Chapter 1
Harry plodded through the castle’s winding corridors, whacked and muddy. His muscles screamed in protest, and he couldn't help but cursed under his breath. The Quidditch training session had been brutal—a few close shaves, a lot of near misses—but in the end, he had to admit that his team had pulled through, and he was satisfied with how they’d performed.
Still, there was something on his mind—Ron. He'd wanted to have a word with him after practice, to pull him aside for a quick chat. Ron had been struggling lately, and Harry knew his best friend could use some encouragement, a boost to his confidence. Maybe share a few words of wisdom, lighten the load that seemed to hang over Ron’s shoulders.
Ever since the term began, Ron had been pulling disappearing acts, vanishing like a puff of smoke just when Harry thought he had him pinned down. At first, Harry figured it was all part of being Head Boy—maybe Ron was buried under a mountain of responsibilities that came with the badge. But then again, Hermione was handling her prefect duties without breaking a sweat, so it couldn't be that overwhelming, right?
There was no use getting all worked up about it. If Ron didn't want to spill whatever was on his mind, fine. Harry could live with that. He’d been through enough to know that pushing someone to talk rarely ended well. But what really got under his skin was the sneaking around, the half-baked excuses that didn’t fool anyone. That was what really rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn’t just that Ron was keeping something to himself—it was the fact that he was going about it like a second-rate spy.
So, Harry barreled down the corridor, his frustration driving him to shove the tapestry aside with a rough jerk, nearly tearing it as it caught on a loose button of his robe. But the moment he crossed the threshold, his mouth fell open in stunned silence.
Ron was pressed firmly against the wall, his gangly arms wrapped securely around Dean's neck, with their mouths moving together avidly.
A fiery sensation flared up in Harry’s stomach, hastily spreading through his entire body. The intense heat felt all-consuming, leaving every inch of his skin prickling with discomfort. All he could think about was ripping Dean away from Ron and slamming him against the cold, hard wall with enough force to shake the stones loose.
Gethimoffgethimoffgethim—
Harry had barely taken two steps when the sound of his movement jolted the pair apart.
Ron whipped around, his face flushed and his breath coming in short gasps from their heated snog. “Harry!” he sputtered, the word catching in his throat as if it had been yanked out.
"Ron," Harry was forced to sound indifferent. He was searching for a reason, an explanation for what he'd just witnessed.
Dean's face broke into a broad, cheerful grin. "Hey, mate," he greeted, while casually draping an arm around Ron's shoulder. The touch was more like a ‘keep your mitts off’ kind of hold, and never, in all his years, had Harry ever wanted to strangle someone this bad.
“Right," Harry muttered, the word catching slightly in his throat. "I'll be on my way then," he added, already turning back towards the tapestry.
"H-hold on, Harry!” Ron panicked, “Dean, you go on ahead without me—”
“What? I thought you were looking forward to—”
“I’ve just realised I left my Quidditch gloves in the changing room, wouldn’t want to turn up for practice without them tomorrow, would I?”
Harry cast a glance over his shoulder, catching sight of Dean's face contorting with annoyance before striding off in the opposite direction. At the same moment, Ron wrenched him aside with such force that they both staggered off balance. Harry dug his heels in, desperately trying to resist being dragged further.
Ron spun around to face him, his lips parting as though he were about to speak, but he pressed them together. It was clear that the words he intended to say were caught somewhere between thought and speech, not flowing out as effortlessly as he'd expected.
"Listen," Harry sighed, "it doesn’t matter who you fancy.” But the questions that had been churning in his mind for what felt like ages were practically bubbling over, ready to spill out at any moment. "Dean, Neville, anyone from our year—whatever floats your boat—”
Ron's face turned a fierce shade of crimson. "Is that it?" he fumed. “You reckon just because I fancy one, I’m suddenly interested in every bloke I come across?”
"No!" Harry exclaimed in frustration. “I said it doesn't matter who you fancy, and I meant it. I won't breathe a word of it, alright?" He wasn't looking for a goddamn fight, Godric knows they'd had enough of those, especially not in the middle of the hallway. He just needed some space to unwind, the unexpected revelation leaving him feeling a tad overwhelmed. Harry wasn't even sure why it bothered him, but the sight of Ron snogging someone else had thrown him for a loop. He jammed his hands into his pockets, willing his own temper to simmer down.
He knew nothing about same-sex relationships, let alone how they functioned in the wizarding world. But Harry knew about Muggles facing discrimination for being attracted to the same gender. But did that kind of prejudice exist in this world too?
"Look, I..." Harry took a hesitant step closer, his heart pounding fiercely against his ribs. "I'm...I’m sorry, Ron.”
Ron's face crumpled with shame. "N-no, it's alright, Harry. You're just surprised, that's all. Probably disgusted, even..."
“No, Ron, don't—” Harry started, “Please don’t look at it that way, alright? It’s not like that at all.”
“So, you're alright with it then?" Ron asked hesitantly.
"Of course!” Harry, his own worries barely contained, nodded emphatically. "I mean, you're still Ron, you’re still my..."
“Best mate?” Ron suggested, offering a trembling smile.
“Yeah,” Harry said, relief settling over him. “Best mate.”
By the following day, the whole incident with Ron faded from the forefront of Harry's mind, or maybe he just shoved it way back there to deal with later.
Quidditch practice was still a complete disaster. His throat felt raw from shouting instructions the entire time, and the team's frustration was growing with every fumble and missed shot. He had a lot going on, but there was no chance he was going to let Slytherin win their upcoming match.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" A furious shriek tore from Ginny's throat, her fiery red hair seemed to crackle with irritation as she glared across the pitch at him. Ron, slumped dejectedly in the goal mouth, he'd let in yet another shot, and the mounting losses weren't doing his confidence any favors.
The others were all shouting, and Ginny, in particular, was making a racket on the sidelines like a banshee. But Harry just...couldn’t. He couldn’t even summon the energy to be mad at Ron.
Ginny stopped him before he could even scarper to the changing room. "Tell him," she snapped, "Stop dawdling about and wallowing in pity for him—it's no use just standing there!”
“Err,” The girl's outburst had taken Harry by surprise, and he wasn't sure how to respond at that moment.
“Harry!” Ginny turned a scathing look towards Ron, who was sulking by the goalposts. “We’re never going to win the match if he keeps behaving like a complete prat!”
Harry's jaw clenched shut. "I can't,"
"What?"
Harry couldn't for the life of him understand what was so baffling about what he'd just said.
"Alright, fine," Harry's irritation spiking a notch higher as he marched towards the source of the trouble. But the nearer he drew, the more it felt as though his throat was tightening, making it difficult to swallow.
Here he was, the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who'd started a three-headed dog in the face and faced down a troll in his first year, struggling to have a simple conversation. This felt like the most cowardly thing he'd ever done. Maybe tomorrow. Facing it right now felt impossible.
But why would Harry feel so apprehensive? It was only Ron—his best mate.
Harry had been friends with him for six years—six long years during which they had come to understand each other better than anyone else.
But why did it have to be now?
Why did it have to be Dean?
"Damn it," Instead of following through, Harry turned on his heel and headed back to the changing room. Now wasn’t the moment, he needed time to gather his thoughts.
What mattered now was winning the upcoming match; it was all he could afford to concentrate on.
Over the next few days, after several back-breaking training sessions, Harry found himself having to encourage Ron time and again. Because a certain someone, who should have been doing so, simply couldn’t bring themselves to offer the support Ron so desperately needed.
He managed to pull it off, all the while sneaking in a few well-placed glares at Dean whenever the bloody git wasn't looking.
Well, his efforts seemed to pay off after all. Because, they won—but how was he supposed to join the celebration when, across the room in a distant corner, Dean had Ron pinned against the wall once again, as if they had claimed the entire common room as their own private retreat. Unfortunately, the ginger-head didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, because he was engaged in a lively conversation with the tosser who clearly had no concept of personal boundaries.
Harry narrowed his eyes in their direction, casting what might have been a glare so fierce it could have been considered a threat, so with a muttered excuse to nobody, he frustratingly made his way out of the room.
He convinced himself that his surprise at the abruptness of the situation was nothing more than a natural reaction.
Even if he hadn’t intended to know it, even if Harry hadn’t meant to see it.