truth in the broom shed
They were in the shed rummaging through an old crate of broomsticks and cleaning kits when Ron asked, “Hey, you alright now? You were really out of it yesterday.”
Harry shrugged, tracing a finger over a cracked handle. “Yeah. Just… sore.”
Ron looked over. “You know Mum almost cried when you asked her to sit with you this morning? Think she was holding back actual tears.”
“Didn’t mean to make her upset,” Harry mumbled.
“No, I mean—in a good way. She was happy. You asking meant something to her.”
Harry didn’t answer right away.
Then, after a long pause: “At the Dursleys… if I got sick, they’d lock me in the cupboard and slide in a bucket.”
Ron’s whole body froze.
“Didn’t want me around. Said I was ‘contagious’ or ‘faking it for attention.’ I never really knew how bad was too bad, so I stopped saying anything.”
Ron dropped the broom handle he’d been holding. “Bloody hell, Harry.”
Harry winced, but Ron didn’t sound angry at him.
“I’m not—I don’t want pity or anything. Just didn’t realize it was weird ‘til I was here.”
“It’s not just weird,” Ron said quietly. “It’s wrong. That’s not how anyone’s supposed to be treated, sick or not.”
Harry ducked his head. “I don’t know how to… let people take care of me.”
“You don’t have to know,” Ron said. “We’ll just do it anyway. You’ll catch on.”
Harry blinked.
“I mean—Mum’s basically on a mission. She likes it. It’s like you’re a garden she’s trying to rescue.”
“…What?”
“You know. A half-dead plant in a cracked pot. She’s gonna re-pot you, water you, probably knit you a little tea cozy.”
Harry snorted—an honest laugh breaking through. It made his chest hurt, but it felt good. “Thanks, Ron.”
Ron shrugged, scuffing his foot against the floor. “You’re my best mate. I just want you to be alright.”