For the Kissing Booth Challenge.
Disclaimers: Everyone here belongs to J. K. Rowling.
by Lesa Soja
"Please, Ron," Hermione had said after that first battle. "He needs it." Harry's shoulders were hunched, an acrid, smoky scent clinging to his wand hand. Ron pictured Hermione's arms wrapped around Harry, her mouth stilling his trembling lips, and yes, it looked right.
"Fine," he said. "Just don't fuck him."
"You either," she'd snapped. And now, now, with Harry's tongue sweetly desperate on his face and his own hair starting to smell of smoke, four months to the day since Hermione disappeared mid-curse, Ron opens his mouth and settles his hands carefully on Harry's shoulders. It's all he can do.