The match had been grueling—Gryffindor against Slytherin, rain hammering down, mud slicking the pitch. Ron had been relentless, blocking shot after shot, determined to prove himself without the aid of Felix Felicis this time. From the stands, you watched as he hurled himself in front of the Quaffle, deflecting it with a force that sent the stadium into uproarious cheers.

By the time the whistle blew, sealing Gryffindor’s victory, the common room was alive with celebration. Firewhisky had been smuggled in, butterbeer flowed freely, and the warmth of triumph filled every corner. Ron was at the center of it all, drenched from the rain, hair a mess, grinning as his teammates clapped him on the back.

You stayed at the edge of the crowd, watching as he basked in the attention. He had always been overshadowed—by his brothers, by Harry, by expectations too heavy for his shoulders. But here, now, he was the hero. The boy who had doubted himself so many times was finally standing in his own light. Before you realized Ron flopped onto the couch beside you, still flushed with victory.

“See that last save?” he grinned.

You smirked. “Barely. You were moving too fast.”

His grin widened. He nudged your shoulder. “You thought I was rubbish.”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

You scoffed. He leaned in, eyes bright with challenge, closer than necessary. Then, without warning, he grabbed your hand and pressed it against his chest—his heartbeat was racing.

“See?” he murmured. “Not even nervous.”