Ronarry One Shots

Practice Makes Perfect

"You all right there?" Ron hollered across the Quidditch pitch. From this distance, he looked so much smaller than he really was. Harry rubbed at the throb in his left shoulder, not feeling at all irritated at Ron for causing it. That was the whole point of practicing. Trying to knock each other off balance, trying to gain the lead while racing along side each other. Whatever it took to become a better player.

"Yeah," Harry called back.

He flew in a straight line towards Ron, who flew to meet him at the centre point of the pitch. It was getting late. The sky had clouded over and darkened at the onset of evening, though Harry had been having too much fun to notice. Ron's cheeks were flushed a merry red from both exertion and laughter. Perhaps, Harry thought, they really weren't the best pair to practice together, since most of the time they larked about, often ending up creased over their brooms in hysterics. Particularly whenever Ron saw fit to shout a running commentary of their swoops and dives in a stupid voice that resembled the Sorting Hat to a near-frightening degree.

Ron looked at Harry seriously for a moment. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

"It wasn't that hard," Harry said, forcing himself not to start rubbing his shoulder again. It had been, really, but Ron didn't need to know that. He didn't seem to be aware his own enthusiastic strength sometimes. Once, they had wrestled for a laugh in the second year, and even then, although Ron had been considerably smaller than he was now, Harry had ached for days afterwards. All in the name of fun. And it had been worth it. "You hit like a girl, anyway," Harry added, winning himself a grin.

"Tosser." Ron leaned to the right and then flew a narrow circle around Harry, before stopping in front of him, a challenging smile spread over his mouth that ignited his eyes as well. "You want to race again?"

"Yeah, all right," Harry said with a shrug. Why did Ron even bother to ask? Harry was always ready to fly; be it a game, practice, for exercise or just for the feel of the wind in his hair. They both swiftly made their way to one side of the pitch, coming to rest in front of the Ravenclaw stands, then turned, hovering next to each other with the thrill of excited anticipation.

"On three," Ron said, bending low over his meticulously polished Cleansweep. Harry nodded and lowered himself over his Firebolt, feeling the narrow, familiar length pressing along his stomach. Sometimes he fancied he could feel it when he was in class, or at night when he was trying to get to sleep. "One... two..."

The silence ran on.

"Ron, stop arseing about--"

"Three!"

Ron was off, a streak of ginger hair and maroon Quidditch robes. Harry swore at himself for falling for it, then shot forwards with as much determination as he could muster. Fairly, he didn't find himself playing with as much vigour as he did when against an opposing team's players, but Ron obviously tried his best to wind Harry up to produce the desired effect. Harry went along with it most of the time, but occasionally he found himself slipping into the near trance-like state he experienced during matches, where everything was reflex, frighteningly fast. Fierce playing. Real Quidditch.

Although, mostly it was unadulterated fun. Because it was Ron.

Ron, who was in the lead by a couple of feet.

"Come on, Potter! Fly boy! Do it for Hogwarts! Do it for England! Do it for S.P.E.W! House elves unite and all that shite!"

Harry let out a bark of laughter and slipped back further, giving Ron the opportunity to gain a fair distance between them. Damn Ron for using jokes! Harry was laughing for real now and couldn't stop, knowing that he was going to lose if he didn't remain focused. He forced himself into Quidditch mode, concentrating on his breathing and his goal: to reach the other side before his opponent. His opponent, who wasn't Ron anymore, just another boy who was threatening to win, like Malfoy... Harry felt the resulting jolt of this thought in his body, vibrating through his broom and melding him to it as if it were another limb; with eyes sharpened and fixed straight ahead he accelerated with a flush of determination. Almost there... Ron was beside him now, they were level pegging, though the length of the pitch was running out rapidly. This was always Harry's favourite part, probably Ron's too -- the not knowing how far you'd end up going, who would stop first, pull back before hitting the solid, and potentially lethal, brick wall of the Gryffindor stands. Which was right there! The individual stones were clear; a network of cracks spread darkly over the weathered surface, jagged, like lightening bolts.