Work Text:
By the time Ron sneaked upstairs hours later, Harry was already asleep.
He hesitated for a moment, standing in the darkness and listening to the faint, muffled sounds of the others leaving downstairs. The floorboards above creaked as the twins moved about. Then he eased his trunk open and carefully, almost reverently, took out his new broom.
He sat on the edge of his bed, one leg crooked on the mattress, and set the broom atop his knees. He smoothed his hand down the handle, the wood gleaming dully in the light slipping through the gaps in the heavy curtains.
He still couldn't quite believe it was his. He kept thinking there must have been a mistake or he was dreaming.
His family had always been short on money, and his mum'd had to divide her attention between the seven of them. Bill, Charlie, and Percy had got the most of it doing well in school; and Fred and George were constantly getting into one sort of trouble or another; and Ginny was the only girl. Ron, on the other hand, had been left with the task of looking after her. It wasn't like he'd minded — even if Ginny could talk his ear off — but he'd learned to resign himself to never getting anything he wanted.
Ron clutched the broom in his hands, an anxious flutter winding its way through his insides. He didn't care if there'd been a mistake. He still — he didn't want to give it up. It was the first time he'd got something that was his — something that hadn't trickled down from one brother to the next, or had to be shared with the others.
And maybe with the new broom he could finally...
Ron didn't finish the thought. Instead, he glanced at Harry quickly from the corner of his eye; he was still sprawled in the other bed, muttering something incomprehensible in his sleep as he always did. Then Ron patted the broom fondly, put it back in the trunk, and finally crawled under the blanket.
He dreamt of flying.