Drabble #1 - The Luckiest Man
Disclaimer: Yeah. I tried to buy Harry Potter from JKR for three dirty pennies, pretty blue string, and a shiny piece of foil. She refused. All eighteen times.
Greedy old hag.
... *ducks from flying debris* I was just kidding! I won't insult the name of your god any longer, I promise! No, anyway, this is just a short and sweet little Harry/Ron piece I decided to do. First in a series, actually. They're all Harry/Ron, ranging from fluffy to angsty, set in all different universes-- nothing's going to be the same. Maybe I'll slip some AU in. Anyway, please enjoy. ^__^ And for those of you who actually keep up with my things, "The Meaning of a Faith" has the next chapter coming out by Christmas. That is a promise.
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"Who would you be, if you could be anyone else?"
It seems like such an important question, though it really isn't at all. Significant enough, however, for Harry to pause and look up from his Transfiguration homework. He blinks against the soft glow of candlelight, struggling to make his blurry eyes focus- his glasses lay forgotten on the table.
Fiery red hair smolders in his poor eyesight, melting together sharp blue eyes from the sky with its brilliance. Ron seems to be made of something burning, something like smoke and ash and flame all at once, and a thousand other things that are being eaten alive by the fire in his voice. Urgency and hesitance flickering over the tongue, playing across his freckled features.
The blurred figure nods and though he can't see very well, Harry thinks that he's seeing his best friend clearer than ever. "Yeah, if you could be anyone else besides yourself. Who would you be?"
There are many things on the tip of his tongue. Things like, normal and a boy with parents and not the savior of the wizarding world.
But when he thinks- and he does so carefully- he realizes that there's only one image that comes to his mind for the future he'll never have. It involves waking up each morning to rumbled white bed sheets and the faint scent of bacon roasting in the air. It's when a Harry J. Potter fumbles with his robe ties and walks to the kitchen, and the young man at the stove is wearing his faded t-shirt and sweatpants, but it doesn't matter. Because the redhead who's wearing his shirt- and it looks so much bigger on his thin shoulder blades, now that Harry's been growing- turns to him, and smiles, and says, G'morning, Harry. Alright? And Harry will nod.
They'll drink coffee and eat, and laugh over the morning paper, and how it has nothing to do with Harry J. Potter at all. Not today. The headlines are about the new art center being built. They study the stock and the lanky redhead will scoff at that Muggle thing that makes them want to get rid of their money so bad. And even though Harry wants to stay inside today- which makes his lover laugh and kiss him gently, eyes mischievious and more familiar than anything in his entire life- they'll follow through with their original plans. They'll go to the park and throw bread crumbs at the geese, and the redhead will almost have one follow him home. They'll throw a few knuts in the fountain downtown, the fiery-haired boy remarking, If your wish involves making me do the dishes tonight, your head's screwed on funny, mate. Harry will laugh, looping an arm around the man's waist and tugging him away.
There will be Thai food for dinner, and white take-out boxes will litter the floor until they're picked up because of reluctant habit. Harry insists later that it was him who finally did the deed, although they'll always disagree about who's the tidier of the two. That's okay, though. He loves it that way.
The night will be cool and swift. Blankets will be brought out of their mix-matched linen closet, and they'll curl up on the rickety porch swing outside. There will be laughter and light, lightening bug kisses rained over the spot where there should be a scar- except there is none, because it is not that Harry J. Potter. He never was. Only the simple boy who knew he loved this redheaded person in his arms, from the very moment he met him as they sat together on the train, during a morning far away, and caught each other's surprised gazes. He has done nothing spectacular with his life. Nothing exciting.
Nothing except have Ronald Weasley love him; look at him with that blinding smile and bemused, freckled face. It's what makes Harry J. Potter special. What makes him unique. It makes him the luckiest man alive.
He's tilting that freckled chin up, looking into blue eyes clearer than any truth he'd ever told- and then Harry blinks, and he's already seeing them. Ron glances at him worriedly, putting down the hand he was waving in front of his best friend's glazed expression.
"You a'right, mate?"
Harry wants to reach up and feel his scar, but knows it's there either way. He shakes his head; the action makes his eyesight blur further. With an absent gesture, he reaches for his glasses and fits the frames over his ears and nose. When the world comes into focus, he smiles at Ron.
"You spaced out. You're sure?" Ron demands, concern and suspicion dancing lightly over his face. Harry laughs; he's quite sure. "Well, if you didn't want to answer me, you didn't have t'ignore me…"
"Yeah- about who you'd want to be. If you could be anyone else in the world."
Harry wants to say, The man who loves you.
But the world's in focus again, and he's not nearly so lucky.
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