Ronarry One Shots

Can't Start a Fire Without a Spark

Summary: It's getting harder to hear about Harry's casual one-night stands, but Ron can't work out why. He meets plenty of women, he wants his friend to be happy and it can't be jealousy, because Ron is straight. Isn't he?

Ships: RonWeasleyxHarryPotter

All credit goes to Writcraft on Ao3

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"I'm freezing my bollocks off." Ron rubs his hands together and blows on them for warmth.

The flight from Cambridge was long, largely thanks to Harry's insistence that they fly out to the Suffolk coast and circle back on themselves to Godric's Hollow. Ron likes a flight over stormy seas as much as the next person, but the salt spray lands like ice in this kind of weather.

"It's not that bad, don't be soft." Harry rolls his eyes but casts a few warming charms around the cottage. The spell soothes like a mug of hot chocolate.

"I'm not used to charging around on a broom anymore. Not after sitting on my arse for the last few months."

"Setting up a new business is hardly sitting on your arse." Harry gives Ron a shrewd look. "Speaking of, are you ever going to tell any of us about the big plan?"

"Let's have some booze first." Ron trusts Harry implicitly, but months of working on his career change in relative isolation has left him antsy about sharing the details with anyone, even his best friend. He changes the subject swiftly. "Do you reckon they ever have fun at Cambridge?"

"Hermione looked like she was having a good time." For a second it seems like Harry is going to push for more detail on Ron's business, but eventually he shrugs and unlaces his boots. He straightens after a moment, brow furrowed. "Don't you think?"

"Suppose." Ron chucks his broom into the cupboard under the stairs and unlaces his own flying boots. "You should have heard her going on about a French philosopher—Foo-something—with that new bloke of hers. If you ask me, Foo-whatshisface sounds like a right wanker."

"Arguing about French philosophers sounds like great fun if you're Hermione." Harry laughs at the face Ron pulls in response. "Jealous?"

"Hardly, mate." Ron pulls off his jacket and hangs it on the banister, putting his boots in an untidy pile next Harry's. "That ship sailed a long time ago."

"Well, I think she seemed happy," Harry replies. "Which can only be a good thing."

"I'll say." Ron gives Harry a crooked smile. "Thought we wouldn't get there for a bit."

"You're not the only one," Harry agrees. Ron's throat tightens as he takes in the cloud that passes briefly over Harry's face.

They take the momentary lull in conversation to grab a few beers from the kitchen as they move through the house in companiable silence.

There was a time when happiness evaded them all. Visiting Hermione at university seemed so normal, so uncomplicated. Memories of war never disappear though, not completely. Experiences like that leave scars. They always hum in the quiet when the three of them get back together again. Ron, Harry and Hermione. The Three Musketeers, Hermione calls them.

When Ron and Harry packed their things that morning in Cambridge, Harry was unusually quiet. When he suggested that they take a detour out to the coast on the way home, Ron happily agreed. He would fly over the Atlantic and back in a thunderstorm if Harry asked. Whatever Harry might say about the best fish and chips on the East coast, Ron knows flying isn't about a chip shop supper, exercise or practicing for Quidditch season.