In their thirties, Ron is a brick house of a man.
Wide shoulders. Strong arms. But he still wears long sleeves in the summer.
The scars from the Department of Mysteries never faded.
One runs from his neck to his chest like a spell gone wrong — twitching sometimes, like the magic’s still in there.
Harry sees them, always. He knows the scars.
He touches his own belly in the mirror and remembers Witch Weekly’s latest:
“Boy Savior or Belly Savior? Harry Potter, All Grown Up and Growing Out.”
A photo of him as a teen compared to now. A hero isnt allowed to age or change, it would seem.
He laughs until he cries.
————-
Harry invites Ron over for a dinner he cooks himself.
He doesn’t wear shapewear. He doesn’t glamor his face.
He sits across from Ron and says, “You’ve never looked better.”
Ron doesn’t believe him.
Not at first.
“But I left. During the war, I left.”
Not until Harry touches his face and says, “You were my hero, you know. You still are.”
It ends with Harry slowly unbuttoning Ron’s shirt and pressing a kiss to the biggest scar.
And Ron whispering: “Say that again.”
