First Kisses - H/R - PG-13
Title: First Kisses
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 800
There is a First Kiss challenge over at harryron100, and I did eight, which make a whole, real ficlet!

Dedicated to hardticket, for running the wonderful Harry/Ron drabble community.


First Kisses
****
First Year
The graze on Harry’s knee was spectacular.

The amount of dirt embedded in his flesh was impressive.

And what looked like a crushed ant, who’d been unfortunate to get caught in the crash.

I peered at it and then looked up at Harry and pulled a face.

“Looks like the ant didn’t make it, mate,” I said.

Harry snorted. “What should we do?”

“’Snot too bad,” I said. “Not something I’d bother Mum with. Let’s just stick it under the tap and clean it off. And then I’ll kiss it better.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Um… that’s what Mum says.”


Second Year
Hours.

It felt like bleeding hours, stuck in the dark, trying to clear a way through.

Trying not to think of what was on the other side, and what I’d have to see, when I went on, after him.

Harry was trying to rescue my bloody sister, wasn’t he?

And then I heard something on the other side and it was my best mate, and my sister, covered in blood, and they scrambled through the hole and I threw my arms around them.

And maybe, in the dark, some of the kisses I pressed to Ginny’s hair missed their target.


Third Year
I’d never been so pleased and so worried to see someone.

I’d been attacked by a killer dog that turned out to just be a killer, and I was alone and terrified.

And even more terrified that I wasn’t gonna be alone, because they’d follow me, and of course he wanted Harry, not me, and Harry would come and he’d be the one in danger and it’d be my fault.

And of course he came, and he stood up to a murderer, and he was so brave and so stupid I could have kissed him.

‘Cept, of course, I didn’t.


Fourth Year
Harry’s been hurt again.

He thinks no one knows how little he’s been touched.

Well, touched with, you know, love.

I know I don’t have much actual stuff to share with him, and that still hurts, but I’m more than happy to share my family, and I’m glad my mum hugs him as he sits in his hospital bed and my heart aches as he leans into her embrace.

And I hope he knows I’d do anything for him, and that I’d happily hold him and kiss him on the temple, too.

But it’s probably better coming from a mum.


Fifth Year
“What you looking so bloody goofy about?” Ginny demanded at breakfast.

“’M not goofy,” I protested, biting the end off a sausage. “I’m just in a good mood.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Well, I guess because Harry’s in a good mood, for once.”

She rolled her eyes. “And your moods are controlled by Harry’s, are they?”

“Well, it’s nice not to be shouted at,” I pointed out. “He, um, shared his first kiss with me, last night.”

Ginny’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

“No! No, no, no! He kissed Cho!” I said. “He told me about it last night!”


Sixth Year
I really don’t deserve him.

I humiliated myself – even more than usual – with the help of a love potion; I hit him – my best mate.

And then I got myself poisoned, and he saved my life.

When I dragged myself up from a sleep as thick as treacle, I found him sitting by my bedside, reading Flying With The Cannons.

“Hey,” I croaked.

His head came up.

“Ron!” he said, leaping up to hover over me. “Don’t you ever try to die on me again!”

And he hit me.

And, looking rather self-conscious, bent and kissed me on the forehead.


Seventh Year
We were freezing cold and filthy and I was kneeling beside him, healing a gruesome cut on his cheek.

“I’m gonna do a crap job of this,” I protested. “We should wait for Hermione.”

“You’ll do a crap job on purpose,” he said, wincing under my tender ministrations. “So the girls like you better.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I live to spoil your good looks. Don’t want the girls after you.”

“I’m onto you,” he joked. “You want me for yourself.”

“Um,” I said.

“Ron?”

“Um.”

“Sorry.”

“The thing is...”

I looked at his lips.

They parted, as I leant closer.


Year After Year
Kissing Harry.

I was kissing Harry.

Not kissing his tears away, not kissing something better, not a hug and a kiss on the temple because he’d worried me and escaped death, yet again.

A slow, hot, wet kiss, with sliding tongues and rasping stubble, and hands flailing before clutching and touching and stroking.

And my name, murmured huskily against my lips.

My name.

My hands slid into his hair and I deepened the kiss; his mouth opened under mine and sharp teeth bit my lip.

“Wow,” I said, pulling back to look at him.

“That was a long time coming.”