#; thread one

[rbwtheking]

A brisk October wind drifted over the countryside, blowing Ron’s ginger locks every which way. He ran a freckled hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at taming it, but in the end he let it do as it pleased, squinting into the distance instead. There was an old broom balancing against his shoulder, its wiry bristles resting in the heather underfoot; he knew it didn’t have prayer of outpacing Harry’s Firebolt, but that didn’t matter. The game wouldn’t be that competitive anyway - not with just the two of them - and the thought drew Ron’s gaze closer to the house, to the spot he, Ginny, his brothers, and even Harry and Hermione used to fly as kids. The headstone wasn’t visible from his vantage point, and that was just as well; they would fly farther out now, and he doubted Harry would ask questions.

A sharp ‘pop!’ pierced through Ron’s thoughts and the hiss of the wind through the grass. He turned around to face his bespectacled friend, grinning.

“Ready to lose, Potter?”

@exhorcrux

[rbwtheking]

The Auror Department had a reputation for being busy - especially of late - but this particular day was downright chaotic from the start. Ron arrived early that morning to find most of the department already gone, responding to reports of rogue werewolves to the north. There were mounds of paperwork to sort through (his least-favorite part of the job, unsurprisingly), and a secretary hurried in around lunchtime to inform him that he was in charge of leading the monthly check-in that day. Now, Ron was getting better at the more authoritative parts of being an Auror, but he choked on his sandwich when he learned he had less than an hour to prepare. After the secretary offered him a glass of water (he declined, still coughing), she passed the subject's file over the desk. 

Ron was glad he hadn't taken another bite. 

For fuck's sake.

He hadn't spent more than two seconds in a room with Draco Malfoy since the battle, and even that was two seconds too many. Sure, he knew the story about Narcissa lying to Voldemort and essentially saving Harry's life, but Draco? What had he done to warrant such a lack of punishment? 

Ron sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The tips of his ears were burning but he forced his face into an expression of cold neutrality, glancing up as the door to the interview room swung open.

@mavvaisefoi

[rbwtheking]

The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty. There were a couple of wizards chatting at a table and a man asleep with his head on the bar, but Ron had to admit he'd expected more traffic on a Wednesday night. He wasn't complaining, though; the last thing he needed was more eyes upon him, something he still hadn't quite gotten used to in the war's aftermath. 

He hurried over to the bar, catching a glimpse of himself in a cracked mirror behind it. His ginger hair was tousled and his eyes were bleary, and there were a few lines still etched into his left cheek from his pillowcase. He was rubbing his face when Tom the barkeep finally arrived in front of him, traveling on ancient legs, but even through his fingers Ron caught the sparkle in the old man's eye.

"You're late, Weasley," said Tom, to which Ron smirked.

"I was pulling one of those," he grumbled, nodding to the snoring wizard several chairs away. "Firewhisky, Tom. Thanks."

For such an old man, Tom was surprisingly quick when it came to pouring liquor. Three fingers of firewhisky were passed across the bar in no time, and Ron gave an appreciative nod before turning away, glass in hand. He blinked, rubbing his eyes again. The Cauldron was never well-lit, but he and Seamus were creatures of habit; his friend was seated at their usual table in the corner, and Ron tried and failed to stifle a yawn as he approached.

"Oi. How's the ghosts?"

@seamxs

[rbwtheking]

The blaze orange stripes he’d painted across his cheekbones were smeared. Ginny made him swear he wouldn’t dress like a Cannons fan, but alas - he was a Cannons fan and she wasn’t the boss of him. The smudged and thinning paint was partially due to the torrential rains that battered the pitch and spectators alike; but, Ron's exasperation might have also had something to do with it, considering the number of times he'd covered his face in shame.

But, all told, he was proud of the Harpies. It was hard to be cross about the Cannons losing when his sister was the one who beat them, and he let the urge to curse slide by when the match was over, replacing it instead with a grin. Ginny and the rest of the girls had earned their win, and, as a Cannons fan, Ron was all too used to defeat. Still, he couldn't say he was looking forward to the ribbing he was in for at the after-party, and the idea of purchasing Harpies robes felt like a sick betrayal. He had to hold up his end of the deal though, so it was with a heavy heart and his tail between his legs that he apparated in front of The Tipsy Troll, a wizarding pub the Harpies had rented out for the evening.

It was clear upon entry that the barkeep wasn't enthusiastic - this wasn't Harpies country, after all - but as a girl with sense she wasn't a Cannons fan either. This was evident by the way she looked Ron over in his orange regalia, stifling the urge to roll her eyes. 

"You know the Harpies rented us out for the night," she warned, glancing warily at the team chatting near the center of the pub. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. My sister's on the team," Ron replied. He leaned on the bar, using his high vantage point to try to spot Ginny in the throng. "If she wasn't I'd've been torn to shreds by now." Then, lower: "Still might be."

@0nlydaughter