cardigans and confessions
It happened in March. Cold and wet outside, a sudden snap of sleet after a few mild weeks. Harry got caught in it walking back from Hagrid’s, too proud to cast a warming charm, and by the next night he was sniffling again.
This time, though, he didn’t hide it.
He still didn’t say anything out loud, but when Ron walked into the common room and found him curled on the couch in his mum’s cardigan—yes, Mrs. Weasley’s cardigan, the one she wrapped around Harry at Christmas and pressed into his arms with a quiet, “Keep it for when you need some extra warmth, dear.”—he knew something was up.
Harry looked up blearily. His glasses were perched on his nose crookedly, and his cheeks were pink from the fever. The cardigan sleeves were too long, covering his hands like mittens.
Ron sat down beside him wordlessly and handed him the steaming mug of tea he’d brought from the kitchens.
“Caught another cold?” he asked, careful not to tease.
Harry nodded, slowly.
Then, after a long pause, he mumbled, “I wore it because I remembered how warm it felt. When your mum… when she looked after me.”
Ron was quiet for a second. Then: “She really cares about you, you know.”
“I know.” Harry’s voice wobbled. “It’s just… weird. Being allowed to feel like crap and not have to hide it.”
Ron didn’t say anything. He just bumped Harry’s shoulder with his own and said, “Yeah. But you don’t have to anymore.”
And they sat like that for a while—Harry sipping tea, Ron passing him tissues without being asked, the cardigan smelling like nutmeg and wood smoke.