Author's Note: It's a oneshot, slash Harry/Ron fic, and it just seemed to pop into my head randomly. There is no real purpose to it, actually, and I'd say its set around um, 5th year, near Christmas. Its perfectly tame and fluffy, don't you worry. Don't like, don't read. I do not own any of J.K Rowling's creations, I just like borrowing them for my own pleasure. Do not sue, as no copyright infringement is intended. I make no profit, etc etc. But anyways. Enjoy. :)

Imperfect

Harry James Potter did not enjoy sleep as much as he used to. Sleeping meant nightmares, nightmares meant seeing more and more of the people he loved killed by Voldemort. He could usually deal with this, but lately…well, his feelings for certain things had changed.

By certain things, Harry meant certain people.

By people, he meant person.

And by person, he meant Ronald Bilius Weasley, who currently lay fast asleep in the bed next door.

Harry propped himself up on his pillows wearily, before looking to his right, and seeing the redhead lying there, dreaming silently. Well, Harry used the term silently loosely. And by that, he meant very loosely. Ron snored, it was a well-known fact, but they were quieter nowadays and Harry had come to find them endearing. Every so often Ron would mumble incomprehensibly under his breath, fidget, then settle back down. It was calming, Harry thought, and he couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before.

Harry personally thought Ron was beautiful. Beautiful in his own way. Sure, he was lanky, long nosed, freckled, with a mop of slightly wavy red (well, orange) hair, and he was very, very clumsy, but Harry thought that he was a work of art. Those long limbs always seemed graceful to him, and whenever Ron did something stupid, Harry couldn't help but smile as the taller boy turned pink to the tips of his ears. That nose did not seem as obnoxiously long as it had when they had first met, the hair not quite so shocking. Harry often considered the freckles that littered his best friend's body to be stars, stars which had lost their light and sprinkled themselves on his skin, settling into words and constellations and the secrets of the universe, written onto his skin for all eternity.

Most of all, Harry loved that Ron was so familiar.

They fought. There was nothing perfect about their friendship. They argued, got on each others' nerves, and often wished that the other would just grow up, but Harry realized, with a smile, that there was no one he would like to be near to more than Ron Weasley.

Harry slid himself out of bed, and sat on the cool stone floor, looking at Ron fondly. He rested his back against his mattress, and came to think that if he reached out his hand, he could just about graze his fingers over the other boy's cheek. A warm blush crept to his cheeks as he appreciated that this was probably the furthest Ron ever was from him. Sighing, Harry moved forward onto his knees, and laid his hand on the warm freckled cheek, tracing patterns and shapes with his thumb by joining the freckles in his mind. He closed his eyes. Ron smelt of things he related to home. But…then again, home to him was wherever his friends were. Wherever Ron was.

Rocking back onto his heels and shuddering at the cold of the floor, Harry clambered quietly back into his bed, shivering from the cold. Seeing his latest jumper from Molly Weasley lying in between his and Ron's bed, he slipped it on, before belatedly realizing it was not his. His was not maroon, but a clear emerald green, as always. Looking around the room, in his open trunk, and under his bed, he turned to Ron, hearing him shift his position. He caught a glimpse of emerald green wool, and blushed deeply; Ron was wearing his jumper. That confirmed that he was definitely wearing Ron's.

Tucking the blankets around him, and wrapping his arms around his torso and taking off his glasses once more, Harry smiled again, inhaling the familiar smell of Ron, and truly appreciating the marginally bigger jumper's warmth. He yawned, slipping into a dreamless sleep facing Ron, a smile glued to his peaceful face.


Ronald Bilius Weasley enjoyed sleep a lot more than he used to. For every night, without fail, he found himself dreaming about a certain someone. A someone called Harry James Potter.

He opened his eyes lazily, rubbed them to rid them of the tiny sleep particles that clung to his red-gold eyelashes, and his clear blue eyes met the sight of Harry slowly closing his green grass ones, and falling into slumber. Ron smiled softly despite himself. Everyone believed that Harry was perfect, because they never took the time to appreciate his imperfections. Harry's imperfections were what made him Harry. What made him Ron's Harry.

Ron liked to think that Harry was his, even if it wasn't exactly true. Because, even if he wasn't his in a romantic sense, he was certainly his best friend. A best friend with hair the colour of darkest night, that stuck up in an explosion of silken locks, his fringe only managing to partially cover his notorious lightning bolt scar. A best friend with eyes the colour of dewy grass, refreshed by nighttime condensation, bright and alive. A best friend who was only ever a thought away.

A best friend who looked so good wrapped in what Ron believed to be his maroon, knitted jumper.

Looking down at himself, he realized he must have pulled on Harry's own emerald green one in a sleep-induced haze, before flopping onto his bed and covering himself, even though his own jumper lay on the floor between them. Harry must have woken up after a nightmare and picked it up to warm himself, after discovering his own was missing.

Ron Weasley, while not smart in the bookish sense, was smart enough to realize Harry no longer came to him after a nightmare to talk, and that Ron no longer had to wake Harry up from his terrors because he was waking everybody up. He must've found something else to help him get back to sleep, he mused, somewhat jealously. He had always liked that Harry trusted him to help with his nightmares.

Harry was thin and smaller than Ron, from malnutrition every summer at the Dursleys. He always grew more at school, looked healthier, but after returning to his hellhole of a home for eight long weeks, he always returned to Hogwarts looking tired, pinched, and pale. Ron supposed part of the paleness was natural; Harry's smooth, porcelain skin glowed with ethereal light, unlike Ron's, which was dusted with cinnamon. When Harry was angry, he gained pink spots on his cheeks, and when embarrassed, his whole face flushed a rosy shade of red. Ron flushed red to the tips of his ears for all extreme emotions; anger, happiness, embarrassment, all except sadness or worry. And yet Harry had all different colours for every emotion that he would show, and Ron had sworn that once he had seen Harry's cheeks tinged with palest rose; he had sworn it was because he was glancing at Ron.

Ron shivered, though not because of the cold. It couldn't have been for that reason. They could not happen. They, as in he and Harry together. Harry Potter could not love someone like Ron Weasley, Ron concluded.

And yet as he drifted off to sleep once more, Ron thought of how his cheeks buzzed faintly, as if they had collected static, and as if someone had absently trailed warm, comforting fingers along the freckles there.

He thought of how much he wished he could see Harry's face collect that pink once more, and wished he could know for sure it was because of him.

--Finis...Or Is It?--

Author's Note: So what do you think? Let me know, I'd love to hear what your thoughts are. I'm fairly proud of it, actually. Review!