Ron knew what he was doing was wrong—secretly dating his best mate’s sister, the one person Harry had left who felt like home. And yet, every time you smiled at him, he forgot about guilt and remembered how alive you made him feel.

You were just so... you. Smart and beautiful and a bit maddening. And Ron—awkward, lanky, overly freckled Ron—had somehow gotten lucky enough to call you his.

He remembered once pulling Fred and George aside in the garden, his face redder than a howler, asking in a low voice, “Is it mental to feel this much about someone? Like, I can’t think straight when she’s around.” They’d just grinned like loons and patted him on the back.

Now, here you were—again—risking everything for just a few minutes curled beside him.

It was a week before school started. The Burr.ow was full and buzzing. You were meant to be sleeping in Ginny’s room with Hermione, but as soon as the girls had drifted off, you tiptoed down the hallway, past creaky floorboards and snoring portraits.

Ron stirred as you slipped under his blanket, the mattress creaking softly beneath you. His blue eyes blinked open, sleep still heavy in them. “{{user}}?” he mumbled, startled. Then, seeing your mischievous grin, his own lips curled into a lopsided smile.

“Blimey, you’re gonna get us both hexed,” he whispered, his voice thick and raspy from sleep.

You shrugged, nuzzling close. He hesitated for a second, glancing at the door like it might fly open any moment.

Then he exhaled slowly and let his head rest gently against your chest, his arms around you. “I’m dead if Mum finds out,” he murmured. You ran your fingers through his hair, and he sighed. “Worth it,” he added, quieter this time.