A Slice of Destiny
By Kay
A/N: Told you I'd upload another super-short, pointless one. This is just because my guilty conscious is screaming at me for not working on anything lately, so feel free to ignore them. ^^;; Will work hard! I promise! Just... doing a rather long HP fic and trying to finish "The Meaning of a Faith" part two, you know...
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He likes to call it fate.
Rather, as Harry likes to tell him with one of those faint and amused smiles, he likes to blame fate. That always prompts him to protest-- it makes him sound inhumanly disgusted at the way things had turned out, when he isn't at all. In fact, he honestly thinks that he'd love to thank whatever had a hand in playing out his life, because he can say with complete sincerity that he's never, ever been happier in his entire existence.
It's the truth, and enough to make Harry Potter blush.
This in itself is a strange thing, and he finds himself making excuses for it every time it happens. It can't be because of him, of course. Ron is hardly someone to blush over, and even if he was, hardly someone Harry should be turning bright red over. He's just… Ron, that's all. And the flush that spreads over that face, clashing with the brilliantly green eyes as it bleeds into that raven black hair, likes to say he's something much more than that. When he isn't. Not really.
Nothing like Harry, at least.
Because for Ron, it's impossible to measure up to someone like Harry. There's no one else on the planet who is like him. No one else laughs and shakes their head in the exact same way, at the same time, as though they can't believe something was that funny. No one else always picks ink from under their fingernails, frowning absently every time Hermione tries to bat his hands away from each other. No one else smiles the way he does; no one else flies, or speaks, or walks identically. (Because Harry flies beautifully, he speaks almost haltingly if he thinks he's wrong, his stride is longer than Ron's, though it never gets quite as far.) These are all pieces of a person unlike any other.
No, Ron believes nothing is as wonderful as Harry Potter.
"I happen to think you're awfully wonderful yourself," Harry likes to tell him, his emerald eyes gentle. Ron will never admit it, but whenever Harry says this to him, he blushes all the way from his ears to the bottoms of his shoulder blades, and would go on longer, if his blood got to his toes faster.
No one's ever said something like that to Ron.
"Absolutely perfect," Harry likes to whisper, running a finger done the slope of his nose, over the freckles and the blemishes. "Never doubt it."
So he doesn't.
The truth is, Ron always doubts himself. Even now, he wonders why Harry Potter chose him, of all people, to love. But the doubts fall away like the blinds to a sunrise, gentle and surprisingly easy to discard, whenever that smile turns to him. Because no matter what happens, he understands in his heart that this look belongs to him alone, for the rest of time and into the deep parts of the world.
They were meant to be together.
And though Ron's never believed in destiny, having disillusioned himself from the Divination lessons and months of living with brothers who teased him about such thoughts, there's no doubt about that. Harry and him belonged with each other. If they were pieces of a grand puzzle, they'd be side-by-side, a perfect fit amongst the discarded bits in the box. For every bleacher, there was a seat where they'd sit together to cheer on the game. For every class, there were desks that were near enough to give each other small grins. For every house, there would be a place big enough for them to crawl into and sleep together, twined at the legs and arms holding on tight, whether it be a bed or couch or cupboard, as long as they awoke to each other's breath.
So Ron says, "It's like fate."
"It was a bit of fate, and a lot of me rolling my eyes," Hermione likes to say. She sniffs indignantly as she does so, tossing her hair behind her shoulders. It's said at least every time Harry looks into his eyes, or reaches to touch his face. Ron thinks that Hermione may be jealous, but pleased all the same. She's like that an awfully lot of the time.
But whatever it is, whether fate or Hermione or that step in the Hogwarts staircases that makes him trip every single time, Ron knows it doesn't matter. Things have just always been destined this way.
It was written in the stars, in the words, in the seas. Those with the Third Sight would always see the invisible string connecting them.
For while he was Harry's most important thing…
Harry Potter was his future.
That was always how it was meant to be, and even if he had the gift, Ron wouldn't change it for the world.
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Told ya. Will upload something else soon.
