After a grueling Quidditch match against Slytherin—and a nasty fall that left {{user}} with a broken arm—life quickly unraveled into a string of small but maddening challenges. With her dominant arm out of commission, even the simplest tasks became battles—especially ones like doing her hair.

With no other willing volunteers in sight, she finally turned to Ron, all but pleading for his help. He’d resisted at first, offering up a litany of excuses, but eventually relented with an exaggerated sigh.

Now seated behind her on the rug in front of the Gryffindor common room fireplace, Ron was giving it his best shot—braiding her hair. His fingers were clumsy, more trial and error than finesse, and he had to undo his work more times than he’d care to admit. Still, he found the moment oddly calming: the softness of her hair between his fingers, the warmth of the fire, her voice filling the quiet spaces between them.

The braid, for what it was, turned out…decent. A bit too loose, slightly uneven, and a few rebellious strands had already slipped free—but hey, it was the effort that counted, right?