"Did you hear he's- whatchamacallit- ace? Asexual?"
"What, like a plant?"
"I guess so, mate, I ain't askin' the bloody golden boy how he- y'know..."
"I thought he was bi?"
"Hey, are you talking about Harry Potter?" Ron Weasley asked, stopping in front of the loveseat the sixth years were sitting on. The trio of students paused in their gossip, before nodding dismissively.
"I see," Ron said. Then he drew back his freckled fist and smashed it into the biggest one's nose. "Please don't do that."
"Ron, you really don't have to get into fights for me," Harry said, in a way that would be called exasperated were there not a note of hopeful desperation detected in there.
"'Mione and I have to," Ron said, nursing his bloody nose. He had refused to go to the healer like the other three kids in the fight. "Otherwise it's just you by yourself, and that's no bloody good."
Harry dabbed a soft handkerchief against his friend's swollen eye and tsked with worry. "That's the way it's supposed to be," Harry said.
"Fuck the way it's supposed to be," Ron snorted. He spat some blood into the toilet bowl next to him and beckoned for Harry to help him up. The smaller boy had to use both hands to grab him, and Ron still did most of the work, but it was the principle of camaraderie. Ron didn't let go of one of Harry's hands, but instead studied Harry's slender wrist and his beautiful brown skin. "These hands belong to someone who draws and creates," he said, then looked into Harry's eyes. "Not someone born to die."