A/N: Jenny, (AKA, mryeronfire) you are seriously one of my best friends now, and you know I'm not the kind of person that says that lightly. You also know that the past couple of weeks have been more than rough on me. You know more about it (and me) than some of my supposedly close family do, and that bonds us. I've had you and one other person here that I really trust, and honestly, over that past couple of weeks, with things as bad as they were, I'm not sure what I would have done without you! You know what I mean even if no one else gets it. In fact, I hope no one else quite gets that because it's meant to be for you to understand, and I know you will. You have my friendship and my love, (and this is something I have NEVER said lightly), and you have my respect. I bow to you.


Ron is a kitten. Banter a piece of proverbial string in front of him and he will bat at it with both paws every time.

I cannot help the fact that I think he's ridiculously adorable when he's in 'kitten mode'.

When I want to tease him, I'll make some kind of off-handed remark about how I'd like to play a round of pick-up Quidditch sometime that day, then I'll watch the lights come on in his sky blue eyes. He'll follow me around for the rest of the day asking when we're going to play. Some might consider it whining; I happen to love it because I can see the sheer joy and enthusiasm in his face. He simply glows.

When we finally do get around to our game, Ron will always sprint off onto the pitch, broom and gear in-hand, like he's been caged all day and has finally been set free. The smile on his face is wider than the lock I had to swim back in Fourth Year at Hogwarts.

Ron also has a habit of jumping out of nowhere and rubbing up against me just like a kitten when he wants something, be it affection, attention, food, or a rowdy and playful romp with the sofa cushions. I love it when he suddenly comes up behind me, wraps his long arms around me and nuzzles his face deep into the crook of my shoulder. That's when he wants affection.

When he wants attention or food he'll rub up against me and make a small noise (that only I could discern as my name) in the back of his throat. When he wants a play fight, he'll simply sneak up behind me (and just like a crouched kitten, he can be sneaky) and wallop me in the head with a pillow.

Like a kitten, too, however, sometimes I have to discipline him. He's not exactly house-broken. I'm always having to remind him to finish his share of the chores and to pick up his dirty laundry. Most of the time, it's not a big deal; I'll just gently remind him and he'll get the job done. But after the third or fourth reminder I usually lose my temper and scold him.

During one of these incidents, Ron will hang his head and slink back away from me (I don't think he ever quite got over the way his Mother constantly yelled. Molly adores each and every one of her children, of course, but she does have that famous Prewett temper and isn't afraid to use it.). The next day, without fail, I will come home from work to find not only his chores done, but mine as well.

Neither Ron or I ever say much about it, but he always gives me these shy, sidelong glances, and tries to cautiously make his way over to me. Step by step, bit by bit, I let him; because I know if I reached out first, too quickly, he would shy back away, just like a timid little kitten. I think his Mother and I are the only ones that can still provoke this reaction from him. He's afraid of being scolded again.

When he gets close enough and realizes I'm not going to yell or scold, I'll stroke his hair back from his face, and he'll smile a bit. That seems to calm him. Eventually, we'll sit on the couch and he'll curl up into my side; I'll pet him and stroke his back, and sometimes he falls asleep like that, nestled against me. I know he doesn't sleep well when he thinks I'm mad at him.

Ron doesn't so much snore when he sleeps, as he purrs.


Ron is a lazy, spoiled housecat. When he gets comfortable and warm he does not want to move.

Our charmed alarm clock can ring and ring, and Ron knows he has to get up to go to work, the same as I do, but he'll just stretch and roll over, and bury himself back under the warm covers and fall right back to sleep. And it does not matter how hard I shove him in the shoulder, or smack him across the back of his head; Ron does not like to get out of bed in the morning.

One morning, after nearly thirty minutes of trying to wake him, I finally just levitated his sleeping form off of the bed — and then dropped him on the floor! He pouted and refused to speak to me for the rest of that morning, even though I tried to reason with him that we were both going to be late for work because he would not get his lazy arse out of bed.

When he's a mad housecat he bears more of a resemblance to Crookshanks than he could ever imagine, with his ginger hair and scrunched up face, but I'll never tell him that. Despite his lazy housecat tendencies, I do love the man; and I would also like to live to see my next birthday.

Ron can also be quite spoiled, but I'll admit, this is as much my doing as it is his.

Once, after Ron had taken a nasty tumble down the stairs at the Burrow, I brought him home to make sure he was alright. He was, of course, sore, and I offered to massage his back and shoulders. At the time, he had truly needed the therapeutic touch.

Now, he just gets massages whenever he feels like it, which is quite often. He's even taken to turning over on his back so I can rub and scratch his chest and belly.

Not that I really mind. A shirtless Ron is a lovely thing, indeed, and makes for a happy Harry.

If he honestly is sore, then I'll give his muscles a proper massage to help work away the pain, but if he's not, then in a way, it really is sort of like petting a cat. Ron likes to have his skin touched in long, gentle, downward strokes; sometimes I use my whole hand and sometimes just the fingertips. And I always make it a point to run my fingers through his hair; he loves having his scalp massaged. It makes Ron wriggle and curl up, hum low in such contentment, and snuggle his face into the pillow.

One time I massaged Ron's chest and belly while he was laying in front of the fire. Then he asked me to summon the last of the Honeyduke's chocolate from the kitchen. I quirked an eyebrow and called him lazy, saying he could summon it himself if he wanted it that badly, but the truth was, he looked so good laying there all golden and red in front of the fire that I didn't want him to move. So I summoned the chocolate, which of course melted a bit in front of the fire.

Ron could never let perfectly good chocolate go to waste, so he licked the chocolate off his fingers, just like a perfectly lazy, spoiled, warm, contented cat licking cream off its paws.

I couldn't stop myself; I ravished him, and he let me. He let me do whatever I wanted to his warm, relaxed body. It was some of the best sex we've ever had, and afterwards, both of us were purring.


Ron is a lion. When he has decided on his prey, he lays a course of action, and moves in for the kill.

I knew, of course, that Ron was brave (more so than he knew for a long time); a person isn't sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. For seven years I watched my best mate grow up, stand steadfastly at my side, and help me face battles that no one — let alone children — should ever have to fight.

Ron has the ability to crouch low, stay hidden in the bushes and observe, while others march in grand, hasty fashion. I can admit to my jealously now, but I can see why Dumbledore made Ron a Prefect in our Fifth Year. Ron's not the kind of bloke you would suspect of possessing such keen observational and entrapment skills. Dumbledore knew we were going to need someone that possessed those kinds of skills in the war, and making Ron a Prefect was his way of beginning Ron's training.

The training paid off.

During the war all eyes were focused on me, of course: keeping me safe and hidden, making sure I had the strongest, most up-to-date research and training available. But Ron was made one of the head strategic planners. He studied ancient scrolls, maps, prophesies, and bits and pieces of information as it came in; and then chucked most of it out the window and planned our attacks and counter-attacks on his own instinct. Order casualties were kept to a minimum because of Ron's lion-like ability to observe his prey and make his kill.

During the war, someone once asked him how he was able to plan battles with such precision. He said that was his secret and he would never tell. Years later, when the war was finally over, I asked him the same question, just to see if I would get the same response.

He challenged me to a game of chess. I lost in four moves. Now, I am used to losing to Ron in chess, but not in such a short amount of time. As I sat there with my mouth hanging open, Ron just grinned smugly and asked if I had anymore questions. I didn't. I had my answer, and if I had been in possession of Ron's powerful observational skills, I wouldn't of had to ask the question to begin with.

Off the battlefield, Ron is still every inch the lion when he feels his territory is threatened.

I suppose I'm not a bad looking bloke, and I've had a few other blokes try to pull me. Usually I just brush them off and that's that, but once there was a bloke from work, Jerome, that just would not let up. I told him I wasn't interested, told him I was in a steady and committed relationship. He didn't seem to care. Jerome went so far as to follow me out to lunch one day when I was supposed to meet Ron.

He and Ron are about the same height, same build, even same muscle mass — but Ron is a territorial lion, and that other bloke was certainly not. I was afraid there was going to be a nasty fight in the middle of the café, but I should have remembered the way that lions stalk their prey.

Ron rose quietly and gracefully from the table, (I had never seen such icy fire in his blue eyes before. Had they been directed at me, I would have been frightened.) took Jerome in a firm grip by the elbow and informed him, in the most quiet and controlled voice, that I was with him and him only. I belonged to Ron. He then informed Jerome (still in that same, silky, stalking voice) that, while he would rather not cause a public scene, he would be willing to disembowel him there on the next table should the situation call for such measures.

Jerome dry heaved for a moment, then ran. I never saw him again.

Immediately the look on Ron's face changed as he turned to face me. All at once I saw my brave lion, my lazy housecat, and my playful kitten, all in Ron's beautiful, sun-dappled face.

I couldn't stop myself, I had to reach over and pet his hair for a second or two. He smiled and leaned into my hand as I told him thanks.

He said it was no problem; he didn't want anyone messing with his Harry.

Then he flipped a spoonful of mashed potatoes at me and laughed out loud.

He's definitely not house-trained, but I love how he purrs.