#trans!ron

[rabisacos]

Pls draw Ron yelling 'Trans Rights!'

HELL YES

Sorry it took so long 

[pamayapaya]

Trans!ronlunarry is god tier ronlunarry

[korpi-kaati]

Ok, but consider Trans!Ron!!!

Pregnant!Molly being assigned a girl after 5 boys

Baby!Ron grows up, always playing with their brothers’ toys

Ron constantly wearing their brothers’ clothes, not caring about all those dresses Molly would buy them (she just tries her best to make her kids happy; she simpy doesnt want her (not yet-)son to grow up in old clothes form Charlie or Bill)

Molly seeing Ginny grow up, realizing Ron ain’t no girl

Ron finally coming out as trans

All Weasleys being totally supportive, using correct pronouns and stuff

Ron on the train to Hogwarts (first year), worrying if he’ll pass, when Hermione and Harry make friends with him and just don’t give a shit about his gender

Harry and Ron get kicked out of the girl’s dorm, Ron is internally screaming and happy af

Madame Pomfrey giving him special portions and stuff for his periods (because Ron is not the only one and Hogwarts is LGBTQIA-friendly)

just imagine Trans!Ron 

thanks

you’re welcome

[mouseymightymarvellous]

Tell me about trans boy Ron! I can't get it out of my head listen Mrs Weasley has cried many times because she wanted a daughter, when Ron was born, when he came out, when Ginny was born And it was great to have so many brothers because in a crowd who could pick out the Ron? And later on the comfort becomes an unsteadiness because in a crowd who could pick out Ron? And holy fuck Fred and George get shouted at for the pranks they pull when it involves Ron and frilly pink things until they Get It

Ron’s hair has been newly shorn for three weeks and every time mum sticks her head up the stairs to yell “Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred&George–” she stumbles for a breath on a different syllable than the way “Ron” runs headfirst into the sharp, static vibration of her tongue pressed to the back of her teeth.

Ron doesn’t quite know how to feel about the fact that all his clothes are hand-me-downs, now. It’s warmth and it’s resentment and it’s too much that he’s never had words for: a patched shirt from Bill via Percy and a pair of trousers that have been swapped interchangeably between George and Fred ever since they were no longer Charlie’s.

It was Bill who cut Ron’s hair for him at the kitchen sink, saying, “Finally, I’ll be the Weasley son with the longest hair,” with a grin and a wink. He’d happily split Ron’s now obsolete hair ribbon collection with Ginny, bickering loudly over whose complexion would be most flattered by the gradients of purples and greens and pinks.

Percy is being overly cautious and Charlie had processed Ron’s declaration with a comfortable shrug and the twins have been not-whispering in that way of theirs that means they’re planning something and Ginny–

Ron doesn’t know yet what it is to be alone. He is three years out still from sitting down and introducing himself, with the kind of off-handed casualness that will take him years and years to wear comfortably, to Harry Potter. Harry and Hermione both, in their own sharp way, will reflect Ron’s loneliness back to him, but he’s never been alone the way they will have been alone. Because Ron is the second youngest of seven, full up to bursting in their little shabby home. And because Ron has been Ginny’s the way Ginny has been Ron’s, two years between them and shared skirts and the kind of hair-pulling desperate angry love that is maybe exclusive to sisters.

But Ron has never been Ginny’s sister.

He wonders to himself, eight years old with his chin set against the world, if it’s as lonely to be the only daughter as it is to be the youngest of six sons.

He would ask Ginny, maybe, if he had the words and if she was talking with him.

At the front counter where mum is paying for flour and other sundries, the clerk makes a sly remark as Percy tries to wrangle George and Fred away from where they’re poking Ginny into slightly hysterical giggles, about “what a big family for you to take care of”.

Ron doesn’t know what to call the edge there, but he knows how to hear it, and he knows how to recognize the way mum goes cold and sharp where he’s pressed into her side.

“Oh, you know,” mum says with the kind of airy breeze that Ron knows to cower from, “I so desperately wanted a girl. Mothers, you know?”

It’s warmth and it’s resentment and it’s too much that he’ll never quite have enough words for.

(Seventeen years old and his brother dead and the war won and mum brushes his too long hair out of his face.

“My son,” she breathes, “my youngest boy. Oh, I have never not been proud of you.”)