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Ron and Harry moved into the little third-floor flat off Diagon Alley three days after Harry turned nineteen. The flat wasn’t perfect; it was cramped and old, and floors squeaked, but it got them out of Ron’s parents' house, and really, that’s all he could ask for at that point.
It was a miserably hot, sticky summer, and the windows in the front room barely opened, so it felt a bit akin to living in a sauna. Ron hated it, but Harry didn’t seem to mind, even when his shirt stuck to his back before nine in the morning. Since their cooling charms had just about no effect, there wasn’t much to be done. It’s not as though they could afford anything better, and as it were, they were relying on the last of Harry’s inheritance more than they really ought to.
While they were both working, Harry at the Magical Menagerie — a job he took on a whim, and Ron with his brother at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the pay was a bit shit, and neither of them were particularly good on a budget. At least not at first. Eventually, Ron got the hang of it. He had to after George had put him in charge of the shop accounts, which at the beginning had nearly driven him into an early grave.
Things got a bit better when Ron put them on a rather strict budget that allowed for one takeaway every two weeks, and the occasional emergency ice cream, which, considering the heat, was something of a necessity. Fortunately, the sticky heat couldn’t last forever, and it gave way to an unseasonably cold autumn. It had at first seemed like an improvement. After all, there was only so much clothing that one could remove in polite company, but it was always appropriate to put on a jumper.
The problem was that their tiny front room was particularly drafty. There was a cast-iron radiator that sat in the corner gurgling at all hours, but it didn’t seem to do much to combat the creeping chill. So by September, they’d taken to keeping a quilt on the sofa. It was mostly for Harry, since he never did well in the cold. He’d get pale and start to go blue around the mouth — it was rather alarming, so Ron did his very best to keep him bundled up like a toddler.
This became something of a full-time occupation, once October arrived on the back of a brutal, biting wind that rattled the windows as though it planned to crack the frames.
On the first Sunday of the month, Ron woke up sometime after nine. Harry had left for work well over an hour ago, and since he was alone, he was very tempted to stay in bed. After all, it was warm and cosy, and had he not been hungry enough to eat an entire Hippogryff, he might have rolled over and gone back to sleep.
But he was hungry, and so after much dawdling, he got up. He shivered as soon as he’d gotten out from under the covers and hurried to shove his feet into a worn pair of slippers.
“It's only bloody October," he grumbled, and yanked on an old bobbly jumper before making his way to the kitchen to put on the kettle. He stuck his head into the ice box, frowned at the lack of anything edible, and promptly closed the door. He could have made porridge, although he’d never quite got the hang of it; all his attempts came out rather like glue.
In the end, he settled for toast and ate it on the sofa tucked under the quilt, which is where he stayed until Harry returned late that afternoon. He came into the flat in a hurry. Stumbling into the front room, with a box tucked under his arm, wind swept and red cheeked.
“How was the Menagerie?” Ron asked.
“Fine,” he said, “one of the ball pythons told me one of the orange cats broke out of her cage again last night and went galavanting around the alley. Of course, she was back by the time the owner turned up.”
Ron scoffed, and Harry grinned at him. They both knew how he felt about the cats — they were far too clever for their own good. Harry kicked off his trainers and set his box on the floor while he shimmied out of his coat. The box twitched once before letting out a long, low hiss.
“What’s the box, Harry?” Ron asked, and Harry went suspiciously quiet.
It wasn’t the first time he’d brought something that needed looking after home from work, and Ron didn’t expect that it would be the last. So far they had played host to: a grumpy owl with a sprained wing, two kittens that needed to be bottle fed every few hours — they had been cute but Ron had almost cried in relief once they found a proper home — and a two foot long snake that liked to hide under the sofa cushions to try and scare them every time they sat down.
Ron eyed Harry and then the box, and sighed. “It’s not more cats, is it?”
“Look, I know we’re not supposed to have pets—” Harry started. They absolutely were not allowed to have pets, but that hadn’t stopped them any of the other times, so it was a bit of a moot point. “But I don’t think a hissing teapot really counts as a pet.”
“A what?”
Hissy — as Harry had dubbed the squat, flower-patterned hissing teapot— had been dropped at the back door of the Menagerie sometime early that morning. Tallbuck, the owner had been at a bit of a loss of what to do with it, and so to keep it from going into the bin — it had a rather nasty habit of trying to pinch fingers under its lid — Harry had volunteered to take it home.
When he took Hissy out of the box, it vibrated and hissed so aggressively that he nearly dropped it before he was able to set it on a small decorative cushion in the middle of the coffee table. Hissy settled into the cushion, as though it was sitting on a throne, and so it was decided that at least for now, that coffee table would be its home.
Later that evening, after they’d had dinner — ham sandwiches and a half a packet of stale crisps — they’d curled up on opposite sides of the sofa, the quilt draped over their legs, while Hissy sat in the same spot it had been since it had arrived. It had been hissing on and off for the last hour, but it wasn’t a bother, really; it sounded a bit like the radiator.
“Can you understand it?" Ron asked, and Harry blinked owlishly at him from the other end of the sofa.
“Understand what?”
“The tea pot.”
“Oh,” said Harry, and he went quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowed like he was listening very hard. “Not really,” he said, “It sounds a bit like someone trying to gargle gravel.”
“I mean,” said Ron, “I could have told you that.”
Hissy quickly became a permanent fixture in the flat — after all, who else would want a hissing teapot? Ron still wasn’t entirely sure what its purpose was, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Hissy was theirs, and it was rather endearing even if it tried to pinch a finger whenever it got the chance.
As November inched ever nearer, the days got shorter, the mornings got colder, and on more than one occasion, Ron could see his breath while he waited for the kettle. The radiator in the corner rattled ever on, although it didn’t do all that much for the ever-persistent chill.
Harry hated it, although he never said so aloud. He didn’t have to, Ron could tell from the way his mouth pinched at the corners, and how he’d hunch his whole body over his cup of tea, his hand wrapped around the mug to soak in as much warmth as possible.
Hissy wasn’t a fan of the cold either, although Ron was fairly certain that Hissy wasn’t a fan of much at all. Still, they did their best to keep it happy — or at least as happy as a crotchety semi-sentient teapot could be. And that meant toting it around the flat, wrapped up in a scarf.
That weekend was one of the rare occasions that they both ended up with the same day off. This was something that Ron had come to treasure more than he’d ever be able to put into words. Recently, he’d developed the rather strange routine of missing Harry, which frankly should have been impossible considering that they lived in each other's pockets. And yet, it didn’t seem to matter that they lived in the same closet sized space, their schedules were ever-changing and unpredictable, and Ron found that they didn’t spend nearly as much time together as he’d thought they would.
Although if given the opportunity, he’d spend all of his time with Harry forever, so he really ought to be realistic and be happy with what he had. After all, one day they might not live in each other's pockets, and one day Ron might be in a small, crappy third-floor flat with nothing but a hissing teapot for company. He probably wouldn’t even have the teapot; Harry would never willingly leave it behind.
While they had both become rather attached, Harry was the one who made sure to cast a warming charm on Hissy’s cushion in the morning, and cooed lovingly as he toted it around the flat.
Ron had woken with a headache that morning, and while it would have been easy to spend the day in a sulk, he wasn’t about to pass up a day at home with Harry. Even if his eyes were throbbing and he felt a bit like he’d had his head slammed in a door. So he dragged his sorry arse out of bed when he’d really wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, and sat hunch-backed and bleary-eyed across from Harry, who was wearing one of Ron’s Christmas jumpers and a rather lopsided woolen hat. It looked like one of Hermione’s. He reached for the butter for his porridge, and Hissy rattled ominously and tried to nip at his fingers.
“None of that, little miss,” said Harry, and he booped her gently on the spout, which resulted in a low whine of discontent. Harry yawned and tapped his wand once on Hissy's scarf to top up her warming charm.
“I was talking to Mrs Downstairs when I got home last night,” he said, “and she said that next week is going to be really cold and we ought to keep an eye on the pipes.”
“Isn’t it already really cold?” Ron grumbled. “It’s been cold since the end of September.”
Harry sighed. “Sorry, I knew this place was a bit shit when we moved in, but Merlin's balls, this has been something else, hasn’t it?”
“That’s not your fault, it’s not like we can afford anything better—”
Harry frowned, his brow furrowing. Ron knew he was frustrated, but he looked more defeated than anything, and while there wasn’t much Ron could do, he sure wished that there was. He hated it when Harry looked like that.
“If my job paid a bit more, then we’d have been able to move somewhere that had proper heating,” Harry groused. “I should've gotten a proper job ages ago.”
“You do have a proper job. You’ve all your creatures to look after, and besides, it’s not as though mine pays much better. I knew what I was signing up for when we moved in — I don’t hate being here. You’re here, and that’s enough for me.”
Harry dipped his head, trying to hide the pink tinge to his cheeks. While Ron was perfectly content to stare at the table and pretend that he hadn’t noticed.
“Well,” said Harry, “I suppose it can’t be as bad as sleeping in a bloody tent for half a year, can it?”
“Right,” Ron replied, his voice hoarse. A lump had formed in his throat that made it hard to swallow. He did his best not to think about when he’d stormed off and left Harry, but the guilt still sat just under his skin. He’d never really be able to forget it. How could he when it was his biggest regret? While he couldn’t take it back, he could try and learn from it, and he was determined that he’d never do something so selfish and idiotic again.
At the very least, Harry seemed to have forgotten about it, and for that, Ron was grateful. Still, if he could make up for it, even just a little, he’d like to try. And maybe this was his opportunity. George had mentioned an upcoming raise — he’d also said not to get too excited about it, but something was better than nothing. Perhaps with a little effort, Ron could prevent them from spending a second winter in this thrice-cursed flat.
Of course, change can not be made without sacrifice. Ron had known that going into it, but that didn’t make it any easier to say no when Harry asked him to the pub in the evenings or to turn down a takeaway in lieu of a sandwich. Even if it was for a good reason. Still, that didn’t make it any easier; Harry just looked so disappointed whenever Ron turned him down.
Ron kept the money he’d saved in a shoe box that he hid in the back of the closet, and while at first it seemed that all he was doing was disappointing Harry for nothing, by the New Year, he’d saved up half of a rental deposit. If he kept on, they’d certainly be able to afford something more comfortable once their lease was up, and he couldn’t help but be a bit chuffed with himself.
He still didn’t like missing out, but it was going to be worth it. Ron was sure of it. At least right up until he wasn’t.
On the second Friday in February, Harry came home late from the Menagerie, wearing the nicest jumper Ron had ever seen. It was a dark navy, and in a flattering cut, and Ron was only a bit jealous. All of his jumpers were hand-knit, and a bit bobbily, but then he supposed if anyone deserved nice things, it was Harry, and so he didn’t mention it.
Harry collapsed on the sofa next to Ron, tilted his head back towards the ceiling, and groaned.
“What's happened then?” asked Ron.
“I have work tomorrow.”
“Do you usually work Saturdays?”
“Yes, but I’d asked for this one off ages ago,” Harry said, and then he sighed, his shoulder bouncing with the force of it. “It is what it is, I suppose. At least it’s only in the morning. You’re going to be around for dinner, aren’t you?”
“Of course I will.” Ron yawned and kicked his feet up on the coffee table, much to Hissy's displeasure. “It’s a Saturday. What else would I be doing?”
“I dunno. You might have plans.”
“With who?” Ron asked, baffled. Since Hermione had gone for a mastery in magical law in York, the only people he saw on any regular basis were Harry and his brother.
“I was just asking,” Harry said sulkily, and he nudged Ron’s side with one of his lethally pointy elbows. “I’ll make us dinner then.”
“Oh, thank Merlin. I think if I have to eat another bloody sandwich, I’m going to die.”
Harry chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
The following morning, Harry left sometime before the sun came up. Ron had heard him leave. Ron didn’t have to go into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes until after nine, and he had no intention of getting up until he had to. He woke for a second time, with a desperate need to piss that got him out of bed. He’d just come out of the bathroom when the buzzing of the front door alarm went off. Ron was tempted to ignore it; it was probably for Mr. Two doors down, they always seemed to get his deliveries for some reason. But the buzzing was very loud and annoying, so Ron went to the door and tapped his wand against the alarm. “Hullo?”
“Good Morning, I’m with the MPS," said an overly chipper delivery person, “I’ve got a delivery for one Harry Potter at 1217. Can I bring it up?”
“Ah,” said Ron, surprised. “Sure, I’ll let you up.”
He tapped his wand against the alarm a second time.
“Thanks,” chirped the delivery person, "I'll be up in a jiff.”
Ron leaned against the door frame while he waited. He hadn’t a single clue what Harry might have ordered. It was rare that either of them ordered anything other than the occasional takeaway, and it was even more unusual for Harry.
He didn’t have to wait long; it had only been a few moments before the delivery person was pounding on their door, and when Ron opened the door, he was met with an enormous bouquet of flowers. It was a lush arrangement of delicate flowers, in dusty pinks and oranges, in an ornate vase and tied with a bow. The delivery person shoved the bouquet into Ron’s hands. “There you are! Now if you could just sign —”
Ron stepped back, slightly overwhelmed by the volume of the bouquet, and gingerly maneuvered so he could take the offered quill and scribble his signature on the offered receipt.
“Very good,” said the Delivery Person, and off he went.
Ron took the flowers to the kitchen because he wasn’t sure what else to do with them and set them on the counter. They were lovely, and he couldn’t help but wonder where they’d come from. There was a tag on the vase; curious, he flipped it over. It read: For my sweetheart.
He frowned, teeth pulling at his bottom lip in displeasure, and turned the tag back over, but that was all it said. He huffed and pushed the vase down the counter. They were pretty flowers; a very nice gift, and Harry deserved nice things. But he couldn’t help but wish that he’d thought to get Harry flowers. Not that Ron had ever thought to get anyone flowers, but he could have.
Maybe he would in the future, since Harry had someone calling him their sweetheart. Maybe Ron ought to find his own sweetheart. But the thing was, that Ron wasn’t interested in having a sweetheart. Why would he when he hardly had any free time, and the time he had, he’d rather spend with Harry. He’d thought that Harry wasn’t interested either, but now, well, obviously he’d been mistaken.
Something heavy had settled in his gut as he puttered around the tiny kitchen. If he had missed something so important about his best mate, then what else had he missed? Had he been scraping and saving for nothing, and had just wasted the last of his time with Harry when he should have been enjoying it?
He had no idea.
The kettle went off, and Hissy rattled angrily on the table as it did every time the kettle went off.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ron said, and hurried to turn off the kettle. Hissy hissed menacingly from its cushion on the table. “Yes, I know you're annoyed, but tea's important. But then I guess you’d know that, wouldn’t you, since you're a teapot.”
Since he often ate breakfast alone, he’d taken up the unfortunate habit of talking to Hissy. He was pretty sure it understood at least half of what he said, even if it could only hiss and rattle in reply. Still, it was better company than some people — Malfoy, for example.
By the time Ron sat at the little table to eat his breakfast, everything annoyed him. The radiator was too loud, his pajama bottoms kept riding up, and Harry’s giant bloody flower bouquet made the whole kitchen smell of flowers. Which certainly wasn’t the worst way it could smell. But, since Ron already wanted to toss the flowers into the bin and pretend they’d never arrived, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, he was in no mood to appreciate their delicate aroma.
He stabbed at his slightly charred sausages — cooking was not his calling, and he never tried to pretend that it was — “Do you know who Harry’s sweetheart is?” he asked.
Hissy hissed in response, and Ron scoffed. “I thought so. Some friend he is, going off and leaving us all on our own —” his wand vibrated loudly against the table, informing him that he needed to be out the door in under ten minutes or he was going to be late.
He swore loudly, shoved his sausages into his mouth, and dumped his plate into the sink with a clatter. Hiss would just have to spend the day in the kitchen; at least it would have the bloody flowers to keep it company.
He wasn’t late, but it was a near thing, not that it really mattered since George didn’t turn up until half past. They were both working in the office that day, so really turning up on time wasn’t all that important. Still, it was the principle of the thing.
“Who pissed in your porridge this morning?” asked George, after Ron sighed for the fourth time in the five minutes after he’d arrived.
“Nothing,” Ron groused. He was sitting on the sagging sofa next to George's desk and had the rather arduous task of comparing last month's apothecary order against this month's apothecary catalog.
“Right,” said George. “And that's why you look like you’d like to strangle someone.”
“Mulpeppers have raised the prices of eel eyes again, that’s the third time this quarter, and now I’m going to have to recalculate the prices for only about seventy products, and it’s only going to take me about nine hundred years.”
“Merlin, that is a travesty. Have you checked Sluggs? I think they’ve got ‘em on special this month.”
“I’ll bet they do,” grumbled Ron. He hated Sluggs and always took it slightly personally when they had to order from them.
George chuckled, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his feet up on his desk. “Cheer up, Ronnie, at least the daisy root shortage is over. Merlin, that was a nightmare, wasn’t it?”
It had indeed been a nightmare, and Ron was very glad that it was over.
“Would you mind locking up this arvo?” George asked, “I’ve got a date.”
“You’ve got a date? How’d you manage that?”
“I spent the last three months on my bloody hands and knees begging Angie to give me a chance. I told her I’d win her over by Valentine's day, and I did, so I’m not going to muck it up by turning up late.”
Ron blinked for a second. “It’s Valentine’s Day?”
“Merlin, for someone who spends so much time looking at a calendar, you are a bit of an idiot, aren’t you?”
Ron made a displeased noise and slumped low on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “I suppose that makes sense then.”
“What makes what?”
“Someone sent Harry flowers this morning, it said it was for their ‘sweetheart’.”
George's eyebrows shot up into his fringe. “And it wasn’t you?”
Ron scoffed. “No.”
“Merlin, Ronnie, you better get on that, or someone might steal your Harry away, and then where would you be?”
Ron glared at the pile of catalogs as though they had insulted his mother. “I know that,” he snapped. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”
“I imagine not. So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t suppose there's much I can do,” Ron said, sinking even lower on the sofa. “If Harry’s seeing someone, I’ll just have to try not to be a prat about it.”
George made a thoughtful noise. “Does he have plans for tonight then?”
“I don’t think so. He said he’d make me dinner.”
“Ohhhh, he’ll make you dinner.”
Ron ducked his head and tried to ignore that the tips of his ears were on fire. “Something like that. Although if he’s got a sweetheart, I’m not sure why he’d bother.”
“I suppose you’ll just have to ask, won’t you?”
They were supposed to work until after five, but George decided that under the circumstances, it was far better if they packed up early. “What's the point of being in charge if I can’t quit early sometimes,” he said, shooing Ron out of the office sometime after three.
Harry wasn’t home when he made it back to the flat, and after changing back into his jimjams, he collapsed on the sofa in a heap and promptly fell asleep. He woke sometime later, fuzzy-headed and disoriented. Ron sat up and groaned. It was already dark, and he could hear Harry puttering about in the kitchen, humming to himself.
Ron stuck his head into the kitchen, squinting from the bright light.
“Oh, you’re up!” Harry said. He was leaning on the counter next to a pile of shopping bags, in his lovely new jumper. “I was just about to start dinner.”
Ron grunted, and he knew he was being a bit of an arse, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Those fucking flowers had been moved to the middle of the little kitchen table. Harry had obviously seen them. And he kept them, and Ron had never felt so terrible about something so utterly stupid in his entire life. Had he been more awake, then perhaps he would have thought about what to say before he said it, but he didn’t.
“Someone got you flowers,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Harry smiled big and bright. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?
Ron grunted. He couldn’t exactly argue. They were pretty. “I didn’t know you had a sweetheart.”
Harry blinked at him for a moment. “What’d you mean?”
“On that tag,” said Ron, “it says for my sweetheart.”
“Does it?” said Harry, “I didn’t notice.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Why do you care anyway?”
“Because!” said Ron, his fist clenched at his sides, “I wanted you to be my sweetheart!”
He regretted it the moment he said it, and before Harry could respond, he’d whirled and stormed his way out of the flat. He’d made it halfway back to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes before he realised he hadn’t bothered with a coat, and was still in his slippers. He shivered; it was cold, he really had gone and made an utter prat of himself, hadn’t he?
He’d really just gone and done the one thing he’d sworn he wasn’t going to do — he’d gotten pissed and run off abandoning Harry again. He wasn’t ever going to learn, was he? He just kept doing the same stupid things over and over; no wonder Harry had found someone else. Ron wouldn’t want to have to depend on himself either.
He stopped in front of a bakery and glared at the window festooned in red and pink streamers. Ron might not be able to take back his initial reaction, but he could at least go back and apologize.
Or he could keep being an idiotic prat and stomp off in a huff. But that isn’t what he wanted, so he turned himself right back around and went home.
It was so quiet in the flat when he let himself in that for a moment he thought that Harry had left.
“Harry?” he called, and kicked off his muddy slippers. They bounced off the wall with a loud enough thud that Hissy clacked its lid angrily at being disturbed.
Harry stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Oh,” he said, “you’re back.”
Ron shoved his hands into his pajama pockets. “I’m tired of running away every time I fuck up.”
“You didn’t fuck up,” said Harry, and then swore loudly and vanished back into the kitchen. After a moment of loud clattering, he shouted, “Can you come in here?”
Begrudgingly, Ron went into the kitchen. Harry looked up from the hob, “I’m stuck here for a bit, so you’re just going to have to be in here too.”
Their kitchen wasn’t meant for two people at the best of times, and with Harry in the middle of dinner, it was not the best of times. Ron shuffled his way past the hob and took up residence on the far end of the counter.
“What are you making?” he asked, while Harry stirred a huge pan on the hob.
“Beef Wellintons,” Harry said, and he flashed a small smile over his shoulder. “They’re your favorite.”
Ron gaped for a moment, bearing an uncanny impression of a cod. They were his favorite, but he only got to eat them about once a year, usually on his birthday. When he finally got his mouth to work, he said, “Merlin, you’re doing all that work, and I’m just a useless prat who says something stupid and runs off. Fucking hell.”
Harry stopped stirring and turned, brandishing his spoon at Ron, “You’re not useless! And you didn’t say anything stupid, I just wished you’d explained a bit better.”
“What's there to explain exactly?” Ron asked.
“It’s just that I’m not sure I’ve understood.”
Ron sighed. “That’s fine.”
Harry scowled. “It’s not. I want to understand.” He ducked his head, his cheeks going a soft pink. “What if I want to be your sweetheart?”
Ron spluttered for a moment. “But you got those gifts—”
“What gifts?” asked Harry.
“That nice jumper and flowers.”
“But I bought those for myself,” Harry said, looking bemused.
“You what?”
“One of the girls who works next door said it was a travesty that I’d never had a Valentine, so she told me to be my own. I thought about asking you, but I was too much of a coward to ask — you’ve been so busy. I wasn’t sure you’d be interested. I still wanted to make you dinner, though, so here we are.”
Ron opened his mouth and then closed it again, and cleared his throat. “I was only busy because I was trying to save up to get us a nicer flat.”
In one quick motion, Harry turned off the hob and shoved the pan to the back burner. He brandished his spoon at Ron. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?” said Ron, “I meant it.”
“Because it makes me want to kiss you!”
“So kiss me then.”
Harry stepped between his legs, tipped up Ron’s chin, and kissed him. Ron made a soft, breathy sound that would have been embarrassing had he not been otherwise occupied, and tangled his fingers in Harry’s messy hair.
It was a sweet kiss, warm and languid, and Ron would have been content to stay wrapped up in each other like that for the rest of the evening. Harry sighed, kissed Ron once more, and then leaned forward to rest his forehead against Ron’s chest.
“So do I get to be your sweetheart then?” he asked.
Ron scoffed and carded his fingers through Harry’s hair, “You’d better be.”