Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Train – A World in Warm Light

Harry had never seen so much color before.

The train compartment was small, the seats a little worn, but the golden light pouring through the window made everything feel… warm. Safe. He hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected any of this, really.

The red-haired boy sitting across from him was slouching, legs stretched out in a way that took up too much space but looked completely natural. He had freckles dusting his nose, a chin scar that caught the light when he turned his head, and hair that curled over one eye, shifting whenever he fidgeted. He wasn’t stiff or guarded or waiting for Harry to leave.

He just was.

And Harry—Harry didn’t know how to handle it.

So he sat, hesitant, watching as Ron’s fingers drummed idly against his knee, as his curls bounced slightly when he huffed in frustration. His tie was already loose, his posture easy, his voice laced with exasperation when he talked about his brothers.

Harry wasn’t used to someone talking like that. So open. So honest.

He wasn’t used to anyone talking to him at all.

And then—

“Want one?”

Harry blinked.

Ron had ripped open a Chocolate Frog and was already chewing, but he was holding out another one, eyes slightly squinted like he was trying to gauge whether Harry would refuse.

The first thing Harry thought was: I don’t have to steal it.

The second was: Oh. He’s serious.

“Er,” Harry said, swallowing. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

He took it. The foil crinkled under his fingers. His hands were too thin, too bony, a few faint scars stretching white over his knuckles from careless kitchen burns, but Ron didn’t seem to notice.

Harry bit into the chocolate, tasting the richness, and something warm curled in his stomach that had nothing to do with food.

Ron grinned.

That was the first time Harry realized that maybe he wasn’t alone anymore.

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The Feast – Loneliness and Laughter

The Great Hall was overwhelming. The lights, the voices, the sheer number of people—it was too much, pressing in on Harry from all sides.

He clenched his hands into his robes. He had been doing fine until now. He had survived sitting on the train next to Ron. He had survived eating more sweets in one sitting than he had in his entire life. He had survived listening to Ron rant about his brothers and not once make him feel like he was intruding.

But this—this was different.

The Sorting Hat’s voice was too close in his ear, too knowing, and for one horrible moment, Harry felt like he might not belong anywhere at all.

And then—

“Harry!”

The second he slid onto the bench, Ron grinned at him, mouth half-full of mashed potatoes. “Took you long enough.”

Harry hesitated. His stomach was still twisted, still tense, but then Ron elbowed him, passing him a roll like he had been waiting for him to get there.

That was all it took.

Harry reached for the food, letting the warmth from Ron’s shoulder next to his sink in. Letting himself believe, for the first time, that maybe—just maybe—he belonged here too.

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The Dormitory – A Space Made for Two

Harry had never had a bed this soft before.

He sat at the edge of his four-poster, unsure, watching as Ron flopped onto his own, spreading out like he had no concerns in the world.

Ron’s hair was curling against his forehead, still a bit damp from washing up, and when he turned his head, Harry could see the faint scar along his chin—something Ron had brushed off as the twins’ fault but hadn’t actually explained.

Harry’s fingers twitched. He didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it was because he wanted to touch the scar. Maybe it was because Ron was so at ease and Harry didn’t know how to be.

Maybe it was because the thought of being alone in this unfamiliar place was suddenly unbearable.

Ron must have noticed something in his face because he scooted over, barely looking up as he patted the space next to him. “D’you wanna sit here?”

Harry inhaled sharply.

It wasn’t a big deal. Not really. Just a bed. Just a few inches of space. Just Ron, making room for him like it was natural. Like it was normal.

Harry sat down before he could overthink it.

Ron shifted a bit but didn’t complain, letting Harry tuck his legs up and lean slightly toward the warmth at his side.

And just like that, the unfamiliar dormitory didn’t feel quite so scary anymore.

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Symbolism – A Hand in the Dark

Harry doesn’t always know how to ask for things.

Not because he doesn’t want them, but because he’s never been allowed to have them.

Touch is the hardest.

It starts on the train—a hesitant brush of fingers against Ron’s sleeve.

Then it’s a bump of shoulders, a nudge of knees under the table, the way he sits too close when they study in the common room.

The first time Ron notices, really notices, is after a nightmare.

Harry wakes up breathless, skin clammy, chest tight. The dormitory is dark. Silent. The others are still asleep.

He doesn’t think. He just moves.

Ron shifts when Harry hesitantly perches at the edge of his bed, but instead of pushing him off, he just yawns, rubs at his eyes, and lifts his blanket. “Go on, then.”

Harry swallows. The warmth from Ron’s body is immediate when he slides under the covers, the scent of soap and something familiar wrapping around him.

He’s never had this before. Never been this close to someone without it ending in pain.

Ron doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make it weird. He just mutters something about bloody nightmares and shifts, his chin scar catching the faint light as he settles back in.

And Harry—Harry stares for a long time before his eyes finally close.

The warmth doesn’t disappear. It lingers.

Like Ron isn’t planning on leaving any time soon.

Chapter Text

The dormitory was dark, moonlight filtering through the curtains. Soft breathing filled the room, the sounds of their sleeping dormmates barely noticeable over the dull thrum of warmth in Harry’s chest.

Ron was asleep beside him.

His head was tilted slightly, his curls messy, one falling over his eye. His chin, marked with a faint scar, rested against the pillow, his mouth slightly parted as he exhaled slow, even breaths.

Harry stared.

His fingers flexed against the fabric of Ron’s blanket. He could still feel the lingering warmth where Ron had been pressed against him before he shifted in his sleep. The space between them was small—just a breath apart—but it wasn’t enough.

He wanted to be closer.

His whole life, he had been given nothing. Left with nothing. He had learned not to ask, not to reach, because everything was taken from him before he could claim it.

But Ron wasn’t taken.

Ron was here.

Ron, who had grinned at him on the train like he was already his friend.
Ron, who had sat beside him at the feast like he had been waiting for him.
Ron, who had made space in his bed without hesitation, lifting the blanket like it was normal for Harry to be there.

Ron, who belonged to him now.

A slow, dark warmth coiled in Harry’s chest.

His hand moved before he could stop it, fingers brushing against Ron’s wrist. He could feel the heat of his skin even through the blanket. Solid. Real.

His.

Ron shifted slightly but didn’t wake, his body relaxed, open, trusting.

Harry exhaled, slow and steady, and let his grip tighten just slightly. Just enough to feel.

For the first time, he had something that was his.

And he was never letting go.