(I’ve been rereading Harry Potter lately and fic was only inevitable. Mostly canon-compliant, diverges from DH just enough to indulge all my little headcanons.)
Harry watches him with wary eyes, and all at once Ron wants to either snatch him into a tight embrace or shake him until his teeth rattle.
“You,” he says, very clearly, “are an idiot.”
Harry doesn’t blink, but he draws away somehow without moving at all, and Ron stalks a solid step forward that makes sure his friend is cornered.
An article appeared two days ago in the Daily Prophet, one that boasted The Chosen One’s Secrets Revealed! with exclusive interviews conducted by none other than Rita Skeeter herself – interviews with Harry’s rotten Muggle family, who, Ron thought with more cruelty than he was used to thinking with, probably saw a stack of shiny Galleons and were happy to sit in the same room with a few freaks for as long as it took to land that gold in their greedy pockets. Nevermind what it would do to Harry, nevermind the kind of conclusions Mind-Healers and scholars and Harry’s teachers and friends would rightly draw from the article.
It’s not like the Dursleys came out and said they locked Harry in a cupboard and fed him through a cat-flap and left bruises on his arms from where they grabbed and yanked too hard, but what they did say – even looking past Skeeter’s blatant editorializing – said more than enough.
And in the wake of the public outcry, Harry disappeared. Locked the Floo in Grimmauld Place, strengthened the wards to keep out even owls, and Ron stood on the Apparation point and stared at the front door just out of his reach, drowning in a cresting wave of dread and worry and aching sympathy.
Then he went to George for a way to get through Grimmauld Place’s toothed defenses. And without hesitating, George put aside the horrible-looking device he had been working on –
“For Skeeter,” he offered, without smiling –and gave Ron a violent hammering spell that would work.
(If Ron is ever, for some reason, asked to rank the members of his family by their levels of iron-clad devotion to Harry Potter, George would only be second to himself. Harry knows grief and loss and hopeless yearning better than anyone, and comes the closest to understanding the gaping hole in George’s heart after the war, and is probably the only reason George could be coaxed back from the terrifying, perilous edge he had been living on since the day that Fred died. They’re still close, even now, and George loves Harry dearly.)
As in the way of all Wheezes, benevolent or otherwise, George’s spell did its job better than well. Ron felt the wards break without remorse (it’s not like Harry would have to fix them on his own, after all) and ignored the heavy ache in his limbs as his wells of magic all but drained in favor of kicking the front door open and stamping into the entrance hall.
And that’s where he found his best friend – wand in his pocket and out of reach, because he could pick Ron’s magical signature apart in a crowd of thousands, and he knew who it was storming their way inside – staring at Ron like he had never seen him before.
He’s still staring, with eyes the color of lightning, and that only means he’s two seconds away from either anguish or anger, and Ron has to force his temper down under the heel of his foot to make sure neither of them blow up.
“You’re an idiot for thinking you had to hide from me,” he clarifies with forced calm, fists clenching. “How could you think – honestly, mate, I’m at a loss here.”
Hermione is out of the country, on holiday with her parents in France; a holiday Ron opted out of, in favor of the case that had landed on his and Harry’s desks last-minute, and thank Merlin for that. He doesn’t know what might have happened if both of them had been gone when this fresh hell broke loose.
As it stands, he wrote to Hermione immediately, hardly more than two lines of urgent need you along with a clipping of the headline story that turned the Wizarding World on its ear, and he knows it will only be a matter of hours before she comes home and brings her own special brand of wrath down on Skeeter and the Prophet and any unfortunate soul who happens to be standing in between.
It isn’t often they get to bare their teeth at the world and protect him, for a change. Harry is strong enough to weather most blows without flinching, with his wild magic – fractured irreparably, ever since that final, day-long duel with You-Know-Who – and his iron-clad control of that wild magic, and his working knowledge of Defense that’s as deep and rich as a sprawling forest. But certain things can cut his legs out from under him as easy as breathing, and never before in such a big way as this.
(Harry stands unflinchingly between his friends and danger as if that’s all he’s good for, but Ron has always known why. Ron was twelve when he saw the bars on Harry’s windows, but it’s not as though he’s forgotten.)
“I didn’t – ” Harry starts, and stops, and then pushes on again with the same remarkable courage that called Gryffindor’s sword to him in the Chamber of Secrets. “I wasn’t hiding from you, Ron.”
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Tags: Amnesia, Temporary Amnesia, Magic, First Love, Frostiron Month
Chapters, Word Count: 1/1, 4016
Summary: Written -somewhat- for the frostiron Month prompt: firsts. Tony walks right up to Loki, and asks him who he is like the god hasn’t been living in the tower with him for the past two years. Like they aren’t lovers, like he’s never even seen him before.
Thoughts: This was sweet, and sad, and lovely, and aaaaa
Anon requested: Can you maybe write a kid fic Destiel au in like middle school-ish age, maybe a little younger where Cas and dean have been best friends since they were little but Cas is kinda nerdy and super innocent while dean is, well, dean. Some kid calls Cas a faggot (oh god I hate even typing that word) for the first one and he asks dean what it means and dean gets super angry and threatens to beat up the kid who did it and Cas kinda realizes that he has a crush on dean?
“Dean, what does faggot mean?”
Dean sent soda spraying all over place. Castiel tilted his head while Dean tried to stop choking.
“What?” He croaked, staring at Cas like he had never seen him before.
They had been best friends for as long as Dean could remember, despite how different they both were. Cas was straight ‘A’s nerd that grew up in a strict, religious household. Dean was far from both of those things. Even with his upbringing, Dean never thought that he would hear that word come out of Cas’s mouth.
“Gordon Walker called me a faggot yesterday. I want to know what it means.”
Dean felt his blood start to boil. How dare Gordon call him that when Cas didn’t even know what it meant? He shoved himself back from the table and stood.
“I’ll kill him,” He said. “I swear to God I will.”
“Dean, wait,” Cas caught his hand and pulled him back down into his seat. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a slur, Cas,” Dean sighed. “It’s a bad name that assholes call guys that like other guys instead if girls.”
“Oh,” Cas said, dropping his eyes.
He hadn’t known that there were words for this. He thought that the way he felt around Dean was just a passing thing that would go away when he met a girl. If it was a real thing, maybe it was there to stay.
“Is it normal to have those feelings?” Dean ran a hand through his hair.
“Well, yeah. I mean, it just depends on the person.”
Cas still looked confused, so Dean tried to explain the different kinds of sexualities. Cas nodded, as if he had never heard of anything like it before. He probably hadn’t, Dean realized. His parents definitely wouldn’t have tried to teach him any of this.
“Cas, do you like dudes?”
“I…” Cas’s face turned pink. “I don’t know.”
They had been friends long enough that Dean knew that he was lying. He decided to let it go because Cas looked so uncomfortable.
“It’s okay to feel like that, Cas. It’s normal. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here for you.” Cas nodded, but he knew he wouldn’t come to Dean. Not if he didn’t have the same kinds of feelings.
“I need to get home,” Cas said, standing up and gathering his things. “I have youth group tonight.”
Dean nodded and watched his friend leave, worry gnawing at his gut.
Years passed and Cas never brought up the incident. He and Dean continued their friendship as if it never happened. Then one night, Cas turned to Dean and asked him if he remembered.
“Yeah,” Dean said, smirking. “I still give Gordon hell on the field for it.” Cas smiled a little, then looked down.
“Dean, I do like boys,” He confessed. He looked up at Dean from under his lashes. “I like you.”
“Thank God,” Dean laughed, before pulling Cas in for their first kiss.