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Ron didn’t know why, but Harry was the Chosen One.
Chosen for so many things.
He used to think he was jealous of him, for hogging the spotlight, for getting opportunities that Ron had never been given, for the attention, the fame, the wealth, everything Ron never had.
But that wasn’t it. Not really.
Ron didn’t begrudge Harry any of those things.
It was the fame. And it wasn’t because he wanted the fame for himself.
It was the eyes…so many eyes following Harry’s every move.
So many witches and wizards swooning, obsessing, learning every little tidbit and fact, every piece of “Harry Potter Lore” to proclaim themselves his “biggest fan”.
He wasn’t jealous.
Not of the fame, not of the fans…he wasn’t even jealous that anyone else could have Harry.
Harry was his.
So, maybe that made him a tiny bit jealous…but that’s not the point.
Ron wasn’t a possessive asshole…it wasn’t like that.
The thing was—Harry Potter the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived was a different man than the Harry Potter he knew.
The Harry Potter that crawled into bed with him after a nightmare, the Harry Potter that made his chess pieces talk to each other as though they were little people whenever they played wizards chess, the Harry Potter that had looked up from the toilet in horror at his best mate when he got his first period…
That was the Harry none of them knew.
Harry was precious to Ron. In ways nobody could understand, and nobody would ever know. While he’d seen the other man in states of vulnerability that were private, shared only between each other, he’d also seen him in moments of incredible strength, and awesome triumph.
He’d watched his best friend, the scrawny, runt of a boy, look at the path ahead where awaited Voldemort, the man who’d killed his parents and tried to kill him as well. Acknowledge that he’d never live to see his twelfth birthday, swallow the tears that mourned his young life, and puff out his chest in the greatest show of bravery that Ron had ever witnessed.
And Harry did it. Again and again.
The thing is, bravery isn’t facing danger fearlessly.
Bravery is being scared beyond words, beyond reason, and then doing it anyway.
Harry was so fucking scared. All of the time.
He shook with it at night. He cried through it, in the shower.
He attended classes, played quidditch, drank butterbeer and laughed at peeves….all while living with gut wrenching horror.
Harry was stronger than any other man he’d ever known.
And he loved him for it.
Loved him more than the daily prophet could ever serenade him with praise.
Loved him more than the ministry could celebrate him with statues and plaques.
Loved him more than the adoring fans could cry and swoon as he walked by.
Because none of them really loved Harry. They loved Harry Potter, the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived.
And that made Ron furious.
Because it wasn’t the Chosen One who deserved their affection. It was the Harry right here, nestled under the blankets with him, with his legs kicked over Ron’s lap on the sofa, laughing about the bullshit drama of the Kardashians on muggle telly.
The one only Ron got to see.
The one only Ron got to love.
And while privately, he was satisfied that this Harry was his alone, it was sad that the world didn’t know him as well as he did.
Because then they would see.
They would actually see.
That their hero wasn’t just a heroic symbol, he was an actual man that had saved them all and that made him infinitely more amazing than they could ever imagine.