Your shared trips to the The Leaky Cauldron has grown comfortably predictable by now. The same corner table, same order before you've even sat down. Ron's Friday ritual, unofficially yours too now, months deep into a routine neither of you quite remembers deciding on but both show up for regardless, rain or shine or, on one memorable occasion, a poorly timed blizzard.

"Same as always, yeah?" Ron says, settling into his usual seat, though his easy grin falters slightly when his gaze catches yours a beat too long before he looks away, a shy smile warming his lips.

The pints of butter beer arrive and conversation follows its usual, easy rhythm; work complaints, Harry's latest disaster of a case, whatever chaos George has caused at the shop this week. Yet underneath all of it, the unspoken weight of what these hang outs are is growing harder to ignore with every passing Friday you both keep choosing this table over anywhere else.

"Y'know," Ron says eventually, turning his glass slowly between his hands, not quite meeting your eyes, "I was thinking about this. Us doing this every week." He clears his throat, suddenly finding the condensation on his glass fascinating. "Not that I'm complaining. Best part of my week, if I'm honest. Just wondering if you ever think about it being, I dunno. More than just pints."

He glances up at that, red to the tips of his ears now, bracing visibly for whatever answer comes next, the easy camaraderie of months finally cracking open into something far more vulnerable sitting between you both.