Ron, however, spoke to Black. "If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!" he said fiercely. -Prisoner of Azkaban

.***.

Ron snuck into the room, whispering lumos so he wouldn't have to turn on the overhead lamps. Harry would have gone to bed ages ago, and should be tired after Quidditch practice. They'd been training hard. Ron was surprised by how much he liked Quidditch—or not surprised, exactly, at how much he liked the sport. More amazed that something could actually make him feel cool, make him popular as something other than Harry's sidekick. They hadn't played a game yet, and he wasn't brilliant, but people still knew he made the team. Lavender Brown was giggling a lot more around him.

But the important part about Quidditch today was that the practice had been brutal. Angelina was a hard taskmaster and had insisted on trooping out to the field even though Katie Bell was sick with the flu and in the hospital wing for the next few days. Harry had filled in as Chaser, a position he wasn't half bad at (sometimes, Ron thought, meanly, that Harry was at least half-good at everything.) Fred and George, though, had thought Harry flying around with the girls and the huge red ball was a right good laugh, and chucked Bludgers at his head so often that that practice was pulled up short when one actually made its target.

"I'm fine, Ron," Harry had muttered, grinning a little when Ron snapped at the twins. They were all on the ground. Ron had bundled Harry into his lap and had one hand slapped against the dark-haired boy's head. Blood was leaking through anyway.

George was contrite, at least, "Sorry Harry. You were avoiding them so well."

"I think two at once is my limit," Harry said, and he smiled like there was nothing wrong even though he was in pain, and Ron wanted to scream. Harry would grin right on through anything, poor bloke.

Fred stood by, hands over his chest, and only apologized when George elbowed him in the ribs. He was looking at Ron, "We'll just leave you two lovebirds alone then, huh?" Fred said, nodding his head at Ron's arms, still circled around Harry's torso.

"Belt up, would you?" Ron said, still not letting go of his friend. "Angelina, love, would you get out your wand, please?" Ron asked the captain, and she reached into her robes and had a bandage wrapped around Harry's head in a trice.

"I'm really fine, Ron," Harry said, "I can get up now. We still have twenty minutes of practice left."

"No we don't," Angelina sighed, "I'm calling it early. I need to bring Katie her homework, anyway. You're a decent Chaser though, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry said, and though he sounded pleased he also sounded really tired.

Angelina and Alicia headed back to the locker rooms, and the twins wrestled the Bludgers into the case. Ron stood, extending a hand to Harry. "You're going to have a pretty brilliant bruise tomorrow, mate."

Harry nodded, taking off his glasses and squinting at them. "Oh for Merlin's—they're all bent again." He tried to twist the glasses back into shape and the frames wouldn't budge. "I'll have to get 'Mione to fix 'em tonight—and get another lecture about the dangers of Quidditch."

"Give them here, Harry," Fred said, pinching the glasses from Harry's hand and mending them with a flick of his wand. "There you go. And really, mate, we're sorry about the Bludger thing."

"Usually we aim them all at Ron," George added.

"But with you as Chaser—"

"We just couldn't resist," George clapped Harry on the back. "Maybe get Madam Pomfrey to look at that, though? Wouldn't want you out of commission for the match."

Harry shook his head, "I'll be fine. I think I'll just take another loop around the pitch. Clear my head."

"All right. 'Night, Ronnikins."

Ron sent them a rude hand gesture, which the twins laughed at, turning in unison to go back to the locker rooms, holding the case of balls between them. "I'm not letting you back on your broom, Harry," Ron said, still looking after his brothers. "You really should go to the hospital wing."

"I just need a minute," Harry said, and though his voice a second ago had been even and calm, now it sounded strangled, "Wanted them to leave. Didn't need them to see me fall over like a girl." And he was wobbling, listing to one side. Ron surged forward and put an arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Merlin, you're heavy," Ron groaned, lowering Harry back to the ground. "Maybe Fred and George should've stayed. They're midgets, but they'd a lot stronger than me."

For some reason, Harry's face flushed and he started picking at the grass, inspecting each blade as if it were something very interesting. Ron watched him, staring at the white bandage that was already turning pink with blood. "Your brothers are great, Ron," Harry finally said, "I wouldn't want to bother them."

And then it clicked, and Ron started shaking his head. Of course, Harry had always tolerated the twins and even Percy more than Ron ever could, perhaps because he'd never known the sort of rough affection the twins showed Ron, or even the aloof tenderness that sometimes came from Percy. "Believe me, Fred and George like you more than me," Ron said, "They gave you the Map, didn't they?"

Harry grinned, "I'll be moving into your house next, Ron, I swear it."

"Mom would never stop feeding you," Ron said, "But it'd be better than Surrey, eh? Probably better than dirty old Grimwald Place, too."

"It's not that dirty," Harry said, loyal to Sirius to the end. And Ron liked old Snuffles, too, but he thought the Black family home was one of the most depressing buildings he'd ever walked in to.

Ron stood again. "Can you grab your broom?" he asked Harry, "And I'll grab you."

"I can walk."

"No you can't. It's fine. I don't mind." He waited for Harry to reach for his Firebolt before grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him vertical again. "You think Umbridge will let you play in the game?" Ron didn't know where the question came from, it had just popped out.

Harry's expression turned mulish, the same look he'd worn since their first DADA class of the semester, "I don't care what she does. She can't take Quidditch from me." He wobbled, and Ron sighed, moving his hand lower, around Harry's waist. What would the twins say now? But it the only way to keep him upright.

They struggled a few steps like that, and Ron had to laugh. They must look like an absurd pair. "Wish Hagrid was here," Ron said, fervently, "we could stop by his place. He could probably even carry you up to the castle."

"Wonder where he is," Harry said again, but he didn't say anything after that, and his voice was quiet. Conversation seemed to be hard for him. Ron knew how it was after a hit on the head. Sometimes you just wanted quiet.

So they were quiet. Heading back to the castle rather than too the locker rooms—too far, and they were making slow progress as it was—Ron only said once, jokingly, that they should just fly up to the Gryffindor common room.

"I'd fall off," Harry said.

"I wouldn't let you," Ron said, the answer so automatic that Harry turned to him, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

They were at the top of the castle steps when everything happened. And it was such a small thing on the surface. Dean and Seamus reached the great doors at the same time Harry and Ron did. And the two pairs stared at each other.

"What are you guys doing here?" Ron asked, his voice rougher than it needed to be.

"We were out for a walk," Dean said, his voice low, placating. Dean never wanted trouble. On the rare occasions when the five who shared the tower bedroom fought—stupid roommate fights, usually between Seamus and Harry, or Seamus and Ron—it was Dean who stepped in, with a joke or a quick word, and would haul his best friend back from the brink of a fist fight.

"A walk," Harry repeated, dully. Ron was starting to think he had a concussion. He was going to kill the twins.

Seamus for once didn't rise to any bait. Maybe he was starting to come around, though as far as Ron knew he and Harry hadn't spoken since the first night of the semester. "I was going up to the library, doing that stupid essay for Snape. You were working on it too, right Ron?"

"Yeah." And it was due tomorrow, and if he went back to the common room and got Hermione to look at Harry and took a nice long shower there was no way he was going to end up in the library, which would be another failing grade in Potions. He was going to fail his OWLs, he just knew it.

Harry pulled away from him. Ron had forgotten he still had an arm around his mate's waist. He took it away, quickly, and Harry managed to stand mostly upright, just leaning on him a little. "I already finished mine," Harry said.

"Come on the library then, Ron," Seamus said, "It'll go faster with two."

If he went back to the common room, Hermione would never let him look at her essay. And the few times he'd worked with Seamus before he'd been easy-going and a quick researcher, finding just the right phrases to make the essay sound half decent.

"I need to take Harry back," Ron said, "Took a bludger to the head at practice earlier."

"Really?" Dean said, reaching a gentle hand to probe at Harry's bandages. "I could look at that, Harry. My step-father's a doctor, you know. Muggle doctor, but he taught me some stuff."

"Brilliant," Seamus said, "So you'll take Harry back up the Tower and Ron and I will meet you there in an hour or two."

Harry flashed Ron a wounded look. If he were feeling better, he and Seamus would be shouting in the Entrance Hall by now. And though Ron was on Harry's side about the whole thing—believed him 100%, of course Voldemort's back, the whole thing—he needed to get his homework done and Seamus wasn't a bad fellow, just a bit thick and a bit too willing to listen to mummy.

"You don't mind, Dean?" Ron asked the black boy.

Dean shook his head, "Me and Hermione will get him sorted out, don't worry about it." He shot Seamus a long look though, a look Ron often gave to Harry when they were walking by Draco in the corridors, one that meant play nice.

So they parted ways in the entrance hall, Dean with both brooms and Harry under his arm. Harry didn't say another word to Ron, and Ron allowed himself to be steered up the staircase with Seamus.

He should have known better.

.***.

Harry wasn't asleep. He'd been out of it since the bludger, but after Dean and Hermione had seen to him and cast a few discreet charms he'd felt well enough to be mad. How could Ron have left with Seamus? Never mind the stupid part of his brain, the part that had felt abandoned when Ron walked away from him—what about the fact that it was Seamus? Seamus, who had taken the word of a newspaper over his own, who had called him a liar, an attention-seeker, crazy.

Maybe Ron thought he was crazy too. Maybe he was right.

When Ron slipped into the room (late, in the early hours of the morning) Harry had been stewing in his thoughts, mulling over the fact that Ron didn't want to be friends anymore. And why not? There was Umbridge and her stupid band of minions, there was Seamus and Dean, not on speaking terms with them anymore, there was Percy, his own brother, urging him to stay away.

He was going to confront Ron about it. When he heard Ron grasping for his curtains, he was going to demand an explanation. But he found that he couldn't. What if it was all true? The time without Ron during the Triwizard had been one of the worst months at Hogwarts. He couldn't stand the thought of not being friends anymore.

Good riddance to him, anyway. Harry thought, If he wants to believe them over me…I know what I saw. I'll be ready. I tried to warn them.

At the first muffled moan, Harry resolutely stayed still. So what if Ron was a little sore from practice? He shouldn't be paling around with Seamus Finnigan.

With the second moan, Harry lifted his head up. And then there was that little gasp, cut off so quickly it was obvious that it was never supposed to be audible at all. And that's when he reached through his curtains towards Ron's bed, in the back where they were always open. "Ron?" He pushed the fabric out of the way. "Merlin, it's dark. Ron?"

"I'm fine," Ron said, and he did sound fine. "How's your head, Harry?"

"I've got a tough head," Harry said, moving over to the red-head's bed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Ron sounded almost panicked now, "Go to bed."

"Lumos, Harry said. And then he scrambled to his feet. "What the hell happened?!"

He barely managed to keep his voice down. Ron's face was black and blue, and though he pulled down the sleeves of his pajamas Harry could see that his arms were bruised, too. There was a cut on his lip and another above his eye, both swelling, and there was a sluggish trickle of blood escaping from one ear. "Oh Ron," he sat back down. His hands were shaking. "Who did this to you?" He was shaking all over. He'd never felt like this—angry, and filled with so much instinctive protectiveness.

"It doesn't matter," Ron said, still tugging at his shirt, "I got a couple of swings in, too."

Harry stared at the cut that was swelling one of Ron's eyes shut. "Was it Seamus?" It was the only thing he could think of. He'd seen Ron three hours ago, perfectly fine. He goes off with Seamus…

Ron looked down at his hands. "It wasn't him. Mostly. There were others."

"Where?" Harry said. He was standing up again. "Where are they?"

"They're not there anymore," Ron grabbed his wince, wincing as the motion disturbed one of his cuts. "Keep your voice down."

Harry shrugged off the hand, still staring at all the damage that had been laid over Ron's skin. "What happened?"

Ron wouldn't meet his eyes, for reasons other than one of them was well and truly swollen shut now. "If I tell you, you can't go after them. I mean it, Harry. And you'll keep your voice down. It won't do any good waking Neville. Or Dean."

Harry lowered himself onto the bed, and Ron tried very hard not wince as his weight shifted the mattress. "Sorry, sorry," Harry said, trying to keep his voice soothing, "Do you need the hospital wing?"

"I don't think anything's broken," Ron said, "Maybe my ribs. And I hurt my hand punching someone's face. Couldn't see whose."

Harry picked up Ron's hand from the bedspread. The knuckles were split open and had swelled to twice their normal size. He rubbed it absent-mindedly, "Could do with some Murtlap. Hermione can make you some."

Ron nodded, and didn't protest when Harry lifted up his sleeves, looking at the yellow and green bruises. He didn't even protest when Harry hiked up the shirt, peering at the redness around his ribs, making a hissing sound in sympathy. It felt good to have someone caring.

Finally, Harry moved so that he was behind Ron, and he looked at Ron's back, which had been clawed at but not really hurt. He lowered Ron against him and rubbed soothing circles on Ron's belly. Both of their legs dangled off the bed. When did they get tall?

"Seamus really did want to work on the Potions essay, but he started in on you as soon as we got into the library. 'How's Harry get that concussion? Another spat with Voldemort?' That sort of thing. And I'm not exactly famous for controlling my temper. I told him to quit it or we'd have to talk outside the library. He picked the second one."

Harry didn't think this night could have made him feel any worse, but somehow that did. Ron had gotten hurt over him? Defending him? "You didn't have to do that."

"Seamus didn't have to be born an asshole. Some things can't be helped, Harry. Anyway, some people near us in the library heard. Four or five Sytherins, and two big Hufflepuffs who I didn't recognize until they were beating the crap out of me. They were on the Quidditch team last year. Must be Diggory's friends."

Harry was shaking again, shaking all over. He could picture those boys, the Hufflepuff Beaters, and they were seventh years now, three hundred pounds each. "Did Seamus throw the first punch."

"No. I did. I think Seamus tried to stop it, too. He pulled a couple of them off me. But he took off before it all ended."

Harry squeezed Ron tighter, and Ron groaned. Harry moved away from him like a shot, until they weren't touching at all. He'd already hurt Ron enough for the night. "How did it end?"

"Snape," Ron said, laughing without humor, "He was walking by. Got rid of the Slytherins just by showing up, gave the Hufflepuffs detention. I thought he was going to give me one, too, but he just looked at me where I was lying on the floor. Told me I needed to take a shower, the slimy git."

And then, for the first time, Ron was crying. Not loud, just little hiccupping tears that rolled down his cheeks, and Harry reached out for him again, being so gentle this time, making sure not to hurt at all. "Sorry," Ron said, after a minute passed, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Ron," Harry said again.

"Don't tell anyone," Ron said.

Harry looked at the bruises, the cuts, "I don't know enough magic to conceal all of this, Ron. People are going to know in the morning."

"It happened at Quidditch practice," Ron said, "We stayed after Fred and George left. You said you were going to fly some more. I'll just say I lost control. Crashed after practice."

"Malfoy will have a field day with that," Harry said, darkly, "And what about Dean? He saw us after practice."

Ron didn't have a solution for that. He stared out the window. It was getting cold enough now that there was frost on it. "Maybe Dean should know," he shook his head, "But not a word to Hermione. I don't want her thinking I came off so bad in a fight."

Harry promised, reluctantly. He didn't go back to his bed that night. He stayed with Ron, cleaning up where he could, holding him when the silent tears started again. He couldn't help but think that Hermione wouldn't think Ron weak if he told the whole story. He couldn't help but think that even the twins would be on Ron's side, if Ron would just say that he'd defended Harry, that he'd stood up for his friend and been hurt for it.

And Harry thought, after Ron finally fell to sleep on his shoulder, that Ron might do this again. He might stand up to one of Harry's enemies, loyal to the end, and he might be hurt worse than bruises and cuts. He might be tortured. He might be killed.

And, at fifteen years old, Harry couldn't think of a single way to stop it.

.***.

ron's always been our favorite, and we think he was loyal to a fault for harry, and his loyalty often went unnoticed, maybe even unmentioned in the books. this one take place during OotP, of course, but there might have been others. who knows? we like expanding one-shots.

happy (late) Thanksgiving, to all the American readers out there, and happy holiday season to everyone else. as most of you know, reviews are the best kinds of presents. peace, everyone.

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