"that makes me sound a lot cooler than i was."

BASICS

FULL NAME: Ronald Bilius Weasley

NICKNAME: Ron

BIRTHDAY: 1 March, 1980

GENDER (PRONOUNS): Cismale (he/him)

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: English, very crude and limited French

ACCENT:

BIRTHPLACE: Devon, England

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN(S): Pisces

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

FORMER HOGWARTS HOUSE: Gryffindor

HIGHEST LEVEL OF EDUCATION: Sixth year at Hogwarts, nearly finished with Auror training

OCCUPATION: Auror trainee

HOME ADDRESS: The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England

PET(S): Pigwidgeon "Pig" the owl

FACECLAIM AND/OR DESCRIPTION: George Mackay is who I'll use as an avatar, but no one quite fits the version of Ron in my head. I'm sure there's some obscure model FC out there who would be perfect, but the fact is I just don't care enough to find them. Quick and dirty description then is: very tall, bright red hair, lots and lots of freckles all over his body, a long, straight nose, blue eyes, and an earnest face.

VISUAL REPRESENTATION: If needed I'll use George Mackay, but I don't love using resources. 

PLOTS

List or link any plots you are currently after!

RELATIONSHIPS

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bi-curious, though not realized

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP(S): None at the moment

PARENTS: Molly and Arthur Weasley

SIBLINGS: Ginny Weasley, George Weasley, Fred Weasley (deceased), Percy Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Bill Weasley

MAGIC

PATRONUS: Jack Russell terrier

BOGGART: A massive spider crouched over the corpses of his family and friends (some things change when you've lived through a war and some things don't)

WAND TYPE: Willow, fourteen inches with a unicorn tail-hair core (recovered from Malfoy Manor in the summer of 1998)

FLYING ABILITY: Advanced, though not Expert

APPARITION SKILL: Moderate to High 

MAGICAL STRENGTHS: Defensive magic, household charms 

MAGICAL WEAKNESSES: Wandless magic, potion-brewing

BEST HOGWARTS CLASS: Charms (but if asked, he'll lie and say Defense Against the Dark Arts)

WORST HOGWARTS CLASS: Potions

OTHER ABILITIES: Strategy, mimicry, improvisation/adaptation

PHYSICAL

HAIR COLOUR/STYLE: Bright red, tends to be a bit shaggy more often than not

EYE COLOUR: Blue

COMPLEXION: Fair but extremely freckly

ETHNICITY: Caucasian 

HEIGHT: 6'6"

PHYSIQUE: Still lanky, but Auror training is filling him out

TATTOOS: None

PIERCINGS: None

SCARS: Pale white tendril scars that run from his shoulders to his wrists on both arms (from the brains in the Department of Mysteries), a nasty pink scar on his left shoulder from splinching

CLOTHING/STYLE: Having grown up quite poor, Ron didn’t know what to do with the hefty (for him) sum of money being an Auror trainee yielded. He’d never forgotten what it was like to wear poorly-fitted hand-me-downs, so it was unsurprising when he invested in as fine a wardrobe as any he’d had before. It’s not pretentious or gawdy, but he likes to look sharp and he’s now in a financial position to do so. 

MANNERISMS:

HABITS:

COPING MECHANISMS: Throwing himself into Auror training with so much ferocity that he crashes when it’s over - if he’s not conscious, he can’t dwell on everything the war took from him. Throw in a little liquor and a little not-unkind avoidance of his family members and you’ve got Ron post-war. 

PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Loyal, generous, friendly

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Insecure, reactive/hot-tempered, stubborn

HOBBIES: Wizards' chess, Exploding Snap, sleeping, pick-up quidditch, hanging with the boys

INTERESTS:

DRINK ORDER: Firewhisky, or beer or regular whiskey in muggle company

GRADUATION SUPERLATIVE: Mostly Likely to...Who is this again?

CONFIDENCES: Flying, chess 

INSECURITIES: Everything? It’s a long list.

MBTI TYPE: ESFP-T

ENNEAGRAM:

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral good

TEMPERAMENT:

DEADLY SIN:

THIS OR THAT

INTROVERT OR EXTROVERT

OPTIMIST OR PESSIMIST

LEADER OR FOLLOWER

CONFIDENT OR SELF-CONSCIOUS

CAUTIOUS OR CARELESS

PASSIONATE OR APATHETIC

BOOK SMARTS OR STREET SMARTS

COMPLIMENTS OR INSULTS

COLD HANDS OR WARM HEART

ASSOCIATIONS

COLOURS: Red, maroon, orange

WORDS: Curse words

SCENT: Baking bread, an open fire 

TASTE: Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor Beans

SOUND: Tea kettle, twittering birds, crackling fire

MAGIC: Family

WEATHER: Sunshine

FEELINGS: Confused 

MEMORIES: Love

TOUCH: Tight hug

HEADCANONS

In the months following the war, Ron felt a fierce duty to his family. He'd been absent for most of the previous year, after all, and his guilt now kept him in close proximity. He spent most of his time helping George at the joke shop, or just helping George in general, but it often felt like he was single-handedly trying to hold together the pieces of a broken world. He slogged through the summer, hanging in limbo between that self-imposed duty to his family and an overwhelming desire to distance himself from it all. Even after taking up Kingsley on his offer to join the ranks of the Aurors, guilt gnawed at his conscience. There is a constant tug of war inside him, a tension that even the toughest training exercise can't cut; he wants so desperately to help his family, to be there for them, but he hasn't forgotten those draining months after the final battle either. He still technically lives at the Burrow, but the time he spends there conscious or coherent is sparse at best.

Sleep was difficult to come by; June of 1998 came and went and Ron doubted he'd once gotten a good night's sleep. He tried a sleeping draught, following in the footsteps of both George and his mother in that regard, but something about it didn't sit right with him. He slept under the influence of the potion, yes, but he didn't dream. It was nice to block out the nightmares that so often kept him awake, but the good dreams were absent as well and he missed them. An easier solution came in the form of drinking. He split his time that summer between George's flat and the joke shop, his own attic bedroom at the Burrow, and every wizarding pub from Ottery St. Catchpole to London Proper. When he couldn't get out, he found solace in the bottle of Ogden's Olde under his bed. It was a problem, but it never became a problem; Auror training began in the fall, and that provided him with a much healthier way of coping. It turns out that pushing your body and mind to the limit on a daily basis makes it surprisingly easy to fall asleep - and by "fall asleep" I mean "pass out on the nearest horizontal surface." He does enjoy drinking, though, and he has a tendency to overdo it at times - addictive personality and all that. And hanging around with Seamus and Harry, well…They've always talked each other into the worst sorts of trouble, and that hasn't changed.

It was late summer when Kingsley approached him about joining the Aurors. Ron was flattered and taken aback, but he was also embarrassed at how quickly he accepted. He didn't think he could stand hovering in post-war limbo much longer, and training was the perfect outlet. He finally felt important, like an asset to society; if there was anything he wanted, it was to do something to ensure that a war would never happen again, and it didn't get more concrete than hunting down dark wizards. He threw himself into training with more gusto than he'd ever shown for schoolwork, and the closer he gets to becoming a proper Auror (just two short months), the harder he tries. He has always had lofty aspirations (the Mirror of Erised showed us that), and they're finally coming to fruition.

“I’ve gathered. Why not?” In the months since these check-ins had been added to Draco’s calendar, Wiggleswade hadn’t missed a single one. His Ministry Minder was fastidious, meticulous, and everything Weasley could never be. He certainly couldn’t be trained in this. Didn’t Auror training take three years? And they both had to know the man sitting across from him held no possibility of passing, if not for the luck of being considered a War Hero before the age of twenty.

“The sky isn’t blue. It only appears blue.” Draco’s flat drone was back, hardly an inflection present as the words passed through lazy lips. “You’re referring to the Rayleigh Scattering. Named after Lord Rayleigh. The man who discovered argon? It was covered in the first month– Oh but you didn’t take Alchemy, did you Weasley?” He sighed, leaning back in his chair though his posture didn’t laxen. “I would think your girlfriend would have told you that. She certainly enjoys passing out useless information whenever she can.”

A lazy shrug was all Ron offered. He knew that most of the Aurors were dealing with the werewolf situation, but he didn't know if Wiggleswade was included. If the werewolves in question were like Malfoy - on the wrong side of the war - then it was possible, but Ron wasn't feeling particularly generous. He wasn't going to give Draco anything more than he needed, a swift kick in the pants included (sadly). His long fingers fiddled impatiently with the quill, still hovering over a blank roll of parchment. What Malfoy was droning on about wasn’t as infuriating as the way he was doing it; doubtless, that was his intention, but this fact didn't stop Ron's eye-roll. It was automatic, instinctual, and so too was his scowl when Malfoy brought up Hermione. 

'She's not my girlfriend.' The words formed in his mind and banged on the inside of his lips, now drawn tightly together. But he held them back, staring daggers at the former Slytherin before him in silence.

No. Malfoy did not get to know about his personal life. For one thing, it wasn't any of his business; for another, admitting rejection to the likes of Draco Malfoy wasn't a road he felt like traveling today. 

"No, you're the first to give me that bit of useless information. Congratulations. Alchemy did a lot for you though, I take it? Considering how great you're doing?"

It wasn't a question he wanted answered - that much was made clear by the bored tone he adopted, one not unlike Malfoy's. He looked down at the list of questions again.

Harry and Ron had waded into emotional territory a handful of times in their friendship. Mostly, it had been after a row, and they’d needed to clear the air. Of course, they’d always had Hermione in the background to chivvy them along or to make pointed suggestions while pretending she was having nothing to do with it. The point was: Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate this vulnerable version of Ron. He understood every other facet of Ron’s personality - his brashness, his anger, his brilliant humour - but feelings were something they had tacitly agreed, long ago, to rarely deal with. There wasn’t any need, not when, again, they had Hermione around to remind them they were being thick.

“Well, I mean, have you talked to her?” If the advice sounded awkward, it was because it was – when had Harry ever opted for talking when ‘ignore it until a life-or-death situation arises, in which a newfound sense of solidarity will erase any previous misunderstandings’ was his best move? Forging ahead, Harry said: “You know Hermione. She’ll say she wants space but really she wants you to go after her.”

Ron looked up then, squinting at Harry in the afternoon sun. It was pretty rich of him to suggest talking and reaching out, two things they both knew Harry was shit at, but Ron couldn't be annoyed. He was right, after all. Shaking his head in response, he looked away again. "No, not really." An admission. His tone, though, betrayed his uncertainty. "But when someone tells me to bugger off I don't usually keep on them."

That wasn't strictly true. If Harry told him to fuck off, he knew as well as anyone that he wouldn't listen. But it was different with Hermione - it always was - and the delicate subject they'd parted ways over made it even more muddy. Ron sighed again, swinging a leg back over his broom to straddle it. 

"I don't even care if she doesn't...you know, feel that way, I just…"

But, all told, he was proud of the Harpies. It was hard to be cross about the Cannons losing when his sister was the one who beat them, and he let the urge to curse slide by when the match was over, replacing it instead with a grin. Ginny and the rest of the girls had earned their win, and, as a Cannons fan, Ron was all too used to defeat. Still, he couldn't say he was looking forward to the ribbing he was in for at the after-party, and the idea of purchasing Harpies robes felt like a sick betrayal. He had to hold up his end of the deal though, so it was with a heavy heart and his tail between his legs that he apparated in front of The Tipsy Troll, a wizarding pub the Harpies had rented out for the evening.

It was clear upon entry that the barkeep wasn't enthusiastic - this wasn't Harpies country, after all - but as a girl with sense she wasn't a Cannons fan either. This was evident by the way she looked Ron over in his orange regalia, stifling the urge to roll her eyes. 

"You know the Harpies rented us out for the night," she warned, glancing warily at the team chatting near the center of the pub. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. My sister's on the team," Ron replied. He leaned on the bar, using his high vantage point to try to spot Ginny in the throng. "If she wasn't I'd've been torn to shreds by now." Then, lower: "Still might be."

The less time they spent talking calmly, the more Hermione could feel the tension from her shoulders begin to ease. It wasn’t like how they were before but it felt easier to breathe around him and that had been her own fault. A sense of relief rushed over her as she realised that he wasn’t going to ask about her mentioning the new Hermione; she wasn’t sure she would be ready for that conversation anytime soon. 

“ You do have a point there. But the Ministry isn’t Hogwarts. I can’t push my way up the top with blunt words and my logic, “ That was one of the things that the witch was still having trouble realising; they were all in the real world now. Hogwarts had been a safe haven, one where she could be pushy and headstrong. The real world was an unknown variable. “ We both know that I have issues fitting in in new situations. I remember you and Harry not liking me too much at the start, “

"Sure you can. That's politics, isn't it? People barge their way to the top all the time."

Ron gathered that wasn't what Hermione wanted to hear, but he couldn't help himself. The words coming out of her mouth seemed to be someone else's, and for one mad second he thought about drawing his wand and questioning her; the fear of being tricked in that way hadn't quite left him, and Auror training certainly didn't help. But his wand stayed in his pocket and he kept his arms crossed, studying her, bemused. 

The Leaky Cauldron warranted a certain amount of good behaviour.

It was a hub of London’s wizarding society, a reliable spot for people watching or unambitious pub grub or, as it may be, meeting old school friends who had built up something of a routine. Seamus appreciated that about Ron — he knew precisely what he liked.

“Haunting,” he replied around a loud, jaw-cracking yawn spurred on by Ron’s own as he rolled himself up into a mostly seated position from an ungainly sprawl in the booth seats hugging the wall and curled his fingers around his dewy pint glass, elbows thunking heavily atop the sticky table. Ron was starting early on the spirits today. Seamus had discovered early on in his latest transfer that there really was such a thing as too many spirits in your day. “It’s rough as a bear’s arse down there without Penny around, Roger’s out on inspections and I spent all morning talking bylaws with an estate agent who wants to evict the resident ghost for disrupting the peace.” Seamus had met the ghost in question. He could understand the impulse.

A long sip from his glass designed to wash the taste of bylaws from his mouth followed before Seamus sank heavily back into the booth. Covering the office while Roger was out and about making house calls felt even more profoundly unfair with a couple of pints to ruminate over. He glanced up, noting the sheer exhaustion that had come home to rest on Ron’s face and asked, “It can’t be that bad, is it?”

"Oops."

A bit of amber liquid sloshed out of his glass when Ron all but collapsed into the booth opposite Seamus. He used the sleeve of his sweater to mop it up, too arsed to bother with his wand (or even a napkin); raising the damp sleeve to his nose he gave it a sniff before rolling both of them up, grinning at Seamus' remark as he did so. 

He didn't have much experience with ghosts or spirits, unless the ones at Hogwarts counted (and he guessed they didn't). Just why Seamus had gotten into that kind of work wasn't something he recalled - and maybe he'd never asked - but he was happy to be a sounding board for his frustrations all the same. "Well, dunno if I'd like ghosts floating around my place either," he offered, sipping his firewhiskey and resting both freckled elbows on the tabletop. "I've already got a ghoul and loads of garden gnomes - I think I've reached my quota."

The liquid in his glass smelled and tasted like an open fire, burning all the way down his throat. It was an acquired taste, but even as a seasoned professional he hissed through his teeth after a particularly large gulp, blinking the water out of his already bloodshot eyes.

Ron’s abrupt silence felt as bad as if he’d shouted. Harry would have preferred that - at least he understood anger. But Ron was so rarely completely quiet that it was fundamentally unnerving, and it made Harry feel as if he’d made yet another mistake in so many days.

Harry kept his eyes on Ron but picked at the stitching on the old, well-worn Quaffle. When Ron finally looked up, his ears pink, Harry held his gaze for only a moment before dropping it to study the toes of his trainers. After a beat, he looked back up and pressed his lips together.

“I dunno, mate,” he replied, tossing the Quaffle once and lowering his Firebolt so he could straddle it. The broom rose a meter or so, leaving Harry’s legs to dangle, feet skimming the spongy grass. “We really didn’t get that far. I gathered she wanted to – try her options.” 

Frowning in consternation, Harry added, “Ron, I think she’s just confused. The War fucked us all up. Maybe she just wants…” Ron’s expression made him falter. “Um, time…” He trailed off. 

Ron didn’t know which answer would make him feel worse - yes, she was "shopping around," or no, she wasn't and would rather disappear than speak to him - but Harry tiptoed carefully around both of them. Ron sat silently on his broom, giving a particularly tall tuft of grass a small, absentminded kick. He was reminded of kneeling in the snow in the Forest of Dean, heart raw and laid bare without his consent; this felt eerily similar, but at least he didn't have to contend with any horcruxes this time around. 

Harry was trying to be mindful, trying not to widen a gap that he had only just learned was much larger than he thought. Ron sensed it, understood it, but at the same time he wondered if he was holding back. It was hard to believe Hermione would have let their conversation go there, but if it had, would Harry tell him? Did he want Harry to tell him? 

A sigh slid out from between his lips and he straightened, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Weasley gracing the seat across from Draco’s designated destination was unacceptable. Twenty minutes later, sitting in his designated destination and blankly staring at the tall ginger across from him, it was wildly shaping up to be an intolerable kind of day. The secretary of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had told Draco that school aged rivalries were in no shape, way, or form a conflict of interest. He’d venture the moment an annoyance spent any amount of time captive in your cellars they were no longer considered a rival from your Hogwarts days.

“Where’s Wiggleswade?” Draco asked after the silence that had permeated every nook, corner, and cranny of the room following his slamming of the door at the mere sight of Weasley had become too much. He didn’t enjoy occluding these days, finding the practice of cutting himself off from all emotion tended to just make things worse but he couldn’t foresee getting through this interaction without removing all his pent up rage at paper-pushing injustice. And so, now, his voice was mellow, a bored even drone. An entirely different Draco from the one who had just informed the secretary that under no terms would he be subjecting himself to a check-in with this sorry excuse for an auror. (As if all aurors weren’t sorry excuses themselves.) “Your ears. They’re red, you know.”

The look on Malfoy’s face was priceless. Ron was no stranger to seeing him startled or frightened, but the mix of both (and the flash of anger) he caught before the door promptly slammed shut again was almost too perfect. The forced neutrality melted from his face, and his shoulders shook as he dissolved into a fit of quiet, poorly-sequestered laughter. It appeared Draco was still not shy about making a scene, even with his diminished status; Ron could hear his tirade through the wall, and he thought for one glorious moment that perhaps the check-in would be rescheduled. He didn’t want Malfoy to get his way, but if it meant he didn’t have to sit across from the little slimeball he wouldn’t be miffed. 

By the time Draco returned Ron had composed himself, once again forcing his expression into something at least slightly professional. He didn’t smile or offer him a seat, but he didn’t hurl insults either - it was the best he could do. 

Slightly narrowed blue eyes looked down at the list of questions in front of him, a pause settling between them in response to Malfoy’s question about Wiggleswade. “Not here,” he finally replied, picking up a quill with a sigh. He opened his mouth, the first question hovering on the tip of his tongue (‘Let’s get this over with.’), but Malfoy’s astute observation cut him off. His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. 

Ron,

Everyone? Like Goyle would look good in Cannons orange? I dunno about that. I’m sure I could pull it off. Wait, actually, how about a little friendly wager then? If we win you’ve got to buy a Harpies replica. It doesn’t even have to be mine. I’ll direct you to one of the single girls on the team. If, by some wild chance, we lose, I’ll buy a Cannons one and wear it to media one day. Deal?

I’m sorry you missed me, too. Mostly because I wanted to use the fact that we haven’t seen each other in ages against Mum and skip out on all of that. Next time.

You’ll manage. You got into the program on your own merit, Ron. I hope you know that. Kingsley wouldn’t have asked you if he didn’t believe that. But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do okay? 

So I’ll see you on the seventeenth. I’m looking forward to it! Don’t get Vanished at work or anything, alright? We kind of need you in mostly one piece.

Ginny

Ginny,

I'll take that wager. Deal. 

I know Kingsley wouldn't have asked me if he didn't think I was capable, but every time I see Robards he's got some comment ready about "working on Potter." It's not like I don't understand - Harry would be a brilliant Auror and it's weird doing all of this without him - but…

Anyway, I'll see you on the seventeenth, all in one piece. And if I'm not, well...whatever's left will be there.

The witch felt a pang hit her heart as soon as she saw the smile on his face. How ridiculous had she been to think that it was simply the close proximity that made her feel this way. Despite the fact she wanted to tell him what was on her mind, Hermione knew that he was going through enough without having to experience the issues she was going through herself. “ Well, it’s never stopped me before but new life, new Hermione. Might be a little easier if I had some support within the department before I steam roll in with changes, “ a soft laugh left her lips at the end.

The tension was easing, softening in the space between them. It was by no means comfortable, but Ron forced himself to pretend it was; it seemed like that was what Hermione needed, and he wasn't ready to start another shouting match. Still, Hermione's words prompted him to cock his head. 

New Hermione?

Things were starting to come together, and not necessarily in a way Ron liked. But, loathe to lose what little peace they had, he shrugged off the red flags waving in his head.

Harry casually avoided Ron’s astonished expression. Suddenly interested in the stitching on the Quaffle, he continued to wander slowly across the grassy pitch, feeling the back of his neck burn. There was no way out now. If only he knew how to keep his bloody mouth shut!

“Dunno if you know this, mate, but you’re very interesting.” The joke fell flat, as Harry anticipated, yet he glanced back at Ron on the faint hope he’d drop it. No such luck. Harry sighed and turned around to face his best friend.

“Alright. I got angry at her because she said she didn’t – I thought you two were dating,” Harry said in a rush, “and I stuck my foot in it. Hermione said you weren’t, and I got annoyed because it sounded like she wanted to shop around instead of give you two a chance…” He shot Ron an apologetic look, muttering, “We sort of fell out about it. Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have got involved. M’sorry.”

Ron's ears turned scarlet and a splotchy flush began to creep up the back of his neck. Still hovering in mid-air, he sank downward, swinging a leg over to sit sideways on his broomstick. His long legs dangled - it looked like he'd found a very tall bench to sulk on - and he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the toes of his trainers, hovering just above the overgrown grass below. 

First, there was compassion. An appreciation for Harry swelled in his chest, and he couldn't deny that he was touched by the prospect of being defended.

Then, embarrassment. Why did he need to be defended? Especially in front of a girl he never thought he would need to be defended from?

Ron was glad he hadn't taken another bite. 

For fuck's sake.

He hadn't spent more than two seconds in a room with Draco Malfoy since the battle, and even that was two seconds too many. Sure, he knew the story about Narcissa lying to Voldemort and essentially saving Harry's life, but Draco? What had he done to warrant such a lack of punishment? 

Ron sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The tips of his ears were burning but he forced his face into an expression of cold neutrality, glancing up as the door to the interview room swung open.