the aftermath, reduced to noise and colour and motion. With one final, reckless lunge, the game ended the way it usually did: Gryffindor victorious, the so-called golden boy delivering as expected. Of course, no Quidditch match ever concluded without Harry sustaining some sort of injury. This one was no exception. A bludger clipped his arm as he reached for the Snitch, the impact sharp but mercifully brief. He was lucky; a few inches higher and it might have been his head. The shrill whistle pierced the air, and the players descended to the pitch, boots thudding against the sand. Somewhere in the stands, Hufflepuff students groaned—another loss, another Gryffindor celebration. By his fourth year as a Seeker, one might expect Harry to have developed a strategy that involved less bodily harm. But as long as he won, and Gryffindor cheered, no one seemed particularly inclined to complain.
Ron tried—he really did—to keep Harry out of harm’s way. Not just on the Quidditch pitch, but everywhere else too. It never seemed to work. If anything, Harry only encouraged Ron’s own recklessness, and Ron, in turn, fed Harry’s, the two of them locked in a quiet, disastrous rhythm. As Gryffindor’s Keeper, Ron’s job was simple in theory: guard the hoops, stop the other team from scoring. It didn’t leave much room to look after a Seeker who spent the entire match hurtling through the sky at impossible speeds. Ron watched anyway, heart in his throat every time Harry dove too fast or cut too close. When the match finally ended, Ron barely registered the congratulatory blows to the head from his teammates. He grinned through it, then broke away, jogging across the pitch toward Harry with a boyish, unthinking smile. Harry was already on the ground, seated in the churned-up sand. The moment he spotted Ron and that familiar, ridiculous expression, he laughed and tipped backward, staring up at the sky. Harry knew Ron was about to say something. He always did. Whatever it was, Harry was already bracing himself to laugh.
“Well, don’t you look great, Harry?” Ron said, smirking as he dropped into a crouch beside him, one brow lifting. “At least this time your arm’s not broken. Just scraped, yeah?” His eyes flicked to the blood smeared along Harry’s arm. The fact that Harry was already laughing told Ron what he needed to know, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the relief tangling with his grin.
Harry raised his arm to wipe at the cut on his lip, smearing away blood and dirt in the process. He rolled his eyes at Ron.
“I can’t help it if the bloody balls have it out for me. Remember that one match where it was literally cursed to kill me?” He laughed at his own misfortune, light and familiar. Around them, the pitch began to fill again, teammates wandering over at a far more leisurely pace than before. No one seemed particularly worried. By now, Harry getting injured had become an expectation rather than an emergency. Ron caught snippets of chatter from the stands too, laughter and half-serious bets traded between students. He couldn’t decide whether it was funny or irritating. Harry, for his part, seemed keen to be done with it all. He shifted on the sand, glancing around as if suddenly aware of just how many eyes were still on him. When a particularly nice group of girls passed by, Harry straightened at once, shoulders squaring despite the blood on his arm and the dirt on his face. He swallowed a sharp grunt of pain and replaced it with something that was meant to look effortless, cool, even.
With a quick, thoughtless motion, Ron scooped Harry up off the ground. One second Harry was sprawled in the sand; the next, he was being carried, full-on bridal style, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Alright, princess,” Ron said, snorting as he adjusted his grip. “Patch-up now. Girls later. We’ve got an after-party to save your strength for.”
“Ron—seriously?” Harry protested. He twisted in Ron’s arms, making one last, valiant attempt to catch the attention of a particularly cute group of girls passing by. “I can walk just fine, you know. It was my arm that got hurt, not my legs—” Ron didn’t even slow down.
The movement was far too easy, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful or offended by that. Ron hadn’t always been like this. Harry had started noticing it sometime in third year, when they’d returned to Hogwarts after the summer and Ron had apparently decided to grow an entire foot taller overnight. Broader shoulders, more muscle—just more of him, all at once. Harry had pestered him about it for months. Ron’s only explanation had ever been, Just puberty, y’know. Harry did not, in fact, know. He remained convinced it was dark magic. Or a potion. Something dark, at the very least.
The walk back to the Gryffindor common room was—embarrassing, to say the least. Harry half-covered his face with his one uninjured, gloved hand while Ron carried him along without a shred of shame, grinning like he was having the time of his life. A teasing whistle followed them down the corridor, courtesy of a passing Slytherin—one of Malfoy’s lot. Harry answered it with a long, defeated groan.
Harry lifted his head as they turned a corner. “Why aren’t we going to the medical wing?”
Ron didn’t slow. He muttered the password and pushed into the warmly lit entrance to the tower. “Half the school’s down with whooping cough or something. You fancy catching that too?” he said lightly. “Besides, I’ve got a spell that’ll fix you right up. Been looking for a guinea pig to test it on.” He grinned, very deliberately ignoring the look of horror on Harry’s face.
Ron dropped him onto one of the couches, finally releasing him. The common room was empty; everyone else was off celebrating or cramming for finals. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth, its glow spilling across the worn furniture and warming the space until it felt almost sleepy. Harry let out a slow breath, head falling back against the cushions. His gaze drifted to the bloodied scrape on his arm, then back to Ron. “If you destroy my arm,” Harry said, arching a brow, “you’re not going to that party either.”
He nudged Ron’s shoulder with his foot as Ron crouched in front of him, already kneeling on the rug. Wand in hand, Ron gestured for Harry’s arm, rolling his eyes at the threat as if it meant nothing at all.
Reluctantly, Harry lifted his arm and offered it to Ron. The skin along his forearm was broken where the bludger had clipped him, blood smeared dark against the scrape. Harry bit at his lower lip and, out of instinct—or maybe nerves—his good hand reached out to grip Ron’s shoulder.
“Dude, I swear—” Harry started, already bracing himself.
“Oh, shut it,” Ron cut in, not unkindly. He raised his wand, aiming it carefully at the wound. His free hand settled on Harry’s thigh for balance, warm and steady, while his eyes narrowed in focus, utterly absorbed in what he was doing.
Episkey!
With a careful flick of Ron’s wand, the wound on Harry’s arm began to knit itself closed. There was only a faint sting as the skin healed, more strange than painful. They both let out a breath at the same time, relief settling in quietly between them. Ron’s shoulders sagged, and without thinking, he let his head drop into Harry’s lap. Harry’s grip on Ron’s shoulder loosened, his fingers relaxing now that the pain had faded. His gaze lingered on the crown of Ron’s head, copper hair catching the firelight. His newly healed arm lifted on its own, fingers ruffling through Ron’s hair. Ron glanced up at him, eyes a little unfocused, comfortable, and unguarded.
“So,” Harry said lightly, “where’s this party happening anyway?”
“Right here,” Ron replied with a shrug. “Common room, around eight, I think. Fred reckons he’s figured out a way to sneak everyone in.” He stayed where he was, still kneeling between Harry’s legs, head resting easily against him.
“Hermione coming?” Harry asked.
Ron snorted. “Nah. She’s breaking rules in a different way—sneaking off to the library with Ginny to study for their Potions final or something.” He leaned into Harry’s touch without realizing.
Harry grinned. “Her loss.”
Just then, the portrait at the entrance creaked open. Panic set in all at once. Ron jolted back off Harry’s lap and promptly knocked his head against the edge of the table with a dull thud. Harry startled too, scrambling to his feet—one hand dropping awkwardly to his side while the other rubbed at the back of his neck like he’d been caught doing something he absolutely had not been doing. Ron staggered upright a second later, wincing. It must have looked ridiculous. A lone Gryffindor girl paused on her way through the common room, taking in the scene with a brief, curious glance. She offered them a knowing, sideways smile before continuing on toward the girls’ dormitory, leaving the room quiet again.
“’Bout time we go get ready, I reckon,” Harry said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.
Ron nodded, a grin tugging at his mouth. They shared a look—stupid and breathless and entirely undeserved—before Harry nudged Ron in the side. Together, they headed up toward their dormitory to change, still smiling like they hadn’t just been almost caught doing absolutely nothing at all.