Chapter 1: Collision
Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a fresh start.
The whole “Interhouse Unity Initiative” was a big deal after the war—a way to rebuild Hogwarts' fractured relationships and bring together the students who once fought on opposite sides. The new Quidditch program was at the heart of it, uniting Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws on the same team to compete across Europe. The idea was simple: Quidditch was a universal language that could bind people together, regardless of old rivalries.
But for Ron Weasley, nothing about this felt like a fresh start. The shadows clung tighter than ever. Grief gnawed at him like an open wound that refused to heal, and no amount of new initiatives or shiny promises of “unity” could change that.
The Interhouse Quidditch Team was just another one of those bright, hollow ideas. For Ron, it felt like a bad joke. The war was over, and yet here he was, back in the same place, in the same hand me down robes, playing the same old game, while everyone around him seemed to be moving on. Fred's death lingered in his mind, the sound of his brother’s laughter now a hollow echo that refused to fade. And now, to make matters worse, Viktor Krum—legendary Seeker and a reminder of Ron's own insecurities—was here to coach them.
From the first day, Ron noticed something different about Krum. He was hard on everyone, but especially on him. Maybe it was because of their history, that unspoken tension from years ago with Hermione caught in the middle. Maybe it was just Ron's own guilt gnawing at him, but Krum never let up. His orders were sharp, and his touch—those brief, too-close moments of contact—lingered longer than they should have. Viktor didn’t let Ron get away with anything, pushing him harder than the others, testing his limits in ways that left Ron confused and angry.
The air was always thick between them. Viktor’s dark eyes would bore into Ron whenever he made a mistake, and there was something in the way he said his name—Weasley—that made Ron’s chest tighten. It wasn’t fear, exactly. No, it was something darker, something Ron didn’t want to look too closely at.
The wind howled through the Quidditch pitch, biting and cold, as Ron Weasley pushed his broom harder, trying to focus, trying to forget. The sky was low and gray, mirroring the heaviness in his chest that had settled there long before the day began. The team had been practicing for hours now, the sky threatening rain, and his hands were freezing, but none of that mattered—none of it could explain why he was flying like a complete amateur.
Since Viktor Krum had become their coach, everything felt different, like the ground beneath Ron’s feet had shifted just enough to throw him off balance. The man was relentless—constantly pushing, constantly correcting, as if he had some personal mission to grind Ron into dust. What was worse was the way Krum’s eyes seemed to be on him at all times, watching, judging, like he knew something about him that Ron didn’t know himself.
Ron’s grip tightened on his broom as he swerved to catch a pass, but his form was off, his broom wobbled, and he nearly fumbled the Quaffle.
“Weasley, focus!” Krum’s voice lashed across the pitch, sharp and unforgiving. “What are you doing?”
Ron felt his blood boil. He was trying—he was trying to focus, but Krum’s constant needling was like a hammer to the back of his head, and he couldn’t concentrate. He clenched his teeth, muttering under his breath, “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Krum shot back, and in a heartbeat, he was flying toward Ron, closing the distance with that infuriating grace of his. “You are flying like someone who has never held a broom before.”
Ron glared, his grip tightening even more on his broomstick, and for a split second, he imagined throwing the Quaffle straight at Krum’s stupid, perfect face. “I said I’ve got it!” he snapped, trying to keep his voice level but failing miserably.
Krum wasn’t having it. He landed in front of Ron, feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. The rest of the team, still in the air, exchanged awkward glances but wisely stayed out of it. Everyone had learned by now not to get involved when Krum set his sights on Ron.
“You do not ‘got it,’” Krum said coldly, stepping closer until he was practically looming over Ron. His dark eyes were narrowed in frustration, but there was something else there too—something that made Ron’s skin prickle uncomfortably. “Your form is sloppy. You are too tense. Loosen up.”
“Loosen up?” Ron spat, incredulous. “Maybe if you weren’t constantly breathing down my neck, I wouldn’t be so bloody tense!”
Krum didn’t flinch. He stepped even closer, his presence overwhelming in a way that made Ron’s heart beat faster and his clothes feel too tight. “You are angry. That is why you are flying like this. Anger will not help you on the pitch.”
Ron snorted, his fists clenching around his broom handle. “What the hell do you know about it?”
“Enough,” Krum growled. “And more than you.”
Ron opened his mouth to argue, to say something sharp and cutting, but Krum suddenly reached out, grabbing Ron’s wrist. The touch was firm, sending a jolt through Ron that caught him completely off guard. Krum pulled Ron’s hand forward, adjusting his grip on the broom.
“Look,” Krum muttered, his voice softer now, though still filled with that irritating authority. His fingers curled around Ron’s, guiding his grip. “Your hands are too tight. You are holding the broom like you are ready to snap it in half.”
Ron stiffened, his pulse quickening as Krum’s fingers lingered on his hand. His skin prickled where Krum touched him, and a wave of something strange and unnamable washed over him. He hated this—hated how close Krum was standing, hated the way his touch felt warm and deliberate.
“Like this,” Krum said, his breath ghosting over Ron’s ear as he stepped behind him, pressing their bodies just a bit too close. The sensation sent an involuntary shiver down Ron’s spine, and he gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering in his chest. “You have to relax. You’re too tense.”
Ron’s mind raced, the proximity sending his thoughts into a spiral. What the hell was Krum playing at? Why was his touch making Ron’s skin burn in a way that had nothing to do with Quidditch?
“Got it,” Ron mumbled, yanking his hand away, pulling back to put some space between them. His face was hot, his pulse racing, and he tried to hide it by glaring. “I don’t need your help.”
Krum’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t argue, but the look in his eyes—cool, calculated, and a little too observant—made Ron feel exposed, like the other man could see the confusion simmering under his skin. He walked away and hopped on his broom, eyes sharp as he observed the rest of the team.
Ron was still trying to process whatever the hell had just happened when Draco Malfoy’s voice cut through the air like a knife, dripping with that familiar sneer.
Malfoy’s broom hovered just above the grass as he circled Ron with that signature smugness, his sneer as sharp as ever. “Wasn’t that a sweet sight,” Malfoy drawled lazily, his voice oozing condescension. “Getting special one-on-one training from Krum now, are we? Isn’t this just precious? Maybe he’ll finally teach you how not to fly like a troll.”
Ron’s fists immediately clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he shot Malfoy a venomous glare. The heat rising in his face was almost unbearable, but he wasn’t about to let Malfoy get to him. “Piss off, Malfoy,” Ron snapped, the words escaping his gritted teeth, though he could already feel the red haze creeping up his neck.
“Oh, struck a nerve, have I?” Malfoy’s smirk widened, his grey eyes glinting with satisfaction. “You know, I would’ve thought by now you’d be used to being second best. Must be exhausting, always being in the shadow. Even here, you’re still playing sidekick.”
“I said shut your mouth,” Ron growled, louder this time, his fingers itching to grab his wand and hex that smug expression right off Malfoy’s face.
“Still sensitive, aren’t we? Must be hard watching someone else move on with your girl,” Malfoy taunted, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Poor Hermione. Finally found someone who doesn’t embarrass her every time he picks up a broom.”
Ron’s rage flared hotter with every word that came out of Malfoy’s mouth, but he wasn’t going to back down. He stepped forward, wand drawn, his expression livid. “You reckon I’m jealous of you, Malfoy? Don’t flatter yourself,” Ron spat. “Hermione’s with you because she feels sorry for you. We all do. Poor, pathetic Malfoy—always trying to act like he’s on top, but deep down, you’re just as worthless as you’ve always been.”
Malfoy’s sneer faltered again, but only for a second before he shot back with a cold, cutting smile. “Oh, that’s rich coming from a Weasley. You lot are the poster children for pity. A walking charity case. It must be exhausting, living in hand-me-downs, knowing you’ll never be more than a sidekick in someone else’s story. At least I make my own path, Weasley. What have you ever done? What have you ever achieved, aside from tagging along behind Potter like a lost dog?”
Ron’s blood boiled. “You want to talk about achievements, Malfoy? How about surviving a war you spent hiding behind your parents' coattails? While the rest of us were fighting, you were too busy wetting yourself and crawling into whatever hole your dear old daddy dug for you!”
“Is that what you think?” Malfoy snarled, his face twisting with anger. “That we were hiding? You’ve always been so bloody thick, Weasley. You wouldn’t last two minutes with the choices my family had to make. But of course, you don’t get it. The only thing you’ve ever had to worry about is whether your family can afford new robes for the start of term.”
Ron felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and his fists clenched tighter around his wand. “Right. Because nothing’s worse than being broke, huh? Better to be a sniveling little coward than grow up in a family that actually loves each other, right?”
Malfoy sneered, but there was something dangerous flickering in his eyes now. “Is that what you call it, Weasel? The only thing worse than your family being poor is how absolutely mediocre you all are. Not a single one of you will ever make anything of yourselves. At least I have a name that means something.”
Ron took a step closer, his wand trembling with fury. “Oh fuck off. Your name means nothing. Your family lost everything. You’re a stain, a joke. You and your name will go down in history as failures, not because of the war, but because you never stood for anything. You didn’t fight for anything. And Hermione? She’s with you because she’s too kind to see what a worthless git you really are. But one day she’ll realize it.”
Malfoy’s face twisted into an ugly sneer, his fingers flexing around his wand. “You still can’t stand it, can you? That I have her, and you don’t. That she’s with me now and not with some miserable, piss poor excuse of a wizard who couldn’t even get the girl he supposedly loves to want him. You were second best, Weasley, even in your own relationship.”
Ron’s eyes burned, his grip tightening so much his knuckles whitened. “Shut the fuck up ferret.”
Malfoy’s voice was venomous now, and he leaned in just enough to make his words sting. “She never wanted you. You could never give her what she needed. She’ll be much happier with me. Finally, someone who isn’t afraid to give her what she really deserves.”
That was it. Ron saw red. With a growl, he lunged at Malfot, not caring about the consequences, his fist flying toward Malfoy’s face with every ounce of anger he had left in him.
They collided in a flurry of hexes and fists, Ron tackling the blonde man to the ground, their bodies slamming into the dirt with a rough, sickening thud. The grass tore beneath them as they rolled, fists swinging wildly, their wands forgotten in the heat of the moment.
“You piece of shit!” Ron roared, landing a solid punch to Malfoy’s jaw, feeling the satisfying crack of bone beneath his knuckles.
Malfoy spat blood, his sneer twisted into something much uglier. “You absolute maniac!” he hissed, managing to shove Ron off him with a burst of strength. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still sneering despite the blood on his lip.
Ron didn’t care. He swung again, but this time Malfoy was ready, ducking and sending a hex Ron’s way. “Expulso!” Malfoy shouted, the blast of magic missing Ron by inches but tearing into the grass, sending bits of earth flying.
“Stupefy!” Ron retaliated, his voice hoarse with fury. The jet of red light shot out from his wand, just barely missing Malfoy as it streaked past his ear, singeing the edges of his hair.
Malfoy sneered. “Pathetic,” he spat, shooting another curse at Ron’s feet, which exploded in the grass, sending dirt flying. “You’re embarrassing yourself, Weasley. Just like always.”
Ron charged at him again, fists raised, ready to land another blow. But before he could, strong hands grabbed him, yanking him backward with surprising force.
“Enough!” Krum’s voice boomed through the chaos, his grip iron-tight as he physically dragged Ron away from Malfoy, who stood there panting and spitting the blood from his mouth. Krum’s presence was overwhelming, his large frame blocking out the world around them as he pulled Ron back, his voice low and dangerous. “Both of you. Enough.”
Ron struggled, his body still thrumming with adrenaline. “Let go of me!” he yelled, but Krum’s grip didn’t budge.
“You’re pathetic, Weasley,” Draco spat, still wiping blood from his lip as he glared at Ron. “I should’ve hexed you into next week.”
Krum whipped his head and snapped at Malfoy “Not another fucking word. You are done.” He tightened his grip on Ron and growled, “With me, Weasley.”
Ron’s fists were still clenched, his heart pounding in his chest, but the sheer force of Krum’s voice made him stop. For a moment, just a second, Ron’s rage faltered as Krum’s dark eyes bore into his. The intensity, the frustration, the sheer authority in Krum’s expression sent a jolt of something through Ron, freezing him in place.
Krum didn’t let go. He dragged Ron toward the locker room without a word, his hold firm and unrelenting. The other players watched from the air, wide-eyed and speechless, unsure whether they should step in or stay well out of it. Hermione, standing in the distance, looked horrified, her hands pressed to her mouth as she stared at the scene.
“Krum, let me go!” Ron shouted again, kicking out as Krum practically hauled him away from the pitch.
Krum didn’t say a word until they were inside the locker room. The door slammed shut behind them with a loud bang, and Krum finally shoved Ron forward, his chest heaving as he glared down at him.
“You’re going to get yourself thrown off this team,” Krum growled, his voice low and thick with frustration. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“He deserved it!” Ron shouted, his voice still hoarse from yelling. “He’s been winding me up for weeks, and I’m not going to—”
“I don’t care what he said,” Krum interrupted sharply, stepping closer until he was looming over Ron, his large frame crowding the space between them. “You lost control. You threw the first punch.”
“He was talking about Hermione like she’s some prize he won!” Ron shot back, his fists still clenched at his sides. “I’m not going to stand there and let him—”
“You’re not going to throw punches and make this about your pride!” Krum cut him off, his voice rising as he took another step forward, his body now inches from Ron’s. Before Ron could react, Krum shoved him—hard—sending him stumbling back. The impact knocked the breath out of Ron, and he blinked up at Krum, stunned for a second by the sudden force.
“You want to throw punches? Do it,” Krum growled, stepping closer, his eyes dark and dangerous. “Hit me.”
Ron’s heart pounded, his fists still clenched at his sides, trembling with barely contained rage. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re angry,” Krum said, his voice low, dripping with intensity. “You’re always angry. You let it run your life.”
“Shut up,” Ron muttered, his chest heaving. “Just—shut up.”
“You think you’re the only one dealing with shit?” Krum snapped, stepping closer, crowding Ron against the lockers. His broad chest was heaving, his breath hot against Ron’s face. “You’re not. You’re not special, Weasley.”
Ron glared up at Krum, but his voice caught in his throat. Krum was too close—close enough that Ron could feel the heat of his body, close enough that the tension between them crackled like a live wire.
“You piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever met,” Krum muttered, his voice low and rough. “You have potential, but you waste it because you’re too busy being pissed at the world.”
“Maybe the world deserves it,” Ron snapped, his fists tightening at his sides.
Krum’s lips curled into a humorless smirk. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he muttered, and then, with a sudden, sharp shove, he pushed Ron again—just enough to knock him off balance. “Go on. Hit me. If you think throwing punches is going to fix anything, do it.”
Ron’s chest heaved, and for a split second, he considered it. His fists shook, itching to make contact, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. The weight of Krum’s presence, the intensity in his eyes, the overwhelming tension between them—it left Ron frozen in place, trapped under the sheer force of it all.
Krum’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, he looked even more frustrated, his dark eyes burning with something Ron couldn’t quite name. “If you actually applied yourself,” Krum said quietly, his voice tight with restraint, “instead of letting your anger run your life, you’d be a great player. But right now? You’re a mess.”
Ron’s throat tightened, the words lodging there like stones. He wanted to argue, to snap back with something cutting, but he couldn’t. The frustration swirled in his chest, a tight knot of confusion and something deeper, something he didn’t want to look at too closely. All he could do was glare at Krum, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as his fists clenched at his sides.
“If anything like this happens again,” Krum continued, his voice low and dangerous, the threat clear in every word, “you’re off the team. Understood?”
Ron gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the effort of keeping his mouth shut. He wanted to throw something back, to resist the pressure Krum was putting on him, but he knew better. With a sharp nod, he gave in, his hands still trembling slightly.
But Krum wasn’t finished. He stepped closer, crowding Ron’s space again, his broad chest inches from Ron’s. “Say it,” Krum growled, his voice low and commanding. “Say you understand.”
Ron’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. The closeness was overwhelming, Krum’s presence so solid and imposing that it left Ron feeling breathless. His face flushed, a tiny stain of color blooming across his cheeks that he desperately tried to ignore. “I understand,” Ron muttered, his voice tight.
Krum didn’t move for a moment, his whiskey eyes flicking down ever so slightly, just enough that Ron thought—no, that Ron imagined—Krum’s gaze lingered on his lips for the briefest second. It was enough to send a sharp pulse of heat through his body, and he quickly looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. The moment was gone as quickly as it had come, but it left Ron’s chest tight and his heart pounding. Krum breathed between them, his eyes flashing with something before stepping back at last, running a hand over his face as if trying to compose himself. He still looked frustrated, but there was something else simmering beneath the surface, making the muscles across his chest stretch tight with barely held back restrain.
Krum’s hand hovered over his face for just a moment longer before he dropped it, the sharpness in his eyes returning, cutting through Ron’s lingering defiance like a knife. Ron could see the gears turning behind those dark, intense eyes, calculating, as if Krum had already made a decision but was savoring the tension, letting it stretch out just long enough to make Ron squirm.
“Since you have so much energy to waste on fighting,” Krum said, his voice low and deliberate, every word carefully measured, “you’ll spend the next few days waxing the brooms and getting the pitch ready for the match.”
Ron blinked, the absurdity of the punishment crashing into him. Waxing brooms? Like some first-year getting a detention? He bristled, fists tightening at his sides. “Waxing brooms? You’re joking.”
Krum’s gaze hardened, and he took a step closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. “Do I look like I’m joking?” he growled, his voice sharp. “You’ll do it by hand. No magic.”
Ron’s breath hitched, indignation burning in his chest. “What about Malfoy? He’s the one who—”
Krum cut him off, stepping even closer, so close Ron could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Malfoy will have his own punishment,” Krum said, his tone icy, controlled. “But this—this is for you. You’re the one who threw the first punch, Weasley. And unless you want me to have a dead body on my hands, you’ll focus on doing what you’re told.”
Ron felt his jaw tighten, the anger simmering under his skin. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, his voice low but strained. “I’m not wasting my time waxing brooms when we’ve got a match coming up.”
Krum’s eyes flashed with something darker—something far more intense—as he turned back toward Ron. His broad shoulders squared, and he strode forward with a deliberate slowness, each step heavy with unspoken authority. Ron’s stomach twisted as Krum closed the distance, the sharp glint in his eyes sending a pulse of unease through him.
When Krum was just inches away, he jabbed a finger into Ron’s chest, the force behind it making Ron stumble back slightly, heat prickling through his skin. “You’ll do what I fucking say, Weasley,” Krum growled, his voice low and dangerous, full of a quiet fury that left no room for argument. His dark eyes bore into Ron’s, unblinking, filled with a fire that sent Ron’s pulse racing. “And you’ll wax those brooms until I can see my own reflection in them.”
Ron’s breath hitched, the heat rising in his face as Krum’s finger dug into his chest, the pressure sharp and deliberate. Krum leaned in, crowding Ron’s space with his solid frame, the air between them thick with tension. “You think you can argue with me? You think you’re going to tell me what you’ll do?” Krum’s voice was a growl, rough and commanding. “No. You don’t make the rules here, Weasley. I do.”
The sheer force of Krum’s presence, the way he loomed over Ron, was suffocating. Ron’s fists clenched at his sides, the indignation flaring up again, but he couldn’t find the words to push back. Krum’s eyes were locked on him, burning with frustration and something deeper, something that left Ron feeling exposed and trapped.
“You’ll wax those brooms,” Krum continued, his voice tightening with each word. “And then, you’ll go out to the pitch and make sure every single inch of it is perfect for the match. No complaints. No shortcuts. Do you understand me?”
Ron opened his mouth to snap back, to say something—anything—but the words stuck in his throat. Krum’s finger pressed harder into his chest, pushing him just enough to remind Ron that Krum was completely in control of the situation.
“I said,” Krum growled, his voice dropping even lower, his face inches from Ron’s now, “do you understand me?”
Ron’s breath was coming in short, shallow bursts, his chest heaving under Krum’s relentless gaze. He could feel the heat radiating off Krum, the intensity of his presence so overwhelming that Ron could barely think straight. His heart pounded in his chest, and the flush in his cheeks deepened, a telltale sign of how unnerved he was.
“I understand,” Ron muttered, his voice tight and shaky.
“Louder,” Krum commanded, his finger still pressing into Ron’s chest, his tone brooking no resistance. “Make me believe you, Weasley.”
“I understand!” Ron snapped, the frustration spilling out of him as the pressure in his chest built, mixing with the confusing heat curling in his stomach.
Krum’s eyes flashed, a hint of something unreadable crossing his face. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath hot against Ron’s face, and his next words came out rough, almost mocking. “Better. That’s a good boy.” His tongue darted out to wet a full bottom lip as he held his gaze for a moment longer, his eyes flicking down to Ron’s lips again—this time, more deliberate. The weight of it made Ron’s heart stutter in his chest, the breath catching in his throat. Krum’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting second, Ron thought Krum was about to say something—something else, something far worse. But instead, Krum let out a slow, controlled breath and stepped back, his finger leaving a burning spot on Ron’s chest where it had been poking.
“Tomorrow morning,” Krum said, stepping back slightly but still close enough to crowd Ron’s space. “You’ll be in the equipment room first thing. And if I have to come looking for you, Weasley... you won’t like it.”
Ron bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to control the heat rising in his chest. His heart was still pounding, his breath unsteady, and his fists trembled at his sides. He wanted to snap back, to say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat, caught between the growing frustration and something darker, something more unsettling that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Krum’s words echoed in his head, good boy, taunting him, teasing him, and no matter how hard Ron tried to push it away, the weight of the humiliation stayed with him, tightening around his chest like a vice.
Krum took another step back, running a hand through his hair, his frustration still simmering under the surface. He looked at Ron for a moment longer, his gaze lingering in a way that made Ron feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he didn’t like but couldn’t shake.
“Don’t be late,” Krum said, his tone once again cold, controlled. He turned on his heel, his broad shoulders cutting a sharp figure as he walked away, leaving Ron standing there, fists still clenched, his entire body thrumming with leftover tension.
As Krum’s footsteps faded, the knot in Ron’s stomach only grew tighter. The anger, the frustration, the humiliation—they were all still there, burning hot under his skin, but something else had taken root too. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Something about the way Krum had crowded him, the way he had commanded him, had left a mark that Ron couldn’t shake.
And as much as he hated to admit it, the weight of Krum’s words—that’s a good boy—echoed in his mind long after the man had gone, leaving Ron feeling more confused and unsettled than ever.
The dormitory was still, the silence pressing in on Ron like the weight of the castle itself. He lay there, tangled in his sheets, staring blankly at the ceiling as his thoughts twisted and turned, refusing to let him rest. The quiet felt too heavy, too suffocating, especially without Harry here with him. His best friend had taken off with Dudley to travel, and Ron had been left behind to deal with the mess of everything that was left unresolved inside him. The loneliness, the frustration—it gnawed at him, leaving him hollow and angry.
And then there was Hermione.
Ron turned over, his hand gripping the pillow so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He let out a slow breath, willing the memories of their failed attempts at a relationship to stop swirling in his mind. They’d tried. Merlin, they’d tried. After the war, it had seemed inevitable—Ron and Hermione, finally together. But the truth of it had never been what they’d thought it would be. They’d argued more than anything, always slightly out of sync, always pulling in different directions.
And when it came to intimacy... well, it had never happened. Not really.
It wasn’t that Hermione wasn’t beautiful—she was. But there was no fire, no real pull between them. Whenever the moment had felt right, Ron had found himself backing away, finding an excuse. He’d never been able to lose himself in her, not the way he thought he was supposed to, not the way people in love were supposed to. Hermione had deserved more than awkward silences and half-hearted touches. More than what he could give.
Maybe that was why Draco had stepped in. Hermione was happy with him in a way Ron had never made her, and as strange as it still was to think about, it made sense. They fit together in a way Ron and Hermione never had. It was like a puzzle finally slotting into place.
But it wasn’t Draco or Hermione that was keeping Ron awake tonight.
It was Krum.
Viktor fucking Krum.
Ron turned onto his side again, the sheets twisting around his legs. His hand slipped under the covers, trying to find some comfort, but his mind was racing too fast. His heart thudded in his chest, faster than it should have been, and all he could think about was him. The way Krum had stood over him, shoving him back, his grip like iron, strong and unyielding. The way Krum’s voice had been rough, laced with frustration.
The way Krum had towered over him.
Ron clenched his jaw, his fingers grazing the scrawny frame of his own body, feeling the sharp angles of his ribs. Krum had always been... large. Not just in height but in presence. Broad shoulders, thick arms, and that intensity in his dark eyes that made Ron’s chest tighten every time they locked onto him.
Ron swallowed hard, his pulse quickening at the memory of Krum grabbing him, his hand tight around Ron’s wrist, pulling him close, shoving him against the lockers. It had been a fight, or something close to it, and yet... there had been something else there. Something in the way Krum’s chest had pressed against his, the heat radiating from his body, the way Krum’s breath had ghosted across Ron’s face, hot and rough.
Ron’s fingers slid down his stomach, grazing the thin line of hair that led below his waistband, and he cursed under his breath, shaking his head as if he could shake the thoughts away. It was just adrenaline, he told himself. That’s all it was. He had already been pissed off from Malfoy's taunting and Krum had pushed him, they had nearly come to blows, and the rush of the moment had made everything feel more intense.
But it didn’t explain why Krum’s face kept flashing behind his eyelids every time Ron closed his eyes. It didn’t explain the way his heart had pounded when Krum had shoved him back, the way his breath had hitched when Krum had crowded him against the lockers, their bodies inches apart, tension crackling in the air like lightning.
Ron’s hand ran over his chest again, tracing the outline of his ribs, feeling the sharp edges of his body, so different from Krum’s. Krum was all muscle, solid and commanding. Ron was... not. He could still feel the lingering sensation of Krum’s fingers on his arm, the way he had manhandled Ron during practice, adjusting his grip on the broom with that quiet authority, like he knew Ron needed the correction.
He hated it. He hated how Krum had made him feel—how Krum still made him feel. Like he was constantly on edge, constantly bristling under Krum’s gaze, like there was something unspoken between them.
This is fucking stupid, Ron thought, his fingers digging into his sheets as he stared at the dark ceiling. I’m just pissed off because he’s always pushing me, always getting under my skin.
But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all, and deep down, Ron knew it.
The truth was, Krum didn’t just get under his skin. Krum unnerved him. Made his heart race. Made his breath catch in his throat. And that moment, when Krum had shoved him, when he had crowded him, when he had said, Hit me, daring Ron to fight back—something had twisted inside Ron’s chest, something that had nothing to do with anger.
Ron’s fingers ghosted lower, running down the length of his torso, feeling the heat pooling in his stomach as the memory of Krum’s face swam behind his eyes again. The way Krum’s dark eyes had burned into him, so full of frustration, but there had been something else there too. Something in the way Krum had held him, gripped him like he could break Ron in half if he wanted to.
Ron closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he pressed his face into the pillow, trying to drown out the sound of his own racing pulse. He could still feel Krum’s hands on him, could still hear Krum’s low, rough voice growling, You piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever met. There had been something in Krum’s tone—something raw, something primal—that had made Ron’s gut clench, that had made his body react in ways he didn’t want to think about. But he was thinking about it. And no matter how much he tried to blame it on adrenaline, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that it was just the heat of the moment, the truth was staring him in the face.
Ron let out a low groan, his hand slipping lower as his mind betrayed him, as Krum’s face filled his vision. He could see it so clearly—the way Krum had gripped him, the way his broad chest had pressed against Ron’s scrawny frame, the way their bodies had collided. Krum had been so strong, so solid, and Ron had felt... small.
He hated that he liked it.
Ron’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into the sheets as he gave in to the thoughts, as Krum’s face flashed behind his eyes again and again. He could almost feel the weight of Krum’s body against his, could almost hear Krum’s rough, low voice in his ear, commanding and unrelenting.
Good boy.
Ron’s teeth clenched as the words echoed in his head, Krum’s voice sharp and deliberate. It wasn’t just mocking—it had been calculated. The way Krum had said it, the way his voice had dripped with control, had left Ron feeling stripped bare, exposed in a way that went beyond the argument.
Did Krum know what he was doing?
Had Ron imagined the way Krum’s eyes had darkened, the way his pupils had blown wide? Had Krum really looked at his lips? Was that just Ron’s mind playing tricks on him, or had there been something more in the way Krum had stared at him?
The thought sent a sharp jolt of desire through Ron's body, his breath quickening as his hand slid lower beneath his pajama bottoms. As his fingers brushed over the head of his cock, he let out a desperate whine and smeared precome on the hypersensitive skin. He cursed under his breath, hating how every thought inevitably led back to Krum—the memory of his presence too potent to shake.
Fingers tracing over the flat expanse of his stomach, Ron gave in to the urge and gripped his engorged flesh with long, trembling fingers. The sound of his chocked breaths filled the room as his hands stroked and squeezed of their own accord.His lanky frame a stark contrast to Krum’s solid bulk. Krum had always been... larger than life. Not just physically, but in the way he carried himself, in the way he commanded respect and attention wherever he went. Ron had never felt like that—never felt like he could hold his own in the same way. And standing next to Krum had only made it worse, made him feel smaller, weaker.
And yet...
Ron's breath hitched again as his other hand moved lower, brushing against the waistband of his pajama bottoms before cupping and squeezing his balls. He could feel his release already imminent, his hips shifting on the bed and rustling the sheets. He stroked up and down, pleasure zinging up his spine and mingling with shame that deepened the flush on his skin. He could almost feel the weight of Krum’s hands again, the strength behind his grip, the way Krum had shoved him like it was nothing, like Ron was something that could be easily pushed aside. And the way Krum had looked at him afterward... Fuck.
The truth was, Krum hadn't just gotten under his skin. He had burrowed deep into Ron's mind and body in a way that he couldn't explain. The anger, confusion, and frustration were all tangled together in a knot that seemed to tighten around Ron's chest every time he thought of Krum – of that moment when Krum had backed him up against the lockers and challenged him to fight back.
Good boy.
The words echoed again, low and rough, and Ron’s hand stilled, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He could still feel the heat of Krum’s body, could still see the intensity in his dark eyes, could still hear the mocking edge in his voice. And no matter how hard Ron tried to push it away, the memory kept coming back, stronger and sharper each time.
Ron squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into the sheets as he fought against the pull of it all, against the way his body was reacting to thoughts he didn’t want to have. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about how Krum had towered over him, how Krum had looked at him like he was something Krum wanted to break.
And the worst part was that it wasn’t just humiliating—it was arousing.
Ron cursed again, his hand moving faster now, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he gave in to the thoughts, as Krum’s voice filled his head once more.
Good boy.
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, sending a jolt through his body, his chest tightening with the force of it. His pulse raced, his breath catching in his throat as his body responded to the heat pooling in his stomach, the tension twisting tighter and tighter.
Had Krum seen the way Ron had looked at him, the way Ron’s breath had hitched when Krum had shoved him? Had he known exactly how to push Ron’s buttons, how to make him feel so off-balance, so confused? Or was it all in Ron’s head, a mix of adrenaline and frustration warping his thoughts?
Ron’s mind spiraled, his body trembling as he gave in to the flood of emotions crashing over him, the confusion, the anger, the lust all swirling together into something overwhelming and uncontrollable. With each labored breath, his hips jerked involuntarily as he bit down on his fist to muffle the sounds escaping from his lips. A rush of pleasure surged through him as white pearls of release splattered across his freckled chest and abdomen, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Ron's body lay still on the bed, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. His face was flushed, his eyes half-closed, and his hand trembling as it rested on his stomach. The word "Scourigio" was barely audible as it fell from his lips, the shame in his voice almost palpable.
Finally, exhaustion overtook him and he slipped into fitful sleep, haunted by the low and commanding voice of Viktor Krum echoing in the darkest corners of his mind. It left him breathless and aching, replaying those four simple words over and over again.
That’s a good boy.
Chapter 2: Pressure
Summary:
“You are predictable, Weasley,” Krum continued, his voice softer now but no less intense. “You lash out because it is easier than facing what is really bothering you.”
Ron’s stomach twisted, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knows. He fucking knows.
“Shut up,” Ron muttered, his voice tight. His hands curled into fists, but he kept them at his sides. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Krum tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t I?”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ron’s eyes snapped open, and dread hit him like a brick to the chest.
“Shit!” he groaned, launching himself out of bed so fast that his foot caught on the tangled sheets, sending him stumbling face-first into the floor. He cursed louder this time, his words muffled against the worn rug. “Bloody perfect.”
Scrambling to his feet, he yanked his clothes on with the grace of a flailing Hippogriff. His trousers got stuck halfway up his legs, and by the time he shoved his arms into a jumper, he was already sweating. Grabbing his wand and shoving it into his pocket, he burst out of the dormitory like a man possessed, nearly flattening a first-year on the stairs.
“Move!” he barked, earning a scandalized look from the kid.
Ron didn’t care. All he could think about was how late he was and how much of a fucking nightmare Krum was going to make this. The man didn’t need much of an excuse to rip into him on a good day. Today? When Ron had overslept and left Krum waiting? He was dead. He might as well start planning his funeral now.
“Fucking brilliant,” Ron muttered under his breath as he tore through the corridors, his trainers squeaking on the stone floors. A flush crept up his neck—not from exertion, but from the gnawing sense of shame that followed him like a bad smell.
It wasn’t just the shouting or the punishment. No, it was the way Krum had looked at him yesterday, like he could see right through him. Like he knew.
That’s what made Ron’s stomach churn the most. The thought that Krum might somehow know about the thoughts Ron had been having, the stupid, confusing flashes that came unbidden whenever the man got too close.
He skidded to a stop outside the equipment room, his pulse hammering in his ears. For a moment, he stood there, catching his breath and trying to muster the courage to face whatever fresh hell Krum had in store for him.
Then the door opened.
Krum stood in the doorway, broom in hand, his face as unreadable as ever. His dark eyes scanned Ron from head to toe, taking in his disheveled appearance and flushed face with an intensity that made Ron’s stomach flip.
“You are late,” Krum said, his voice low but sharp. “By twenty minutes.”
“No shit,” Ron snapped before he could stop himself.
Krum’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—a warning, maybe, or irritation. “Watch your tone, Weasley,” he said coolly. “You are already in enough trouble.”
“Yeah, well, what’s a little more, eh?” Ron muttered, brushing past him into the room. He could feel Krum’s gaze on his back, and it made his skin prickle. He busied himself grabbing a rag and a tin of wax, refusing to look at the man.
“You think this is funny?” Krum asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Ron’s fists clench.
“No,” Ron bit out, his ears burning. “I think it’s fucking humiliating.”
“Good,” Krum said simply, crossing his arms over his chest. The motion drew Ron’s reluctant gaze to the stretch of his jumper over his broad shoulders, and Ron quickly looked away. “Maybe you will remember this the next time you feel like testing my patience.”
Ron’s hand tightened around the tin of wax. He turned to glare at Krum, his chest heaving with frustration. “You really get off on this, don’t you?” he snapped. “Bossing me around, punishing me, making me look like a right idiot in front of everyone.”
Krum’s brow arched, and for a moment, he just stared at Ron, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, until he was standing just a few feet away. The room suddenly felt much smaller.
“You make yourself look like an idiot, Weasley. You think I enjoy this?” Krum asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone. “Do you think I have time to waste dealing with your tantrums?”
Ron opened his mouth to fire back, but the words caught in his throat when Krum stepped closer again, his presence overwhelming. His gaze pinned Ron in place, sharp and unrelenting, and Ron felt a cold sweat break out along his spine.
“You are predictable, Weasley,” Krum continued, his voice softer now but no less intense. “You lash out because it is easier than facing what is really bothering you.”
Ron’s stomach twisted, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knows. He fucking knows.
“Shut up,” Ron muttered, his voice tight. His hands curled into fists, but he kept them at his sides. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Krum tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t I?”
Ron’s face burned, and he looked away, focusing on the broom in his hand as if it held the answers to all of life’s problems. “Just... leave me alone,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the bloody brooms.”
For a moment, Krum didn’t move. Ron could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, and it made his skin crawl. Finally, Krum let out a low sigh and stepped back.
“Fine,” he said, his voice clipped. “But if you are late again, Weasley, there will be consequences.”
Without another word, Krum turned and walked out, leaving Ron standing there with his fists clenched and his chest tight. As the door swung shut, Ron let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He felt like he’d been wrung out and hung to dry, and the day had barely started.
By the time Ron finished waxing the last broom, his arms were trembling, and his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. He threw the rag down with a frustrated huff, glaring at the neatly polished brooms like they were mocking him. “There,” he muttered. “Happy now, Krum?”
The room, of course, was silent. But the imaginary conversation in Ron’s head continued as he stacked the brooms on the rack. Wax the brooms, Weasley. Don’t use magic, Weasley. Bloody tyrant.
With a final muttered curse, Ron wiped his hands on his trousers and made his way to Viktor’s office. His steps were heavy and uneven, his chest tightening with every stride. He hated how his mind kept replaying last night—the heat pooling in his stomach, Viktor’s dark eyes burning into him, the way those stupid, fleeting thoughts had wormed their way under his skin.
When he reached the door, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. He could already picture Viktor, arms crossed, looking at him like he was some bloody failure. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to knock and push the door open.
Viktor was exactly where Ron had imagined, standing at his desk, his large hands braced on the surface as he leaned over a parchment filled with diagrams. The soft glow of the candlelight reflected off his dark brows, furrowed in concentration. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as he worked, chewing in a way that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight down Ron’s spine. The faint scrape of quill on parchment filled the room, mingling with the earthy scent of broom polish and a trace of Viktor’s cologne—woodsy, sharp, and annoyingly intoxicating.
For a second, Viktor didn’t notice Ron. His eyes scanned the parchment, intense and focused, sparking with thought. His shoulders were broad under his fitted jumper, and the tension in his posture only highlighted the strength coiled in his arms as he adjusted his grip on the desk. The veins along his forearms stood out slightly, and Ron’s breath hitched despite himself.
Ron swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak before he got caught staring. “Finished with the brooms.”
Viktor’s gaze snapped up, and for a moment, the full weight of it pinned Ron in place. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked over Ron with a deliberateness that made his skin prickle. The space between them seemed to shrink, even though Viktor hadn’t moved. Ron shifted, forcing himself to focus on anything else—the desk, the windows, the bloody ceiling.
“Good,” Viktor said, his deep voice filling the small room. The sound seemed to reverberate through Ron’s chest. “Come here.”
Ron hesitated, his heart giving a stupid little jump. “What for?”
Viktor’s eyes narrowed, and he gestured toward the parchment. “Do not make me repeat myself, Weasley.”
Ron bristled but stepped forward anyway, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He stopped across the desk from Viktor, crossing his arms over his chest like a shield. His jaw tightened as he tried to ignore how Viktor’s rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms corded with muscle. The scars scattered across them told stories Ron didn’t dare ask about, but they only added to the unsettling allure that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
Viktor straightened, his broad chest rising as he inhaled deeply. The subtle stretch of his jumper drew Ron’s reluctant attention, and he quickly looked away, his face heating. Last night’s restless sleep still clung to him, and his chest tightened at the memory of what he’d done, of who he’d been thinking about. Get a bloody grip, Weasley. He doesn’t know. He can’t.
Ron cleared his throat and focused on the parchment spread out in front of them, noting the neat lines and circles marking out plays for the game against Durmstrang’s reserve team. He forced his voice to steady as he asked, “Why do you have Malfoy as a Beater?” His tone came out sharper than he’d intended, but the simmering frustration wouldn’t stay buried. “He’s a twig. One good hit, and he’ll be off his broom.”
Viktor raised a brow, though his expression remained neutral. “Malfoy is fast,” he replied, his voice calm but firm. “He can outmaneuver most players, and his precision with the Bludger is improving.”
Ron scoffed, shaking his head. “Fast doesn’t matter if he’s knocked out in the first five minutes. Put him on Seeker. He’s done it before, and he’s got good reflexes. Plus, he’d hate missing the spotlight. It’d motivate him to actually try.”
Viktor leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk. The movement made his shoulders stretch, and Ron’s gaze flicked to them before quickly darting back to Viktor’s face. “And who would you suggest for Beater, then?” Viktor asked, his voice sharper now, like he was testing Ron.
“McLaggen,” Ron replied instantly. “He’s got no aim as a Chaser, but he’s strong enough to send a Bludger flying. At least then he’d be hitting something useful instead of chucking Quaffles into the stands.”
Viktor’s brow furrowed, and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. The faint rasp of his fingers against the stubble sent an unwelcome shiver down Ron’s spine. “McLaggen is aggressive,” he conceded. “But he lacks control. A Beater must be precise, or they are a danger to their own team.”
Ron’s jaw tightened. “So train him,” he shot back. “That’s your job, isn’t it? To make us better?”
Viktor’s eyes darkened, and he stood straighter, his imposing frame looming over Ron. “My job,” Viktor said evenly, “is to find the best strategy with the players I have. Not to fix every bad habit that comes from years of poor discipline.”
The words hit harder than Ron wanted to admit, and his ears burned. “I’m just saying Malfoy’s a bad fit for Beater,” Ron muttered. “If you want us to win, you’ve got to put people where they’ll actually do some good.”
Viktor stepped around the desk, closing the distance between them. The air grew heavier, and Ron instinctively straightened, his chest tight as Viktor’s presence filled the space between them. “You speak as though you know more about strategy than me, Weasley,” Viktor said, his voice low and calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Do you believe you could do better?”
Ron’s fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not saying that. I just—”
“Then what are you saying?” Viktor interrupted, his tone turning colder. He took another step closer, forcing Ron to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact. The faint scent of Viktor’s cologne—woodsy and sharp—filled Ron’s senses, making his pulse race. “Because from where I stand, all I hear is criticism without solutions.”
Ron’s mouth opened, then closed again, his frustration boiling over. “I’m giving you solutions,” he argued, his voice rising. “Put Harper as Chaser. He’s quick, and he’s got better instincts under pressure. McLaggen as Beater. Malfoy as Seeker. It’s not rocket science!”
Viktor’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the tension between them was almost suffocating. Then, to Ron’s surprise, Viktor’s lips quirked into the faintest of smirks. “You speak with passion,” Viktor said, his tone quieter now but no less firm. “That is good. But passion without discipline is useless.”
Ron bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Viktor stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a near growl. “It means that you have potential, Weasley. But you let your emotions control you. If you want to lead, if you want to win, you must learn to think, not just feel.”
Ron’s breath hitched, and he forced himself to hold Viktor’s gaze. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his palms damp with nervous energy. “I think just fine,” he muttered, though the words lacked conviction.
Viktor tilted his head slightly, studying Ron with an intensity that made his skin prickle. “Then prove it,” Viktor said. “At the match, show me you can control yourself. Show me you can think. Until then, do not waste my time with excuses.”
“Fine,” Ron snapped, his voice tight.
Viktor’s gaze lingered, and something flickered in his eyes—a flash of approval that sent an unexpected jolt through Ron. The knot in his stomach tightened as he remembered Viktor’s low, mocking tone from their last confrontation: Good boy. Heat crept up Ron’s neck, and he quickly looked away, hating how the memory twisted inside him.
Viktor turned back to his desk, dismissing Ron with a slight wave of his hand. The conversation felt far from over, but Ron couldn’t find the courage to say anything else. He stormed out of the room, his chest tight and his fists still clenched.
Viktor’s words echoed in his head, sharp and unyielding, and no matter how hard Ron tried to push them away, they stuck, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Ron trudged through the castle corridors, his footsteps echoing faintly in the midday silence. Most students were in the Great Hall by now, but the thought of squeezing onto the Gryffindor bench, surrounded by people pretending the world hadn’t cracked in half last year, made his skin crawl.
It had been a shit morning. Waxing brooms under Krum’s watchful, infuriating eye had been humiliating enough, but it was the memory of his voice that stuck, sharp and grating, like the edge of a bad hex.
That’s a good boy.
Ron clenched his fists at his sides. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the words themselves, or the way Krum had said them. That tone, low and deliberate, each syllable digging under Ron’s skin like a splinter. And the way Krum’s eyes had lingered, dark and unrelenting, as if he’d been waiting for Ron to crack.
Instead, Ron had obeyed. Like a bloody house-elf. And if that weren’t bad enough, it was the way his mind kept circling back to the moment Krum had grabbed him by the wrist, his grip firm, his presence overwhelming. The way he’d shoved Ron into place during practice, chest solid and unyielding against his, murmuring relax in that gravelly voice as though relaxation was something Ron could ever manage around him.
He stopped in the middle of the corridor and slammed his fist against the wall, the sharp sting grounding him. For a moment, the chaos in his head stilled, but it didn’t last. The thoughts came rushing back anyway, along with a wave of shame so thick it felt like it might choke him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way—not about Krum, not about any man. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit.
Ron pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, his chest heaving with short, shallow breaths. He couldn’t think about it. Not now. Not here. If he let the thoughts in for even a second, if he acknowledged what they meant, it would all come crashing down. And he couldn’t take that. He couldn’t take one more thing.
“Fuck,” he muttered, the word escaping on a strangled breath. His voice echoed faintly in the empty stairwell, a grim reminder of how utterly alone he was. Harry wasn’t here. Hermione didn’t look at him the same way anymore. And now, even he didn’t make sense to himself.
His stomach growled, breaking the silence, and he let out a bitter laugh. Of course. Perfect timing, as always. The thought of the Great Hall flashed through his mind again—Hermione sitting with Malfoy, who had attached himself to her like some smug, blonde barnacle. Ginny watching him out of the corner of her eye, her expression full of that infuriating combination of concern and knowing that only she could pull off.
No. He couldn’t face any of that. Not today.
He veered left toward the kitchens, where the warmth and bustle hit him as soon as he stepped inside. A house-elf near the hearth gasped in delight and immediately scurried over.
“Mister Weasley!” she squeaked, her ears twitching with excitement. “Mippy will make you something very special!”
“Thanks, Mippy,” Ron muttered, sinking onto a stool by the fire. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let the comforting sounds of clattering pots and pans wash over him. A moment later, Mippy returned with a plate piled high with sandwiches and a goblet of pumpkin juice.
Ron ate slowly, more out of obligation than hunger. The sandwiches were good—excellent, even—but his stomach still churned. His thoughts kept dragging him back to Krum, to the way he filled a room just by existing. The way his hands lingered too long, too firm, adjusting Ron’s grip or shoving him into place. The memory burned, and Ron scowled, shoving the plate away.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Ron looked up sharply to see Neville leaning in the doorway, his hands tucked into his pockets. He offered a tentative smile, and Ron groaned internally. Of course Neville would find him. He always seemed to show up at the worst—and somehow best—times.
“Figured you’d want to avoid the Great Hall,” Neville added, stepping closer.
“What gave it away?” Ron muttered, leaning back in his chair.
Neville raised an eyebrow. “Maybe the fact that Malfoy’s practically glued to Hermione’s side these days. That’s got to be annoying.”
“Annoying?” Ron scoffed. “Try nauseating. He’s like a blonde parasite. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s siphoning off her brainpower.”
Neville laughed, pulling out the chair across from Ron and grabbing a biscuit from the plate. “You know, they’re not that bad together. He’s… different with her.”
“Different?” Ron snorted. “He’s still Malfoy. If he starts sprouting angel wings, let me know, but until then, I’m not buying it.”
Neville smirked but didn’t argue, instead taking another bite of his biscuit. “I guess you’ve got enough on your plate anyway,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting slightly. “Between Krum and… everything else.”
Ron gave him a wary glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Neville said quickly, though his eyes flickered with something Ron couldn’t place. “Just… didn’t see you after the Krum dragged you off Malfoy last night. You still look about ready to hex either one right now.”
“Why not both?” Ron muttered. “One’s a prat, the other’s… well…” He trailed off, scowling into his goblet. “Doesn’t matter.”
Neville studied him for a moment before leaning forward slightly. “You know Krum tore him a new one on the pitch.”
Ron frowned, his scowl deepening. “What are you on about?”
“Malfoy,” Neville repeated. “He’s cleaning the stands after the next match. By hand. No magic. Apparently, Krum’s already made him check a few sections for good measure.”
Ron blinked, torn between disbelief and satisfaction. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Neville said, grinning faintly. “Krum gave him an earful, too. Apparently told him if he ever pulls that kind of crap again, he’s out.”
Ron let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Well. Guess Malfoy’s not quite the golden boy he thinks he is.”
Neville raised an eyebrow. “Did you want him to get off scot-free?”
“Of course not,” Ron muttered. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice, hiding his sudden discomfort. “Just… didn’t expect Krum to actually hold him accountable.”
Neville tilted his head, his tone careful now. “You sound surprised.”
Ron shrugged, his grip tightening slightly around the goblet. “Krum doesn’t exactly play favorites, does he? And Malfoy… well, he’s got a knack for dodging consequences.”
Neville nodded slowly but didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “At least you’re not the only one Krum’s being hard on.”
Ron snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Yeah. Suppose Malfoy scrubbing bird shit off the stands is a decent consolation.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Guess Krum’s not as much of a tosser as I thought.”
Neville smirked but didn’t argue, instead taking another bite of his biscuit. They sat in companionable silence for a moment before he added, “You’ve been avoiding Ginny, too.”
Ron stiffened, glaring at the table. “Haven’t been avoiding her.”
“You have,” Neville said gently. “She told me.”
“Of course she did,” Ron muttered. “Brilliant. Now I’m getting the ‘concerned friends’ package.”
Neville leaned forward slightly, his expression soft but insistent. “She’s just worried. We all are.”
Ron barked a laugh, though it lacked humor. “Great. Let’s add that to the list of things I’ve mucked up. My sister, my friendships, my entire bloody life—”
“You haven’t mucked anything up,” Neville interrupted. His tone was firmer now, his brown eyes steady as they met Ron’s. “We’re here, you know. When you’re ready to talk.”
Ron faltered, the sharpness in his chest softening just slightly. He nodded, looking away quickly. “Yeah. I know.”
Neville didn’t press further, standing after a moment and offering a quiet, “See you later.”
Ron sat by the fire long after Neville left, staring into the flickering flames until his eyes burned. He knew he should head to his next class—knew Hermione would probably have a field day lecturing him if he didn’t—but his legs felt heavy, like moving would take more effort than it was worth. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he pushed himself up and grabbed his bag.
The corridors were bustling now, students hurrying to lessons or loitering in groups, their voices bouncing off the stone walls. Ron kept his head down, weaving through the crowd until he reached the Charms classroom. He slid into a seat beside Seamus, who greeted him with a quick grin and a whispered, “Thought you’d gone into hiding, mate.”
“Not yet,” Ron muttered, dropping his bag on the floor and slumping into his chair. He glanced across the room and, predictably, spotted Hermione already at her desk, her quill scratching against her parchment as she prepped for the lesson. Malfoy was at his usual spot, smirking at something Pansy Parkinson was saying, his polished posture practically begging to be punched.
Ron rolled his eyes. Typical.
“Settle down, everyone!” Professor Flitwick’s cheerful voice brought the room to attention, and the lesson began. They spent most of the class practicing a tricky charm for levitating multiple objects simultaneously. Ron’s attempt nearly took Seamus’s head off when a quill launched itself across the room instead of floating neatly into the air.
“Merlin’s beard, Weasley!” Seamus hissed, ducking as Ron’s quill clattered to the floor. “What’s got your wand in a knot?”
Ron forced a laugh, though his shoulders stayed tense. “Just tired,” he muttered, waving his wand again with half-hearted precision. He could feel Hermione’s eyes on him from across the room, but he didn’t look up. She didn’t say anything, though—probably saving it for later.
When the lesson ended, he shuffled out of the classroom and headed to his next one without waiting for anyone to catch up. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of half-completed notes and poorly executed spells, his brain refusing to cooperate.
By the time his final lesson was done, Ron was practically dragging his feet toward the Quidditch pitch. The cold air was sharp and bracing as he stepped onto the field. The team was already gathering, the usual mix of camaraderie and competition buzzing through the group. Ginny was there too, chatting with one of the Chasers, her laugh carrying easily through the evening air. Ron hesitated when he saw her, guilt twisting in his chest. He hadn’t really talked to her in weeks—not properly, anyway. She’d been giving him space, but he knew her patience wouldn’t last forever.
“Oi, Weasley!” one of the Beaters called, snapping Ron out of his thoughts. “You awake, or are you planning to sleep through practice?”
Ron scowled and mounted his broom, kicking off into the chilly air. The drills were brutal, as always, designed to test their reflexes and endurance. He threw himself into them, his arms aching as he batted away Quaffles and swerved around Bludgers. By the end, his muscles were screaming, and he was gasping for breath, but he’d managed to block more shots than usual—a small victory, but he’d take it.
The drills dragged on, the sky deepening into a bruised purple as the sun dipped below the horizon. Ron was knackered, every muscle in his body aching, but he forced himself to stay sharp. If he let up even a little, Krum would call him out again, and he wasn’t in the mood to be the team’s punching bag twice in one day.
By the time practice ended, most of the team had filtered off the pitch, their voices fading into the distance. Ron stayed behind, catching his breath as he leaned heavily on his broom. The frost-coated grass glittered faintly under the fading light, and the cold air stung his skin. He was about to head back when Ginny appeared, her broom slung over her shoulder and her expression too knowing for his liking.
“Still out here?” she asked, walking up beside him. “You’re not usually the last one off the pitch.”
“Just needed a minute,” Ron muttered, avoiding her gaze.
Ginny tilted her head, studying him with that same piercing look that always made him feel like she could see straight through him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. The words came out harsher than he meant, and he winced, but Ginny didn’t flinch.
“Busy doing what, exactly?” she pressed, her tone calm but pointed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re spending a lot of time brooding and not much else.”
Ron scowled, gripping his broom tighter. “I’m not brooding.”
“You’re definitely brooding,” Ginny shot back, crossing her arms. “You’ve been off for weeks. You won’t talk to me, you barely show up to meals, and now you’re hanging around here like you’re avoiding going back inside. What’s going on, Ron?”
“Nothing!” he snapped, his frustration bubbling over. “Why does everyone keep acting like there’s something wrong with me?”
“Because there is,” Ginny said, her voice rising. “And instead of dealing with it, you’re just—"
“I’m fine!” Ron interrupted, his voice echoing across the empty pitch. “Merlin’s sake, Ginny, just drop it.”
“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” Ginny said, her tone sharp as a blade.
Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect. Well, go on, tell me all the ways I’m mucking everything up. Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
“Because I’m your sister, you idiot!” Ginny shouted back, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “And because I care about you, even when you’re too thick to realize it!”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t!” Ron’s voice cracked, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I didn’t ask for this, Ginny! I didn’t ask for any of it!”
“That is enough,” Viktor Krum’s voice cut through their argument like a blade, calm but commanding. He stepped out of the shadows near the stands, his dark eyes flicking between them with quiet authority. “You are both too loud. The entire castle can probably hear you.”
Ron stiffened, his face flushing as Viktor approached. Ginny folded her arms, looking unbothered, though her gaze lingered on Viktor with faint curiosity.
“What’s it to you?” Ron muttered under his breath, but Viktor either didn’t hear or chose to ignore it. Instead, he addressed Ginny.
“Your brother is staying,” Viktor said simply, gesturing for her to leave. “I need to speak with him.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Have fun, Ron,” she said sweetly before slinging her broom over her shoulder and walking off toward the castle.
Ron glared after her, muttering under his breath. “Bloody brilliant,” he mumbled. The ache in his chest hadn’t eased, and the argument still clung to him like frost on the grass. He turned to grab his broom, but the sound of Viktor clearing his throat made him freeze.
Krum stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on Ron with that same piercing intensity that seemed to unearth things Ron would rather keep buried. He gestured toward the edge of the pitch, where the frost-covered grass glinted faintly under the fading light.
“Come,” Viktor said, his voice sharp but quieter now. “We talk.”
Ron frowned, hesitating for a beat before reluctantly following. He trudged over, his broom slung over one shoulder, his frustration still simmering. Viktor stopped near the edge of the pitch, turning to face him with an unreadable expression.
“You waste energy,” Viktor said sharply, his voice low but cutting. “Arguing. Shouting. It weakens you.”
Ron scowled, his fingers gripping his broom tightly. “What do you care?”
Viktor took another step forward, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the faint glow of the stars. “Because you are distracted. It affects your playing. It affects the team.”
“Yeah? Well, sorry I’m not perfect,” Ron muttered bitterly. He dragged his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face, the movement tugging at his shoulder. He winced slightly as he let the fabric drop, but the faint motion didn’t escape Viktor’s sharp gaze.
“You favor that shoulder,” Viktor said abruptly, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “It bothers you.”
“It’s fine,” Ron muttered, looking away. “Just an old injury.”
“Da?” Viktor’s tone softened briefly, but the edge quickly returned. “You ignore it, and it will get worse.”
Ron’s jaw tightened as he turned back to him, his frustration boiling over. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Train,” Viktor said simply, his voice regaining its clipped authority. “After the next match, you stay. You build strength. Endurance.”
Ron blinked, startled. “Train? With you?”
“If you are serious,” Viktor replied, stepping closer. His tone carried a challenge, sharp and deliberate. “No excuses. No whining. You have potential, Weasley, but potential is nothing without discipline.”
Ron let out a short, bitter laugh. “What do you care about my potential? You’ve got Malfoy and Harper and the rest of them.”
Viktor’s jaw tightened, his frustration finally cracking through his calm exterior. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a moment, it looked like he might reach out but thought better of it. “Because you are not like them,” he said, his voice rougher now. “You see what they cannot. Your strategy was good. Your suggestions for the lineup—they worked.”
Ron blinked, caught off guard by the statement. “What?”
“The adjustments,” Viktor repeated. “Harper as Chaser. McLaggen as Beater. Malfoy as Seeker. The changes were effective.”
Ron shrugged, still too annoyed from his argument with Ginny to take the compliment properly. “It’s just common sense,” he muttered. “McLaggen’s useless with a Quaffle, and Malfoy loves the spotlight.”
“Perhaps,” Viktor said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “But common sense is not always easy to implement, especially under pressure.”
Ron snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You mean when everyone’s too busy watching Malfoy preen to think straight?”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed Viktor’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “You see the game well, Weasley. You understand strategy. But understanding is not enough. You must act on it. Consistently.”
The tension between them grew heavier, Viktor’s dark eyes burning into Ron’s as the words landed with more weight than he’d expected.
Ron looked away, scuffing his boot against the ground. He didn’t know what to make of Viktor’s words—or the way the man’s gaze seemed to weigh more than just his suggestions for the team.
The tension hung between them for a long moment before Viktor spoke again, his tone shifting. “What do you plan to do after Hogwarts?”
Ron blinked, the abruptness of the question catching him off guard. “What?”
“After Hogwarts,” Viktor repeated, crossing his arms. The motion made the muscles in his forearms flex beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his jumper, the light catching on the coarse hair dusting his skin. He forced himself to focus on Viktor’s face instead. “What is your plan? Or do you have one?”
Ron opened his mouth, but no words came out. He hadn’t thought about it—not really. Sure, there were vague ideas, like joining Harry in whatever he was doing or maybe trying out for some lower-tier Quidditch team, but nothing concrete.
“I... I don’t know,” Ron admitted finally, his voice quieter now. “Haven’t really figured it out yet.”
Viktor’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded slowly, as if he’d expected the answer. “Figure it out,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You cannot drift forever, Weasley.”
Ron frowned, a flare of defensiveness bubbling up in his chest. “I’m not drifting.”
Viktor tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “No? Then tell me—what do you want?”
Ron’s chest tightened under Viktor’s unwavering gaze, the cold biting at his skin doing little to dull the heat rushing through him. The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
“I don’t know,” Ron muttered, his voice breaking under the weight of the words. He looked away, his grip tightening on his broom as he stared at the frost-covered grass beneath their feet. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is simple,” Viktor snapped, his voice rough and low, like the distant rumble of a storm. “You decide. Or you do nothing. You stay here, wasting time, making excuses, waiting for someone else to tell you who you are.”
Ron’s jaw clenched, anger bubbling to the surface. He jerked his head back up, meeting Viktor’s gaze with defiance. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice rising, his frustration sharp and brittle. “It’s not that easy for everyone. Not all of us have it figured out.”
“Figured out?” Viktor’s voice was sharp enough to cut. His jaw flexed, the tension rippling through his broad shoulders. “You think I have everything figured out? That I stand here with no doubts? No—” He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his damp hair, the motion uncharacteristically restless. For a fleeting moment, Ron thought he looked almost... human.
“No one gives you answers, Weasley,” Viktor continued, his voice quieter but no less intense. “You make them. Even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard.”
Ron blinked, caught off guard by the crack in Viktor’s usually cold, composed exterior. The break in that facade left him feeling unsteady, the fire in his chest burning hotter.
“What do you want Weasley?” Viktor asked again, softer this time but no less pressing. “On the pitch. After Hogwarts. From yourself. What do you want?”
Ron’s breath hitched. Viktor stepped closer, the distance between them disappearing as the air grew thick and charged. Ron’s mind raced, his thoughts tangled and incoherent as Viktor’s question reverberated in his chest. He wanted to shout, to push back, but the words refused to form.
“I don’t know,” he said again, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. His gaze dropped, flicking over Viktor’s hands. The subtle movement of his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides made Ron wonder if Viktor was holding himself back, fighting some unspoken urge.
For a moment, Ron couldn’t stop himself from wondering what it would feel like if Viktor closed the gap completely—if he grabbed Ron by the shoulders, shook him, forced the answers out of him. Or something else. The thought sent a jolt of heat down his spine, and he wrenched his gaze away.
“Then you are a coward,” Viktor said flatly, cutting through Ron’s spiraling thoughts like a knife.
The words hit Ron like a physical blow, his breath catching in his chest. He took an involuntary step back, his grip faltering on his broom as the heat in his face rose, chasing away the bitter chill of the night.
“That’s not—” Ron started, his voice cracking, but Viktor didn’t let him finish.
“It is,” Viktor said, his voice hardening. His dark eyes burned, full of something unspoken and unrelenting. “You think this is unfair? Life is unfair. You decide, or it decides for you.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Ron’s breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving as Viktor turned sharply on his heel. His movements were tense, his usual control nowhere to be found.
He strode toward the stands but stopped just before the shadows swallowed him whole. He glanced back over his shoulder, his jaw set, his expression unreadable except for the flicker of something—anger, frustration, or maybe something else entirely—in his eyes.
“Vash hod, Weasley,” Viktor said, his voice low and biting. Your move.
And then he was gone, his broad frame disappearing into the darkness, leaving Ron standing frozen on the frost-covered pitch. His broom dangled loosely in his hand, the cold biting at his skin, but the heat coursing through him refused to fade.
When Ron finally dragged himself off the pitch, his limbs felt like lead. The ache in his muscles was almost enough to distract him from Viktor’s words that kept replaying in his head. Almost. He trudged toward the castle, his broom slung over his shoulder, Viktor’s sharp voice echoing in his mind.
The faint hum of conversation from the Great Hall reached his ears. Ron hesitated briefly, debating whether to just head straight to Gryffindor Tower, but his stomach growled loudly. With a sigh, he veered toward the Hall and slid onto the far end of the Gryffindor table where a plate of leftovers sat.
He tore into a hunk of bread and grabbed some cold roast chicken, eating quickly and hoping no one would bother him. But, of course, that wasn’t how things worked.
“Late-night feast?” Hermione’s familiar voice rang out. She slid onto the bench across from him, a book in one hand and a wry smile on her face. “Could’ve sworn you were avoiding meals altogether these days.”
Ron scowled, taking another bite of chicken to avoid answering. “Not avoiding anything,” he muttered finally, reaching for his goblet of pumpkin juice.
“Right,” Hermione said, her voice laced with amusement. “So, you’ve just developed an aversion to food at regular hours?”
“Do you have a point?” Ron asked, glaring at her.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Not really. Just making conversation. Although...” She set her book on the table, her tone turning slightly more pointed. “I was talking to Hannah Abbott earlier, and she was asking about you.”
Ron froze mid-bite, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What are you on about ‘Mione?”
Hermione leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand with a smirk. “She thinks you’re interesting.”
Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin, Hermione. Please tell me you didn’t say anything.”
“Not yet,” Hermione said lightly, ignoring his glare. “But I was thinking... maybe you’d like to join Draco and me for a double date. Hannah would probably—”
“No,” Ron interrupted, his voice sharp as he slammed his goblet onto the table. “Absolutely not.”
Hermione blinked, startled by his tone. “You don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a suggestion.”
“Well, don’t suggest it,” Ron snapped, his ears burning. “I don’t need you playing matchmaker and I won’t be joining you and the blonde git for anything.”
Hermione frowned, her expression giving way to concern. “Ron, I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’m fine, all right?” Ron stood abruptly, grabbing a piece of bread from the table and shoving it into his bag. “Just leave it alone.”
Without waiting for her response, he turned and walked out of the Hall, his footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The tightness in his chest felt unbearable as he climbed the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower, Viktor’s words mingling with Hermione’s suggestion in a way that made his thoughts churn even more.
When he reached the common room, it was mercifully empty, the fire burning low and casting long shadows on the walls. He dropped onto the couch, his broom clattering to the floor beside him, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His hand drifted to his pocket, pulling out the enchanted mirror Harry had left him.
He turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing absently over the smooth surface. For a moment, he debated whether to use it at all. What would he even say? But the weight of Viktor’s words and Hermione’s suggestion pressed heavily on his chest, and before he could overthink it, he tapped lightly on the glass.
“Harry?” he called, his voice hoarse.
It took a few seconds, but then Harry’s face appeared, blurry at first before sharpening into focus. His hair was as messy as ever, sticking up at odd angles, and his green eyes, though tired, were warm. “Ron?” he asked, frowning slightly. “What’s going on?”
Ron hesitated, forcing a grin that felt brittle. “Nothing,” he lied. “Just wanted to see where you are these days.”
Harry leaned back slightly, the faint glow of a fire crackling behind him. “Still in Hungary. It’s quiet here. Different. Feels... lighter.”
“Yeah,” Ron muttered, staring into the flickering flames. “Must be nice.”
Harry tilted his head, his expression softening. “What about you? How’s school? Quidditch?”
Ron waved a hand vaguely. “Fine.”
“And Krum?” Harry pressed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Ron scowled, though there was no real bite in it. “Don’t start.”
Harry chuckled, leaning closer to the mirror. “Come on, he can’t be that bad.”
Ron hesitated, his jaw tightening. “He’s... intense,” he admitted finally. “Keeps going on about discipline and potential. Wants me to train with him after the next match.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s... a big deal, mate.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it,” Ron muttered. “Feels more like he’s waiting for me to screw up.”
“He wouldn’t waste his time if he didn’t think you were worth it,” Harry said simply.
The words landed heavily, but there was no edge to them. They felt... manageable. Ron let out a long breath, leaning back against the couch. “Maybe.”
“Ron,” Harry said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re better than you think you are. You’ve always been.”
Ron snorted, but there was a flicker of something lighter in his chest now. “Cheers for that,” he muttered.
“Anytime,” Harry said with a grin. “And hey, don’t let Krum get in your head too much. But if he’s offering to train you, maybe take him up on it. You might surprise yourself.”
Ron chuckled, the sound more genuine this time. “Yeah. Maybe.”
They talked a little longer, Harry steering the conversation toward lighter topics—Quidditch scores, Hermione’s painfully detailed letters, and George’s latest catastrophes at the shop. When the mirror finally went dark, the silence in the common room felt heavier, but not unbearable.
Ron leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the fire crackled softly. Viktor’s words and Harry’s lingered in his mind, twisting and overlapping, but for the first time, they didn’t feel entirely suffocating.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he’d sort it out. Whatever it was.
Notes:
I’m so sorry for the long wait—thank you all for your patience! I promise the next chapter will come much sooner than three months (pinkie swear). Originally, I planned for this to be just three chapters, but it looks like these two have other plans. These two have plans of their own it seems—sorry, not sorry. 😅 Poor won won, he's so confused.
Things will start moving soon, I promise! I just needed to establish some background characters and lay the groundwork (even though it's not going to be very plot heavy). Thank you so much for reading my little story—it means the world to me! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, feel free to share your thoughts! 💖
Chapter 3: Fracture
Summary:
“Say it again,” Ron hissed. “I dare you.”
Someone was calling his name—Ginny, maybe. Dean. He couldn’t tell.
The second boy reached for his wand, but a blur of motion intercepted—Seamus, maybe, or Blaise. Ron didn’t register it.
His drink shattered on the ground.
His chest heaved.
And whatever warmth the night had offered was gone.
Just ash again. Just fire.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It always started with blood.
The sky hadn’t lightened yet—just a bruised stretch of gray smeared across the horizon—but Ron was already in the air, wind biting at his skin, fingers clenched so tightly around the broomstick they’d gone white. Below him, frost still glazed the grass in thin, silvery threads, crunching faintly each time he skimmed too close.
He wasn’t flying so much as punishing himself. Shooting like a bolt across the pitch, only to bank hard and whip back the opposite direction, breath tearing in and out of his lungs like broken glass. The cold stung at his eyes. His jumper clung to his back, damp with sweat. On mornings like this, his shoulder ached like it had been split open again—tight and searing and wrong.
But it was better than lying in bed.
Better than waking up choking on his own breath, pulse hammering as Fred’s laugh morphed into a death rattle, as Hermione’s screams echoed off stone walls he couldn’t find his way out of. Always the same sequence. Fred falling. Hermione begging. The copper stench of his own blood pooling in the snow.
Ron jerked the broom into a steep dive, chest compressing. His stomach turned over from the drop, but he didn’t pull up. Not yet. Not until the last second, when the ground rushed up and the wind howled and his vision blurred and—
He wrenched upward, nearly blacking out, heart hammering like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. He gasped, but the air didn’t come. Not really. It just scraped in raw, sharp, useless.
Another lap. Another dive. Another memory waiting like a snare.
Fred grinning at him, just for a second, and then gone. Like a light snuffed out. Gone. Gone.
The broom wobbled under him. His vision swam. His arms felt like splintered bone wrapped in skin.
He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t. If he slowed down—if he rested—the memories would catch him again, sink claws into his chest and rip.
He’d stopped keeping track of time. The sun still hadn’t risen. His hands were numb. His stomach twisted in on itself, both from the exertion and the fact he hadn’t eaten properly since—when? Yesterday? Two days ago?
Didn’t matter.
He banked again. Pushed harder.
Pain bloomed down his left arm. His shoulder screamed in protest with every movement, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He deserved it. He welcomed it.
Pain was something solid. Tangible. It meant he was still here.
Still standing.
Still not in that tent in the woods, blood soaking through the bandage on his arm while Hermione sobbed over him.
His eyes were burning now, sweat freezing at the corners. The wind turned cruel, slicing into his jumper, through to skin and marrow.
The silence of the pitch pressed against his ears like water.
He couldn’t hear Fred laugh.
Couldn’t hear Hermione’s voice, gentle and sure, before it had been broken in that manor house.
Couldn’t hear anything but the roar of blood in his head and the steady, sick churn of his own breath as it caught, hitched, collapsed.
He hovered above the pitch, barely keeping upright, body swaying with exhaustion. The goalposts looked miles away. The sky was still gray, still empty.
Still waiting to swallow him whole.
...........................................................
Breakfast was mostly over when he made it to the Great Hall. The tables were half-cleared, the smell of eggs and toast stale in the air. A few people still lingered—eighth years, mostly. He spotted Harper and Chang deep in conversation, heads bowed over a book, Kenzie Patil yawning into her mug. Someone from Ravenclaw laughed—sharp and high—and it scraped against Ron’s spine. The castle was alive again. It made him feel deader somehow. He didn’t fit inside the walls anymore.
He sat down next to Seamus, mumbling a noncommittal greeting. His hand trembled as he lifted it, so he gripped tighter until the pain in his knuckles steadied him.
“Morning, sunshine,” Seamus muttered as Ron slumped into the seat beside him. He nudged a plate of toast over. “You look like you’ve been up all night shagging a dementor.”
Ron didn’t flinch. “Might’ve been preferable.”
Seamus let out a short laugh. “Christ. Didn’t know you had it in you to joke anymore.”
Ron didn’t answer. He reached for the tea instead, sloshed some into a chipped cup. His hand shook a little, but he didn’t spill.
Neville slid into the seat across from them, clutching a steaming mug. “You flying this morning?” he asked. “Pitch looked like someone crashed a Hippogriff into it.”
Ron gave a noncommittal shrug. “Needed the air.”
“That why your eyes look like they’ve been sandpapered?” Seamus asked, peering at him. “You alright, mate?”
Ron tore off a piece of toast and shoved it into his mouth, chewing like it might be the answer to everything. He washed it down with scalding tea and still didn’t speak.
Neville frowned. “Seriously, Ron. You don’t look well. You eating at all?”
“This counts, doesn’t it?” Ron muttered, raising a limp triangle of toast like a flag of surrender. “Besides, Krum’ll probably just run us to death again anyway.”
At that, Seamus perked up. “Speaking of the mighty Bulgarian, you lot heard about Malfoy?”
Ron looked up, wary. “What about him?”
Seamus grinned. “He’s got the Snake Prince himself scrubbing the pitch by hand! Swear on Merlin’s left tit, I walked past the pitch yesterday and saw him elbow-deep in scrub water, looking like someone had hexed his eyebrows off.”
A beat passed. Ron’s mouth twitched.
He tried to hide it, but it was there—a flicker of something that might’ve been amusement. “Malfoy with a mop,” he said, dry. “Bet he stood there staring at it for twenty minutes, waiting for it to clean itself.”
Seamus cackled. Neville chuckled into his mug. The tension cracked just slightly, like ice underfoot.
In Defense, he slouched into the seat next to Dean, parchment crumpled, ink smudged on his cuffs. But when Dean leaned over and said, “You think Durmstrang’ll run double Beaters again?” Ron didn’t look away.
His eyes flicked toward Dean, the smallest flicker of focus sharpening behind them. “Doubt it,” he muttered. “Didn’t work for them last season. Too heavy-handed.”
Dean grinned, surprised. “So you have been paying attention.”
Ron shrugged, eyes already drifting back toward the front of the room. “Doesn’t mean I think we’ll win.”
“Right, but you’ve been flying better.”
Ron didn’t answer. But his grip on the quill tightened, and something in him bristled at the compliment—uncertain if it fit. It echoed too closely to something Krum had said the other day, low and grudging: You have talent, Weasley. Like it physically hurt him to admit it.
And now Krum was offering extra practice. Not to everyone: just to him. Ron hadn’t decided yet if it was a challenge or a test. Maybe both. But still, it stuck in his chest, sharp and heavy.
The war had taken a lot of things from him. But the rhythm of Quidditch, the weight of the broom, the clarity of movement—that still made sense. In the air, he wasn’t fumbling through grief. And when Krum watched him—really watched him—it felt like being carved open and examined. But not dismissed.
Maybe that’s why it made his heart race so much.
..................................................................
He missed History of Magic entirely.
Not that it mattered. Binns wouldn’t have noticed if Ron had transfigured himself into a Flobberworm and slithered out of the classroom.
The hallways were quieter during lectures, but somehow the quiet still felt loud in his head. His satchel hung limp at his side, assignments crumpled at the bottom. He hadn’t turned in the last three essays. McGonagall had cornered him after Transfiguration earlier in the week with that look—half stern, half pity—and asked if he was “overextended.” Like this was a problem to solve with time management.
He hadn’t answered.
Today, Professor Babbling paused mid-lecture when she saw him slouched in the back row, staring at his ink-stained fingers like they held answers.
“Mr. Weasley,” she said. “Can you translate this rune?”
Ron didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink.
The silence thickened. Someone shifted uncomfortably.
Babbling sighed. “Please see me after class.”
He didn’t. He left before the ink dried on the board.
Ginny cornered him outside the library later that afternoon, arms folded, her expression sharp but not unkind.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Not everything is about you.”
“You’ve skipped three meals, two classes, and your dorm smells like something died in it,” she said. “I think I’m allowed to check in.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Ginny didn’t flinch, but the light in her eyes dimmed slightly. “You know I miss him too.”
Ron’s jaw twitched.
She let the silence settle for a beat, then added, “Slytherin’s throwing a party tonight. Weird, I know. But you should come. Get out of your own head.”
“I’d rather clean the Owlery with my tongue.”
Ginny gave a tight smile. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”
..................................................................
He went.
Maybe because Ginny had asked and the guilt gnawed at him. Maybe because he didn’t want to be in his room alone again. Maybe because he didn’t want to be sober.
By the time he arrived, the party was already a low throb in the castle’s belly—music pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong, voices layered in laughter and slurred spells. The Slytherins had outdone themselves. Velvet drapes muffled the echo of stone. Floating green lanterns bobbed lazily overhead, casting everyone in a sickly, flattering glow. There was too much perfume in the air. Too much smoke.
Everything about it felt curated—sharp-edged and indulgent, like sin in a decanter.
He poured a drink. Something sweet and burning. Drank it too fast. Refilled.
The team was clumped by the fireplace—Harper holding court, Dean slung across a chaise, Ginny tucked into conversation with someone Ron didn’t recognize. They were laughing. Easy. Comfortable.
Later, he drifted through the press of bodies and found himself leaning against a pillar, drink number—what? Four? Five?—warm in his hand. He was looser now. Not better. Just... less sharp.
Ron kept to the edges.
It wasn’t long before he spotted Hermione.
She was tucked into a corner beside Malfoy—on him, really—perched sideways across his lap like she belonged there. Her head rested against his shoulder, her cheeks flushed bright from whatever sugary cocktail she'd let the snakes ply her with. One of her curls had fallen across her forehead, and Malfoy reached up, slow and casual, to tuck it behind her ear.
It wasn’t jealousy. He knew it wasn’t. It didn’t feel like wanting her back. They never fit together quite right.
It felt like rage.
Not at them. Not exactly.
Just... everything.
Hermione was happy. Malfoy had somehow come out of the war with a clean slate. Everyone else was rebuilding, reconfiguring, while Ron was still holding pieces no one wanted to look at anymore.
What did they see when they looked at him now? Not a war hero. Just the angry one. The one who hadn’t figured it out. The one with bruised eyes and too many splinters in his voice to hold a real conversation.
It wasn’t Hermione he missed. Not really.
It was being known. Being part of something steady and solid, something untouched by smoke and blood and the memory of his older brother’s face caved in.It was the version of himself that used to laugh easily, before grief had hollowed him out like a rotten log.
She was smiling up at Blaise now. Not the strained one she used to wear when Ron said the wrong thing or the empty one he saw all too often in the summer at the burrow—but soft, warm. Easy. Her eyes bright and cheeks flushed.
Ron froze.
He remembered her cheeks flushed like that for a different reason—in the middle of chaos, not calm. The Battle of Hogwarts raging around them, curses flying, the smell of smoke and blood thick in the air. They’d kissed in the middle of it all—her eyes bright with fear, his heart pounding like a war drum—and it had felt like something desperate, something grabbed before the world fell apart.
He’d thought it meant something. Thought maybe that was what love looked like in wartime: sudden, breathless, unfinished.
But afterward—after the funerals, after the silence—everything between them had started to fray. No more life-or-death moments to hold them together. Just... reality.
And everyone had wanted it to work. Ron and Hermione, finally. Even he’d wanted it, or at least thought he did. They were always supposed to end up together. When, not if.
That had been the problem.
He hadn’t kissed her because he wanted to but because it felt like the next line in a story someone else had already written for them.
And now she was here—flushed and happy in someone else's lap—and he was still stuck somewhere in that burning castle, thinking maybe he should’ve never touched her in the first place.
That maybe he’d never actually known how to love her at all.
His throat burned. He took another drink.
Didn’t taste it.
Didn’t feel it.
Seeing Hermione laughing—relaxed—in a Slytherin stronghold while Ron stood like a ghost on the edges of his own life... it sat wrong. She looked like she belonged there.
He drained the rest of his cup.
He wasn’t watching her. He wasn’t. But when she glanced up and caught his eye, her smile faltered. Her brows lifted a little—tentative, like she might come over.
Ron turned before she could.
He turned away too fast and sloshed firewhisky onto his sleeve. Swore under his breath and backed into a shelf of books someone had forgotten to banish. The glass in his hand trembled before he stilled it.
“You break it, you buy it,” came a voice behind him, flat and amused.
Ron looked over. Pansy Parkinson leaned against the end of the shelf, drink in hand, one brow arched.
“Oh,” he muttered. “Come to defend Malfoy’s honor?”
She snorted. “Please. If I spent my life defending that idiot, I’d have no time for wine.”
Ron blinked. That caught him off guard.
“He probably deserved it,” she added, swirling her drink. “He’s a smug little bastard on his best day. You hit him, right?”
Ron’s lips twitched despite himself. “First. Yeah.”
“Nice.”
She took a sip. He took one too. Silence stretched, but not uncomfortably.
“I thought you'd hex me on sight,” he said finally.
Pansy shrugged. “You’re not special. Everyone’s miserable. Some of us just wear it better.”
Ron huffed something close to a laugh. Short. Rough.
Pansy’s smile was faint, curious. “There it is. I knew you weren’t entirely dead inside.”
“Give it time.”
They stood like that for a moment—two ghosts clinging to the edges of their houses. Her shoulder brushed his when she shifted to rest against the shelf, and it didn’t feel sharp. Just... human.
Before she left, she tipped her glass toward him and said, “Let me know if you ever want help picking the next target. I’ve got a list.”
She disappeared into the crowd like smoke.
Ron stayed.
He drank.
He tried not to watch Hermione again, but his gaze drifted anyway—and every time it did, something twisted low in his chest.
Worse than that were the moments when he thought of Krum. Not the yelling. Not the barking orders.
The voice gone low. You have potential, Weasley.
The heat of his body too close.
The hand on Ron’s wrist, adjusting his grip, lingering longer than necessary.
Ron swallowed hard and tossed back the rest of his drink. The burn didn’t help. If anything, it pooled heat where he didn’t want it.
“Fuck,” he muttered to no one.
The glass disappeared from his hand—he didn’t remember finishing it—and he let the noise of the party carry him. He moved through the rooms like driftwood, aimless but not entirely dead-eyed. Someone pressed a new drink into his hand; he didn’t ask what it was. Just nodded.
He found himself near Ginny, finally—laughing at something Luna was saying, cheeks flushed, arms waving wildly. Theo Nott stood beside her with a crooked grin, clearly enthralled. Ron hovered for a moment, uncertain.
She noticed him first. “You look like shit,” she said, grinning.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking a sip of whatever was in his glass.
Ginny’s eyes softened. “Glad you came.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?”
“You always have a choice. You just usually pick the worst one.”
Ron snorted. Luna giggled, drifting off to chase what looked suspiciously like a floating lemon wedge someone had bewitched into orbit.
Ginny rolled her eyes and leaned in. “Theo’s actually alright, by the way. Not that you asked.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “He’s still a Slytherin.”
“And you’re still dramatic,” she shot back. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. For showing up. Even if you do smell like wet broomstick.”
That got an actual laugh out of him—low and reluctant, but real. Ginny beamed.
He wandered on after that, bumping into Parvati and Ernie Macmillan. They shoved him into a game of Firewhisky truth-or-dare that he managed to duck after only one round and one regrettably honest answer about getting caught wanking by his mum.
By the time he slipped back toward the main room, the drink had warmed his limbs, loosened the tension behind his eyes. He wasn’t exactly having fun, but he wasn’t stewing in his own misery either. The noise blurred everything nicely. People smiled at him. Someone high-fived him. Pansy nodded at him across the room and mouthed, “Still standing.”
And then he heard it.
He was reaching for another drink when two guys—older, probably some seventh-year stragglers from Beauxbatons or one of the international students—brushed past him near the drinks table.
“—she’s hot, yeah, but you’ve got to catch her while she’s still drinking.”
“Right? That Gryffindor fire dies fast. Get her another one, maybe she’ll finally let you—”
Ron didn’t hear the rest.
Didn’t need to.
His mind filled in the blanks and then went blank altogether.
He turned. Slow. Controlled.
The two boys were laughing now, one nudging the other with a bottle in hand. Neither noticed Ron until he was right there—until he grabbed the speaker by the collar and slammed him into the edge of the drinks table hard enough to rattle the glassware.
“The fuck did you just say about my sister?”
The boy sputtered. “Mate—bloody hell—I didn’t know she was—”
“Didn’t know? So it’s only disgusting if she’s got a brother standing nearby?” Ron’s voice was low, tight, shaking. “Is that it?”
People turned. Voices dropped. The room shifted like a tide pulling out to sea.
The boy tried to shove Ron off, but Ron had too much weight, too much fury behind his grip. His knuckles were white.
“Say it again,” Ron hissed. “I dare you.”
Someone was calling his name—Ginny, maybe. Dean. He couldn’t tell.
The second boy reached for his wand, but a blur of motion intercepted—Seamus, maybe, or Theo. Ron didn’t register it.
His drink shattered on the ground.
His chest heaved.
And whatever warmth the night had offered was gone.
Just ash again. Just fire.
Then hands were on him. Pulling him back. Dragging him away from the table, from the guy whose collar was still twisted in Ron’s fist.
“Ron—Ron!”
He didn’t know who said it. The voice cut through the blur—urgent, maybe familiar—but he couldn’t bring himself to look. Couldn’t breathe through the fury still thrumming under his skin.
Someone grabbed his arm. “Mate, you need to cool off.”
He yanked it free. “Don’t.”
Ginny. Dean. Seamus. He didn’t know. Didn’t care.
“You’re not helping yourself,” the voice tried again, low and sharp. “Let’s go somewhere and just—”
“Fuck off.”
Ron’s voice cracked like a whip, loud enough to silence the music charm someone had fumbled over restarting. The room was too quiet now, too many eyes on him. The guy he’d slammed into the table was still clutching his throat, muttering curses under his breath. Someone else was whispering Ron’s name like it was something to tiptoe around.
He didn’t wait to see what would happen next.
He turned. Shoved through the crowd. Shouldered past someone with glitter on their cheek and a cup in their hand that sloshed across his jumper. Didn’t stop. Didn’t apologize.
Somewhere on the way out, he grabbed a bottle from the floor that was half-full with it’s cork loose. He didn’t look at the label.
The castle was spinning by the time he reached Gryffindor Tower. The stairs shifted under his feet. He didn’t remember the password. Didn’t need to. Someone else was coming in and gave him a look like they wanted to speak, then thought better of it.
He stumbled into the dormitory and dropped the bottle on the nightstand. He peeled off his jumper with clumsy fingers and fell back onto the mattress like he meant to punch a hole through it.
The ceiling wouldn’t stop moving. Neither would the heat in his chest. Or the pounding behind his eyes.
He drank.
The bottle hit the floor sometime after the last swallow. He didn’t hear it break.
He passed out without undressing, one boot still on, stomach turning, throat raw, his fists clenched around air like he was still fighting someone.
The silence returned like a wave. Cold. Endless.
And for a long while, there was nothing.
..................................................................
By the time the day of the match arrived, Ron could feel the shift.
No one had really spoken to him since the party. Not properly. A few nods, a couple of clipped instructions at practice, but mostly—wide berth. Even Seamus hadn’t cracked a joke in two days. Ginny was still icy. Hermione... he hadn’t even tried.
It wasn’t rage this time. Just space. A quiet sort of exile. And somehow that felt worse.
The match was against a visiting team from Durmstrang’s reserve circuit—older students, meaner tactics, and a reputation for pushing the line without ever quite crossing it. Krum had warned them about it. Had looked right at Ron when he said, “Keep your heads. They want you to lose it.”
The pitch buzzed with energy by the time they mounted their brooms. Students packed the stands, banners fluttered in the wind, and Professor McGonagall stood tall in the officiating box, eyes sharp beneath her tartan hat.
Ron flew out like something caged and unchained. His broom responded instinctively—his body remembered the movements, even if his head wasn’t clear. Around him, the rest of the team fanned into formation.
The Durmstrang squad came in hard from the first whistle.
They didn’t just play aggressively—they weaponized it. Elbows thrown during passes. Wands subtly drawn under robes. One of their Beaters grazed Ginny’s shoulder with a Bludger so deliberately, Ron almost flew across the pitch to retaliate.
The game was brutal.
Within ten minutes, Demelza had a bloody nose, Zabini had lost a glove, and Corner had nearly taken a Bludger to the temple. Ron deflected two goals back-to-back, but on the third he lunged too wide and his thigh clipped a goalpost. Pain lanced through his leg. He gritted his teeth and stayed on his broom.
By mid-match, the score was tight. They were hanging on—but barely.
Then it happened.
A Durmstrang Chaser made a brutal fake toward Demelza, shoulder-checking her mid-air. She spun out, crying out, and the Quaffle arced high—too high. Ron moved on instinct, pushing his broom hard into a climb to intercept.
He got it.
But not cleanly.
He caught the Quaffle just as one of the Durmstrang Beaters curved beneath him and slammed upward with their shoulder, broom first. It wasn’t just interference—it was assault.
Ron nearly went flying. The Quaffle slipped. His broom jerked sideways, and for a terrifying moment, all he could see was sky and spin and blood in his mouth.
When he landed shaky, furious, and buzzing with adrenaline his eyes landed on Krum who was already stalking toward him across the pitch. He didn’t stop until they were toe to toe. He smelled like leather, wind, and the chill bite of altitude. His hand came up flat against Ron’s chest and shoved him back one step.
“You are done Weasley,” he barked. “Off the pitch.”
Ron’s head snapped up. “Are you serious? Did you see what he just did—?”
“I saw it,” Krum snapped. His voice was low but lethal, his accent sharper than usual. “I saw you chasing a play that wasn’t yours. I saw you fly with your teeth and not your head.”
Ron’s jaw clenched. “He blindsided me—”
“You nearly cracked your spine!” Krum’s hand shot out again, gripping Ron’s shoulder now, tight, hot through his robes. “You are not flying again this match. I will not watch you die trying to prove something.”
Ron shoved the hand off his shoulder. His pulse was wild, his throat raw. “You just love pissing me off, don’t you?”
Krum didn’t flinch. His mouth twitched—something caught between a sneer and restraint. His eyes flicked over Ron’s face, lingering too long. “You think this is personal?” he said, low. “You think this is about you? Grow the fuck up.”
The words landed like physical blows and Ron’s chest heaved.“You can’t—”
Krum stepped closer, whiskey eyes hard and sparking. “I can. I have.”
For a second, they just stood there. Krum’s hand half-raised again like he wanted to grab him again. Ron’s fists balled, breathing hard, heart hammering under his ribs.
Then Krum took a step back. Final. Sharp.
“Off the pitch Weasley, that’s an order.”
Ron didn’t move until Krum turned his back. When he did, he stalked off the pitch, every step echoing with rage.
And shame.
And heat still buzzing beneath his skin where Krum’s hand had gripped his shoulder.
He sat on the bench, jaw tight, breath ragged, watching the rest of the match unfold without him.
They lost.
Barely. Twenty points. One missed Bludger. One dropped Quaffle.
No one said it was Ron’s fault. But no one said anything to him at all.
..................................................................
It was meant to be a celebration—win or lose, the Interhouse Quidditch team was supposed to stick together. But the crushing weight of their loss hung heavy in the air, a fog that no amount of firewhisky could burn through. Ron sat hunched at the end of the table, his grip tight around his glass as his teammates shouted and clinked bottles around him. He wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Not with the sharp sting of Viktor Krum’s voice still ringing in his ears. Grow the fuck up.
Ron scowled and took another swig. Krum hadn’t even stayed. The man had left early, as if they weren’t worth his time. As if Ron wasn’t worth his time.
“Oi, cheer up, Ron!” Seamus slurred from across the table, slinging an arm around McLaggen, who looked equally glazed over. “It’s just one match!”
“Piss off,” Ron muttered, draining his glass. He wasn’t in the mood for Seamus’s forced cheerfulness. His pride felt raw, scraped clean by Krum’s sharp commands and that infuriatingly calm stare.
Ron slammed his glass down harder than he meant to, earning a raised brow from Pansy Parkinson, who was sitting a few seats down, nursing a gin and tonic. “Temper, temper,” she drawled, her lips quirking into a smirk. “Careful, Weasley. You’ll crack the glass.”
“Mind your business,” Ron snapped, pushing himself up from the table. He stumbled slightly as the firewhisky hit him all at once, but he steadied himself, his gaze narrowing on the door. Viktor had left a few minutes ago, muttering something about needing air. Ron hadn’t seen him since, but the urge to follow tugged at him like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.
“Where are you off to?” Neville asked, looking up from his butterbeer.
“Nowhere,” Ron muttered, brushing past him. The truth was, he didn’t know why he was following Krum. He just knew he couldn’t sit there anymore, stewing in his anger and frustration. His legs carried him out into the cold night, the sharp bite of the wind clearing his head just enough to make him regret not grabbing his coat.
The cold night air cut through Ron’s jumper as he stumbled down the narrow streets of Hogsmeade till h spotted his target stolling ahead. The firewhisky had turned his steps clumsy, but the heat in his chest drove him forward, his anger spiraling into something sharp and aimless. Krum’s hulking figure disappeared around a corner, and Ron quickened his pace, his boots skidding slightly on the frost-slick cobblestones.
“Krum!” he called, his voice rough and raw. There was no answer, just the whistle of the wind and the faint chatter from the pub behind him.
Ron turned the corner into an alley and stopped short, his breath hitching. Viktor Krum stood there, leaning casually against the stone wall, his broad shoulders relaxed and his hands tucked into his coat pockets. The light from a nearby streetlamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features. His dark eyes locked onto Ron with a calm, deliberate intensity that made Ron’s stomach twist.
“Weasley,” Krum said, his voice low and even, with a faint edge of mockery. “Go back to your friends.”
Ron bristled, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so much better than us, don’t you? You couldn’t even stick around after the match. just walked out like you were too good for it.”
“I walked out,” Krum said, stepping away from the wall, “because I have no interest in babysitting drunk children.”
Ron’s face flushed with anger. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
Krum raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. “I do not get to talk to you like this? You followed me here, Weasley. If you cannot handle my words, perhaps you should not chase me down like a lost dog.”
Ron took a step forward, his chest heaving. “I’m not a bloody dog, Krum. You’re a right bastard, you know that?” he spat, though the fire in his words faltered under Viktor’s steady stare. “You treat me like I’m nothing. Just tossing me aside like some bloody first year.”
Krum tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You think I waste my time on nothing?” he asked, his voice cool and deliberate. He stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the frost-covered cobblestones. “If I thought you were nothing, Weasley, I would not bother with you.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ron snapped, his voice rising. “You’re always on me, like you’re trying to prove something. You’re obsessed with making me look like an idiot!”
“Do I make you look like an idiot?” Krum asked, his voice calm and even. Another step, and the space between them shrank to nothing. “Or do you do that to yourself?”
Krum’s voice was quiet, almost soft, but it carried a dangerous undercurrent. He took another step forward, crowding Ron’s space until their chests were nearly touching. Ron refused to back down, even as his pulse hammered in his ears.
Ron’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His throat felt tight, his pulse hammering in his ears as Viktor loomed over him. He could feel the heat radiating from Krum’s body, the cold air doing nothing to cool the flush creeping up his neck.
Ron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. “You’re wrong.”
“And yet,” Krum said, his voice dropping lower, softer. He leaned in, his breath ghosting against Ron’s cheek, his dark eyes boring into Ron’s with an intensity that made his stomach twist. “You are here, drunk and angry, shouting at me in the middle of the night. And I do not think it is because you hate me as much as you want to believe.”
Ron tried to form a retort, but his throat was tight, and the words wouldn’t come. He felt exposed, stripped bare under Krum’s gaze, and it made his chest ache and skin feel to hot.
Ron stiffened, his hands twitching at his sides. “Get the fuck off me,” he managed to say, though his voice came out hoarse, betraying the panic bubbling under the surface.
Krum’s lips twitched, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his face. His hand shot out, grabbing the front of Ron’s jumper. The fabric bunched in Krum’s fist, the pull forcing Ron even closer until their faces were inches apart.
Ron’s breath caught, his chest heaving against Krum’s grip. His dark eyes flicking down to Ron’s mouth for a split second before meeting his gaze again. His hand on Ron’s jumper tugged slightly, the fabric straining under his grip, and Ron could feel the tension crackling in the narrow space between them.
Ron swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he pushed back. “You’re delusional,” he muttered, but his voice came out thin and strained, his pulse hammering in his throat.
“Maybe. But I know you better than you think,” Krum said, his voice low, almost a growl. His thumb brushed against the fabric of Ron’s jumper, almost absentmindedly, but it sent a jolt through Ron that went straight to his core. “You fight so much because you cannot handle the truth. You need someone to push you, someone to make you see past your anger.”
“Get off,” Ron said again, his breath coming fast, uneven. His hands shot up to grip Viktor’s wrist, nails digging into his skin, but Viktor didn’t move, his hold firm and unyielding.
“Then fight me,” Krum said, his voice soft but dangerous. His face was so close now, his breath warm against Ron’s flushed skin. “If that is what you want, then we can fight. But do not stand here and lie to yourself.”
Ron yanked hard against Krum’s grip, the motion jerky and uncoordinated, but Krum finally released him. The absence of his touch left Ron feeling cold, exposed, and furious in ways he couldn’t untangle. He stumbled back, his chest heaving, his face hot.
“You will train with me tomorrow. You will show up.” Krum said, his voice rough, his gaze shard.
“I won’t,” Ron snapped, his fists trembling at his sides. “I hate you.”
Krum’s smirk returned, slow and maddening, and he tilted his head slightly, his eyes sweeping over Ron’s disheveled appearance. “Does not matter to me. I think you will,” he said simply. “You need this. You need me.”
With that, Krum turned and walked away, leaving Ron standing there, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts and his chest tight with humiliation and a desire he didn't want to give life to. His jumper was still twisted where Krum had grabbed him, and his hands trembled as he tried to smooth it out. He let out a shaky breath, cursing under his breath as the tension in his body refused to fade. He hated that the other man was right.
He would show up tomorrow. Because what else did he have left?
By the time Ron stumbled back into the castle, the corridors were empty, the stone floors echoing under his boots. His face was still flushed, breath still uneven, Krum’s words playing on a loop in his head like a curse he couldn’t shake.
Ron muttered a string of curses under his breath as he climbed the stairs, two at a time, his limbs shaky, his palms clammy. His jumper still smelled faintly of sweat and street air—and Krum. That familiar woodsmoke-and-winter-sharp scent clung to him like a brand. He couldn’t scrub the feeling off, no matter how many times he raked a hand through his hair or tugged at his collar.
By the time he reached the dormitory, his hands were trembling.
He slammed the door behind him, shrugging out of his coat and pacing the room like a caged thing. Moonlight spilled across the floor in soft, pale sheets, and Ron could see his reflection in the windowpane—flushed cheeks, bruised mouth, hair stuck up at odd angles. He looked wrecked.
He felt wrecked.
He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands, but it was no use. His skin still burned where Krum had touched him. His wrist throbbed faintly under the ghost of that grip. And worse, his trousers felt tight, uncomfortably so. The heat coiled low in his stomach, unspent and shameful, thrumming with a pulse that wouldn’t quiet down.
Ron swore under his breath, shifting on the mattress, trying to ignore the ache in his cock, the way it pressed against the front of his trousers. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—Krum crowding into his space, Krum’s voice low and rough against his ear.
You need me.
Ron cursed again, this time louder. He fumbled for his wand on the nightstand but didn’t use it. He couldn’t—not with how badly his hands were shaking. The want—because that’s what it was, no matter how badly he didn’t want to admit it—sat heavy in his chest, in his gut, in his cock, throbbing like an open wound.
He dragged a hand down his face. No. No.
The idea of slipping under the covers, of giving in to what his body wanted—he couldn’t. Not with Krum’s voice still in his head, not with his own shame threatening to choke him. He felt like he was unraveling, like every thread of control was fraying at once.
Without thinking, Ron stood, stripped down in sharp, jerky motions, and crossed the room barefoot. The stone floor bit into the soles of his feet, cold and grounding. He pushed open the door to the small shared bathroom and stepped inside, locking it behind him.
He didn’t bother lighting a lantern. Just turned the tap and stood beneath the freezing stream.
The cold hit him like a curse.
He gasped, his whole body tensing as the water slammed into his skin. But it helped. It hurt—and that was good. It chased away the heat, shocked the tension out of his bones. He stood there, chest heaving, arms braced against the stone wall, until the ache dulled, until his breathing slowed, until his cock softened under the relentless chill.
He stayed there a while.
By the time he dragged himself back to bed, his hair was dripping, his skin prickled raw, and his limbs felt heavy with exhaustion. He collapsed onto the mattress, curled on his side, sheets cold and damp where they clung to his skin.
Sleep came slowly—fitful and restless, broken by flashes of heat, of memory, of rough hands and low voices and the maddening smirk Krum wore like armor.
But eventually, it came. And when it did, Krum was still there—just out of reach, just behind his eyelids, the ghost of his breath still warm on Ron’s neck.
Notes:
An update! Life be lifing but I'm so excited to be writing these two again. Next update won't be 6 months from now, I promise!
Talk to me on bluesky under the same username and as always thank you all so much for your kudos and comments, they mean the absolute world to me.
ZzBottomZ on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Oct 2024 02:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
roadwise on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Oct 2024 03:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
arinashehko on Chapter 1 Sat 05 Oct 2024 01:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kjdo1288 on Chapter 1 Sun 27 Oct 2024 04:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
Justcallmenameless on Chapter 1 Mon 04 Nov 2024 06:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
erez7 on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Nov 2024 01:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
Puppy_Luna93 on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Dec 2024 06:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
holygnocchi on Chapter 1 Fri 17 Jan 2025 03:47AM UTC
Comment Actions
WhinCorpseWife31 on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Apr 2025 04:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mvexed26 on Chapter 1 Sat 17 May 2025 12:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
ZzBottomZ on Chapter 2 Fri 10 Jan 2025 09:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
Yodaforeverandever on Chapter 2 Fri 17 Jan 2025 10:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
morriganmercy on Chapter 2 Sat 18 Jan 2025 04:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
ZzBottomZ on Chapter 3 Sat 17 May 2025 01:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
Bunny486 on Chapter 3 Fri 23 May 2025 05:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
Akafuri35 on Chapter 3 Sun 08 Jun 2025 09:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
gottalove_wolfstar on Chapter 3 Thu 12 Jun 2025 08:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
MaiBee on Chapter 3 Tue 17 Jun 2025 02:36PM UTC
Comment Actions