Invisible No More

The Burrow in summer was pure chaos—pots clattering in the kitchen, the lawnmower Fred and George had bewitched to mow itself in dizzy loops, and Mum’s voice somewhere between a scold and a hum. Ron sat on the sagging couch, knees pulled up to his chest, staring at the faded floral wallpaper like it held the answers to why he felt so bloody invisible.

He loved his family. He did. Fiercely, even. But being the sixth son in a brood of seven meant he was always a footnote. Bill the curse-breaker. Charlie the dragon tamer. Percy the insufferable overachiever. Fred and George, the twin disasters. Ginny, the only girl, already pegged as the next Quidditch star. And then Ron: the one whose wand was secondhand, whose robes were hand-me-downs, whose parents looked at him with that tired, hopeful look that said maybe one day you’ll do something remarkable.

Today, though, the misery was more immediate. Molly breezed through, humming, paused to ruffle his hair. “Now, dear, have you thought about what you’ll do next year? Your father and I think you should focus on your studies, but it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a hobby. Bill was always so good at—”

“Mum,” Ron snapped, sharper than he meant. “I’m fine.”

She gave him that look—the one that said she didn’t buy it—and went on her way. Ron slumped deeper into the couch, feeling the familiar sting of being overlooked. Even Harry, famous Harry Potter, his best mate, was stuck at the Dursleys, sending short cheerful letters full of vague mentions of spiders and a cousin who’d taken up boxing.

That’s when his eyes landed on the Witch Weekly Ginny had left on the coffee table. Cover: a glamorous witch in emerald silk, arm linked with a dashing wizard with cheekbones you could cut glass on. Headline: “I Found Love at Hogwarts—And So Can You!”

Ron snorted. Love. As if.

But the idea stuck like a stubborn weed. What if he did have a boyfriend? A mysterious, charming, notable boyfriend? Then they’d have to pay attention. They’d ask questions. They’d see him.

The plan came in a reckless rush. He sat up, heart hammering. He’d invent a boyfriend—perfect, imaginary, the kind of bloke that’d make his siblings green with envy. He’d describe him in lavish detail, drop hints at dinner, bask in the glow of their interest. Perfect. Foolproof. Absolutely insane.

But when had that ever stopped a Weasley?

---

Three weeks later, Ron found himself trapped in the hell he’d built.

“I can’t wait to meet him, Ron!” Molly had said, eyes suspiciously bright, clapping her hands. “A boyfriend! And a proper one, not like that smarmy git from the village who kept trying to get you to buy him butterbeer. What was his name? Terrence?”

“Terry,” Ron muttered, ears burning. “And he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was just… friendly.”

“Well, your Blaze sounds lovely. A Ravenclaw prefect, you said? And a beater on the house team? Oh, Ron, you must bring him to dinner. This Saturday. I’ll make my best treacle tart.”

And that was that. Ron tried to backpedal—Blaze was busy, visiting his gran—but Molly was a steam engine when it came to family gatherings. She’d already sent an owl to Harry, inviting him too, because “it’ll be nice for you to have a friend there, dear, so you’re not so nervous.”

Now Ron was in his bedroom—Chudley Cannons posters, mismatched bedspread—staring at Harry and trying to explain what he’d done.

“So let me get this straight,” Harry said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You invented a boyfriend. A hunky Ravenclaw prefect with a name that sounds like a dragon’s cousin. And now your mum wants to meet him. And you want me to pretend to be him.”

“Not pretend to be him,” Ron said, pacing, hands running through his hair. “Pretend to be my boyfriend. Just for one dinner. Please, Harry. I know it’s mad, but I can’t tell them the truth now. Mum would kill me. And then she’d cry, which would be worse.”

Harry’s grin widened. “And what does this Blaze look like?”

“I don’t know—tall, dark hair, nice smile?”

“That’s incredibly vague. Do I need a disguise?”

“No, I’ll just say I was wrong about his hair. Or that he dyed it. And you’re already short, so you can just say you had a growth spurt.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

Ron stopped, looked at his friend, pleading. “Please, Harry. I’ll owe you forever. I’ll—I’ll let you have the last piece of treacle tart. I’ll do your Potions homework for a month.”

Harry laughed, warm, and some of the tightness in Ron’s chest eased. “You’re rubbish at Potions. But fine. I’ll do it. One dinner. I’ll be your boyfriend.” He paused, a glint in his green eyes. “But I’m going to make it convincing.”

Ron felt relief so strong his knees nearly gave. “You’re a lifesaver. A bloody hero. I don’t care what the Daily Prophet says about you, you’re brilliant.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, but he was still smiling.

---

Saturday arrived like a storm cloud. Ron spent the week in anxious prep, but only when he stood in front of Ginny’s full-length mirror—his own was too small—did the full horror crash over him.

The outfit: a deep burgundy tube top, tight enough to flatten his chest but loose enough to hint at the curves he usually hid under baggy jumpers. A micro skirt, black, hem barely grazing his thighs. He’d dug a pair of silver heels out of Ginny’s closet that made him tower two inches and wobble like a newborn foal. Underneath, because he was a masochist, a scrap of lace thong that rode up in a way that was both uncomfortable and thrilling.

He’d also, in a moment of madness, used some of Ginny’s makeup. Shimmery powder on eyelids, gloss on lips, a hint of blush. He looked… different. Not like Ron Weasley, the freckled ginger who tripped over his own feet. He looked like someone who could have a boyfriend. Someone who might even be desired.

A knock on the door made him jump.

“Ron? Harry’s here!” Ginny’s voice. “Merlin’s beard, what are you wearing?”

Ron ignored her, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Ginny’s eyes widened, mouth forming a perfect O.

“Blimey, Ron. You look… you look like a girl.”

“I know,” Ron said, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “That’s the point.”

He descended the stairs on jelly legs, heels clicking. The family had gathered in the living room—Molly, Arthur, Fred, George, Ginny, and Percy, home for the weekend and already looking down his nose at everything. They all turned to stare.

The silence was deafening.

“Ronald Weasley,” Molly said, dangerously low. “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?”

“I’m meeting my boyfriend,” Ron said, lifting his chin. “I wanted to look nice.”

“You look like you’re about to be arrested,” Fred said, eyes wide.

“Shut it, Fred.”

Just then the front door opened, and Harry Potter stepped inside, and Ron forgot how to breathe.

Harry was in a suit. Proper, tailored, deep charcoal grey with a subtle pin-stripe, crisp white shirt, silver tie that gleamed in the evening light. He carried a bouquet of roses—deep red, a dozen of them, tied with velvet ribbon. His hair was tamed, slicked back, making his cheekbones look sharper and his eyes greener. He looked older, more confident. Like a boy who’d grown into a man.

He looked at Ron, and his smile was slow, appreciative, possessive.

“Angel,” Harry said, voice low and rich. “You look stunning.”

Ron’s throat went dry. “Harry. Hi. You’re… you’re early.”

“I wanted to see you.” Harry walked forward, deliberate, stopped in front of Ron. He handed him the roses, then leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek—but not quite. His lips brushed the skin just below Ron’s ear, breath warm. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”

The Weasleys watched in stunned silence as Harry pulled back, his hand settling on Ron’s hip, fingers curling possessively.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, turning to them with an easy smile. “Thank you for having me. I’ve heard so much about you all.”

Molly’s face was a battlefield—shock, confusion, dawning horror. “Harry, dear, I thought you were just a friend. Ron said you were his best mate.”

“I am his best mate,” Harry said, thumb tracing circles on Ron’s hip bone. “And his boyfriend. We’ve been keeping it quiet, you understand. The wizarding world can be… unkind.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I see. Well. Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you two sit down?”

Harry’s hand stayed on Ron’s hip as they moved to the table. He pulled out a chair for Ron, fingers sliding down to brush the small of his back, lingering just above the curve of his bum. Ron’s face was burning, but he forced himself to smile, to play the part.

Dinner was a master class in tension. Harry was relentless. He poured Ron’s drink, cut his bread, draped his arm over the back of Ron’s chair. He kept up a steady stream of conversation—Quidditch, school, his summer—but his attention never strayed from Ron. Every few minutes, he’d reach out, touch him, claim him.

A hand on Ron’s knee under the table. A finger tracing the line of his collarbone above the tube top. A kiss pressed to his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

“Harry, please, we’re eating,” Percy said stiffly.

“Sorry,” Harry said, not sorry at all. “I just can’t help myself. Ron’s so beautiful. Aren’t you, angel?”

Ron’s voice came out breathy. “Harry…”

And then Harry’s hand slid lower, settling on Ron’s arse, squeezing gently. Ron nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

“Harry!” Molly exclaimed, sharp.

“What?” Harry asked, innocent as a cat with a canary in its mouth. “I’m just affectionate.”

“You’re being inappropriate,” Ginny said, but there was a hint of envy in her eyes.

Fred and George watched with dawning respect, mouths hanging slightly open. They’d never seen Harry like this—confident, dominant, unapologetic. Like watching a snake uncoil.

Ron played along, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He leaned into Harry, let his hand rest on Harry’s thigh, let his head fall to Harry’s shoulder. He whispered nonsense—sweet nothings, promises he didn’t mean—and felt Harry’s hand tighten on his waist.

By dessert, Harry had given Ron three hickeys. One on his neck, just below the jaw. One on his collarbone. And one, scandalously, on the inside of his wrist, which Harry had sucked while holding Ron’s hand across the table.

Molly’s face was the colour of a beet. Arthur stared at his plate with the desperate focus of a man trying to unsee something. Percy had excused himself to the loo and hadn’t come back. Ginny was giggling into her napkin.

“Well,” Fred said, pushing back his chair. “I think George and I will be in the shed. Working on… something. Far away from here.”

“Good idea,” George said. “Very, very far away.”

They fled. Ginny followed soon after, muttering about a “sudden headache.” Arthur and Molly exchanged a long, loaded look, and then Arthur sighed.

“Ron, Harry, would you like to stay the night? It’s late, and the floo’s not reliable this time of year.”

“Yes, please,” Harry said, before Ron could answer. “We’d love to.”

---

Ron’s bedroom was a sanctuary of soft lamplight and faded posters. As soon as the door clicked shut, Harry dropped the act. His hands fell from Ron’s body, and he stepped back, eyes searching.

“We don’t have to,” Harry said quietly. “I know that was… a lot. I got carried away. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Ron stood in the middle of the room, still trembling, skin tingling where Harry had touched him. He felt raw, exposed, seen in a way he’d never been seen before.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Ron said, barely a whisper. “I liked it.”

Harry’s breath caught. “You did?”

“I liked it,” Ron repeated, and then he crossed the room, closed the space between them, and kissed Harry full on the mouth.

It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate, full of all the suppressed longing he’d never dared to name. Harry responded in kind, hands finding Ron’s hips, pulling him closer, sliding up under the tube top to touch the skin of his back.

“Ron,” Harry breathed against his lips. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The tube top came off, fell to the floor in a whisper. Harry’s eyes roamed over Ron’s chest, the swell of breasts still there, still soft, still female. Ron braced himself for the question, the hesitation, the rejection.

But Harry only groaned, low in his throat, and pressed his mouth to the valley between them.

“You’re so beautiful, angel,” he murmured, tongue tracing a path upward. “Every inch of you.”

Ron gasped, head falling back, as Harry’s lips closed around one nipple, sucking gently. His hands worked at the skirt’s clasp, and it fell away, leaving Ron in only the thong and heels.

Harry pulled back, eyes dark, and looked at him. “You’re perfect. Do you know that? Absolutely perfect.”

He undressed himself quickly, purposeful. Then he guided Ron to the bed, laid him down on the patchwork quilt, and began a thorough exploration of his body. He kissed every inch—the hollow of his throat, the curve of his ribs, the soft swell of his belly. He lingered on Ron’s breasts, reverent and tender, then moved lower, pressing kisses to his thighs, his hips, the sensitive skin behind his knees.

When he reached the thong, he paused. “Can I?”

Ron nodded, throat tight.

Harry hooked his fingers under the lace and slid it down, revealing the body beneath. Ron’s breath hitched as cool air touched his skin, but Harry’s eyes were warm.

“Spread your legs for me, angel.”

Ron obeyed, cheeks flushing, as Harry settled between his thighs. He looked down at Ron’s body—the flat chest, the soft curves, the space between his legs that was still, undeniably, a woman’s—and he smiled.

“I want you,” Harry said. “All of you. Just as you are.”

And then his mouth was on Ron, and Ron forgot how to think. He forgot about the lie, the dinner, the family downstairs. All he knew was Harry’s tongue, Harry’s fingers, Harry’s breath hot and eager against his most intimate places. He came with a cry that was half sob, body arching off the bed, hands tangled in Harry’s hair.

Harry rose, kissing his way back up to Ron’s mouth. “You’re incredible.”

“Your turn,” Ron managed, reaching for Harry’s trousers.

They moved together, a tangle of limbs and whispered encouragements. When Harry entered him, slow and careful, Ron felt a pinch of pain that melted into a deep, aching pleasure. He wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist, pulled him closer, and let himself be claimed.

Afterwards, they lay in the dark, sweat cooling on their skin, hearts pounding in sync. Harry’s arm was under Ron’s head, his hand tracing lazy patterns on his shoulder.

“So,” Harry said, voice soft, “I guess we’re not pretending anymore.”

Ron let out a shaky laugh. “I guess we’re not.”

“Good.” Harry pressed a kiss to his temple. “Because I’m not sure I could pretend to be anyone else’s boyfriend. Only yours.”

Ron turned his head, meeting Harry’s eyes in the dim light. “You mean it?”

“I mean it, angel. I’ve wanted you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Ron’s heart swelled, pushing out all the insecurity, all the loneliness. He nestled closer, feeling Harry’s arms tighten around him.

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you too, Ron. My beautiful, fearless Ron.”

They fell asleep like that, tangled together, the lie forgotten in the truth of their bodies and the dawn of something real.