Ron Weasley x Reader: Biggest Fan
A/N: Been a while, did this on a whim. I did not read it again or edit it. Wrote it mildly intoxicated. Also in the second person now. Here you go!
Warnings: I think there’s one (1) swear word
To your distain, the Weasley’s were all sports-heads, but no one was more invested in the game than Ron. One look at his bedroom – plastered with rain-wrinkled game posters, ticket stubs, and cheekily smiling Athletes strutting around their poster – would have anyone understanding that. He was always so loud about it at school too, shouting with a mouthful of breakfast about some maneuver that some player on some team pulled off. Seated diagonally across from him at the Gryffindor table, simply trying to coordinate with Ginny about who was doing which part of the project, you were receiving way more of an earful than you bargained for.
“Two hundred thirty-six to one fifty-four! It was a massacre – the Kenmare Kestrels were hiding their faces walking back to the locker rooms.” He said, enthusiastically.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Ginny asked, shaking her head. “Were you talking about putting the project together on Monday or Tuesday?”
You gave an exasperated sigh under your breath.
“I was actually thinking that we were going to start the project together and then split up to finish it,” You said. “Not that you could hear that over the Chudley Cannons game day updates.”
Hearing “Chudley Cannons” caught Ron’s attention and he scowled, taking a sip of warm coffee and glaring underneath his pale eyelashes.
“You don’t have to sit here, you know. God forbid I talk to my friends at breakfast about the game last Friday.” He said, too afraid to make eye contact with you while he said it.
You gave a small laugh at his brave timidness, remembering that while he had the tenacity of the rest of his brothers, he was much shyer and subdued. He could scowl, though, and by the way he was frowning at his sausage and eggs, you would have thought that the Chudley Cannons missed the winning catch at the end of the game. Or whatever.
You made eye contact with Ginny, who was biting her bottom lip in efforts to protect her barely older brother’s dignity, her brown eyes active with enthusiasm. You rolled your eyes and she scrunched her nose, fighting back laughs harder than ever.
“I’ll just catch you tomorrow, Ginny. We don’t have to spoil the weekend with Herbology projects anyway.” You said, making brief, shameful eye contact with Ron before walking away. It was so amusing to rile Ron up about sports, or throw a quick wise-crack at his favorite team. His brothers did it so often that you would have figured he was immune to it by now.
Monday morning always felt the heaviest. Barely dragging yourself out of bed before it was too late, you threw on the most comfortable uniform wear you had, and walked down to catch the last ten minutes of breakfast before Charms.
The Great Hall was much too loud, much too early. It was easy enough to spot Ginny’s long braid among the red-haired patch of Gryffindor students. She was belly-laughing at a story Fred was detailing about testing one of their newest products. George looked encouraged at his sister’s amusement, and bit the corner of his mouth, eyes glancing around the table to assess the enjoyment. As much fun as it looked, you knew that you had to allow the five-minute interruption, as the project was due at the end of the week, and you were already starting late as it was.
“Hey Ginny, good morning.” You said, throwing one leg over the table bench to sit perpendicular to Ginny, your back facing Seamus Finnegan.
“Hey what’s up?” Ginny said, still quenching her laughter. She had a serious moment. “Oh, that’s right – the project. Yes, we better start soon because my mum will lose her mind if she found out that I waited this late to start, but it seems a little cruel to assign a project at the end of midwinter break.”
“I’m free all tonight after 3:30. And my last class is a lab, which might wrap up early.” You reported.
“Sounds great to me.” Ginny said. “Just come on over to the Gryffindor Common Room whenever and we will start. If you can’t remember the password, just knock and I’ll get you.”
You bid her farewell in a hurry to make it across the castle in time to grab a comfortable seat. The day went in bursts – short in some segments like, lunch break and Transfiguration, and exceedingly long in others, like History of Magic and Flitwick’s lecture in Charms. Grabbing a caffeinated drink from the station outside of the kitchen, you made your way to the Gryffindor Common Room, hoping that this project was simpler than you thought. Spotting the Fat Lady, you gave a brief wave, and after listening to her latest gossip on the East Tower portraits, she let you through to a room licked warm by fire with candle smog wafting out the open windows. Several heads turned as you walked in, others just looked up. You gave a similar wave to Ginny.
Making your way across the room, you made eye contact with Ron on the couch, whose face turned from excitement to disappointment as he recognized your distinct eyes. He pouted like a child.
“Oh great, perfect timing.” He said. “Don’t you know that it’s the semi-finals tonight?”
“The semi-finals?” You asked, turning around.
“Yeah, only the Thirteen League semi-finals, which I have had marked on my calendar since the announcement eight months ago.” He replied, clearly peeved. “So don’t expect me to be quiet or anything. This is something that I have looked forward to for a long time.”
You nodded, tempted to smile at his endearing devotion to his team. He was wearing a misshapen orange jersey, with baggy, drooping sleeves, and the hint of his Gryffindor polo peeking around the collar. The jersey looked ancient, or at least vintage, and you were sure that he was proud to have “grown” into it.
“No worries.” You said, putting your hands up. “I was mostly joking the other day. Just in a bad mood because this project is stressing me out. You can have your game as loud as you want.”
“Thank You.” Ron said, indignantly, head quirked to the side. Hermione smirked and rolled her eyes.
The project was not simpler than you thought, or at least, your half wasn’t. Researching the chemical compounds of ancient root and tuber vegetables under optimal growth conditions was already a stretch when it came to your idea of a good time, but the tiny, handwritten scrawl in all of the old textbooks you gleaned your information from was so spindly that your tired eyes had trouble differentiating sentences. Looking up, you saw that the Common Room was empty. You knew Ginny went to bed an hour or so ago when she said she would skip her last class for study time in the library, though you hadn’t realized that everyone else thought similarly.
Sighing, you closed your book. Trying to muster the energy to pull yourself towards your dormitory, you noticed the rumpled back of an orange jersey still on the couch. You stared at the back of his head for a while, maybe too long, because as your gaze drifted to the reflection in the fireplace mantle, you instantly locked eyes with the only other person in the room. Making eye contact in a reflection was always weird, Ron thought, but getting caught staring was always worse. He cleared his throat too quickly.
“So, you’re finished then?” He said, trying to foster a swift transition into conversation.
“I guess,” You said, getting up and grabbing your textbook. “Finished for the night at least. Did your team win?”
“Game isn’t over yet.” He said, motioning towards the tiny muggle television that Arthur had set him up with. You could see that the scores were close to each other, which you figured meant the game was just getting good. “We are in the last quarter, though.”
“Oh.” You said, forcing a smile and nodding. He turned back to the screen. You were caught by the half-smile he gave you before turning, thinking about how weirdly tense it made you feel, when he turned back around to find you staring. Another half-smile. He had the cutest dimples.
“If you want to, you’re welcome to watch the end with me. Everybody else wimped out and went to sleep.” He said, chuckling to himself about catching you right back.
“I don’t know much about Quidditch.” You said, shrugging shamefully.
“No, no-“ Ron cut you off, reassuringly. “I’ll teach you.”
Ending the night you found yourself enveloped in the game more than you thought you would. Ron, eagerly explaining all of the rules and strategies to you, and you realized that he was an excellent teacher. Patient with your questions, but informative, building off of concepts you already understood. Towards the last five minutes of the game, you found yourself with a toothy smile, eyes crinkled in enjoyment as you looked between Ron and the game, watching him to see if he saw that last play.
“That was a damn good catch.” You admitted, chuckling.
“Randolph Keitch is a wicked Keeper,” Ron agreed, nodding and smiling. He was looking at you from a sideways glance, but you could tell he had grown closer in proximity than at the beginning of the match. “He always gives a great performance on the pitch.”
With seconds to the end of the game, you found your stomach in knots. How could a bunch of idiots throwing a ball around on broomstick make you feel this invested? With every encyclopedically informed talk Ron gave, you felt yourself leaning in physically and emotionally. To the game, the night… and the game.
But the quaffle was in motion. With a Wing Play third degree rotation, classic Cannons strategy as Ron had explained to you moments ago, the quaffle was soaring through the air until barely swiping through the left-most hoop. The Cannons won the game!
Ron, indifferent to waking his fellow Gryffindors, shouted with delight and impulsively scooped you up in a celebratory squeeze, chuckling deeply into your ear. You were surprised by the motion but not disappointed by it, and you could feel the warmth of his jersey, hoping that his smell stayed in your memory when you were back in your dorm. As he released, he stared you deeply in the eyes, flushing slightly.
“I’m sorry for being cross with you at breakfast.” He said, breathlessly.
“Oh, it’s okay, I was the one that snapped at you.” You replied, shrugging.
“Well,” Ron said, closing his mouth and casting his gaze downwards.
“Well.” You thought to yourself, breathing in quickly.
“I uh-“ He paused for an arrogantly long time between his sentence, you thought. “I actually taped a lot of the old games on this machine my dad taught me how to use.”
Not that you’d recognize, but it was a typical VHS recorder.
“Oh nice.” You said, softly.
“Well, if you ever wanted to come by again and watch some of the old games,” He said, eyes bright with hope. “I really like rewatching them, so…”
“So…” You said, mimicking his annoying pause. “Game day marathon this Saturday?”
He laughed with relief, a bit too boisterously for the still air. He flushed again, with embarrassment.
“Game day marathon this Saturday.” He said, laughing.
You turned to leave the Common Room, the tiniest smile on your lips lest you let anyone find out you have feelings for what happened today, until your vision went black and you were enveloped in the smell that you had committed to memory. Putting fabric off your head, you pulled the object away from yourself to inspect it. The familiar outrageous orange, with a large “77” in white lettering on the back. You turned to see Ron, looking quite fit in a black undershirt.
“Don’t forget your jersey.” He said, smirking.
